But it was. It meant she’d succeeded. It meant she’d go again.
Hit with a weirdly unexpected surge of confidence, Spencer stared at herself for another moment or two before putting her pajamas back on and heading to bed, realizing just how tired she was. As she slid under the covers, Marti closed her book and took her glasses off, set both on the nightstand. With a flick of the switch, the lights went off and Marti rolled toward her.
Thankful for the darkness so Marti couldn’t see her expression, Spencer suppressed a sigh. She wasn’t really in the mood—she rarely was anymore, if she was being honest—but their sex life had become so depressingly sporadic that she didn’t dare brush it off. She took Marti’s weight, moved her legs so Marti could settle between them, and when Marti’s mouth closed over hers, Spencer kissed her back.
When had this started? This play-along thing. This “go through the motions, it’ll be over soon” mentality. Was it recent? How recent?
Marti pushed Spencer’s shirt up, took a nipple into her mouth, sucked gently, Spencer laid a hand on the back of her head. Marti wasn’t a bad lover, really. She was considerate if not passionate. She took her time, focused. Spencer closed her eyes, willed herself to relax, to melt into the sensations, to try to enjoy herself, even if she could predict Marti’s every move.
As their sex life had tapered down to a couple times a month, then once a month, then hardly ever, something else had become a regular occurrence: Spencer knew in a matter of minutes whether she’d get there or not, whether she’d climax or end up doing a bit of…performing in order to finish things up. Tonight, she’d be performing, which seemed to be the norm now.
Most of the time, Spencer tried not to think about it, tried not to analyze when, why, all those questions that she probably should be asking herself. And she always did her best to banish the thoughts and worries from her head, to just concentrate on feeling. On where Marti was touching her. On which body parts were experiencing what sensations. But she knew how it went: tell somebody not to think about pink elephants and suddenly, their mind was full of them.
It helped that Marti rarely changed up her act. Some kissing, a few minutes on each breast, fingers sliding through (sometimes) heated and wet flesh, done. And as Spencer cranked up her acting skills, the guilt settled in like an old friend, making itself comfortable next to her, because seriously? Was this how her sex life was going to be? For the rest of her life? Shouldn’t she fix it? Attempt to fix it? Spencer closed her eyes tightly, tried to focus.
She couldn’t pinpoint when exactly it happened. She hadn’t wished for it. She didn’t see it coming. But suddenly, in her mind, it wasn’t Marti on top of her, kissing her, sliding fingers between her legs.
It was Rebecca McCall.
What in the world?
The internal battle was fierce. It was confusing. Rebecca pushed inside Spencer, coaxing a moan from her. She moved in and out, slowly at first, causing that delicious slow burn deep in Spencer’s body. Stop this. Stop it now. The commands from her own brain were weak, and Spencer kept her eyes closed, squeezed shut, in fact, not wanting to give in, but not wanting to let go, as her arousal surged higher and higher, crested, tightened every muscle in her body until she felt like she might simply shatter into pieces like a broken water glass. And just as the orgasm began rushing in, she opened her eyes, saw not Marti’s brown ones, but Rebecca’s beautifully intense blue ones looking at her, looking deep into her with such a blatant and raw sexiness, and Spencer gasped in shock, shoved, pushed herself free and rolled away.
“What the hell, Spencer?” Marti fumbled at the nightstand, clicked on a bedside lamp, her voice full of surprised confusion. “Did I hurt you?”
Spencer got out of the bed as if propelled by some unseen force, stood next to it shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “No.” She swallowed, tried hard to catch her breath. “No, not at all. I just…I don’t know what happened.” Squinting in the light, she focused on Marti, saw the uncertainty and hurt on her face. “I’m sorry. I’m just not feeling well tonight.”
“You seemed to be feeling fine a couple minutes ago.” Marti didn’t mutter it, but she came close.
Spencer took a breath to respond, then closed her mouth.
“Seriously, what is going on with you lately, Spence? You’re distant. You’re busy all the time. You still haven’t brought a single box over.” She ticked off the list on her fingers, her voice now matter-of-fact, an attorney listing evidence. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” Spencer said, her voice a bit harsher than she intended, but she hated when Marti shifted into fact mode on her. Even if she was right. “I just don’t feel well, okay? Am I not allowed to feel crappy once in a while?”
Marti blinked at her, obviously startled by her tone. “Of course you are.” She swallowed audibly. “I’m just worried about you is all.”
Spencer nodded, felt awful now. “I appreciate that. I do. I’m fine. Just…coming down with something, I guess. A summer cold, maybe.” Lame, lame, so very lame, but she ran with it. She had no choice at this point.
Their gazes held for a moment before Marti asked, “You’re sure that’s all it is?”
“I’m sure.” The lie slipped off Spencer’s tongue so easily, it alarmed her. Was this who she was now? Taking a second to pull herself together, she put on her robe, moved toward the door, cleared her throat, and said, “Listen, I’m kind of wide awake, but it’s late. I’m going to go out to the living room and watch TV. Okay?”
Marti studied her for so long, Spencer worried she would drag the conversation on even further. Finally, she lifted her chin, pressed her lips together in a line for a beat, then said, “Sure.”
They stared at each other across the expanse of Marti’s bedroom for what felt like hours but was surely only a few seconds. Then Spencer turned to go, the light clicking off before she’d even crossed the threshold of the doorway.
In the dark kitchen, Spencer pulled open the refrigerator and removed the open bottle of Pinot Grigio on the door. She poured herself a very generous glass and carried it to the dark living room where, rather than clicking on the TV, she steered herself to her little craft corner and took a seat, clicked on the small lamp.
Though the supplies here were still a mere fraction of all those she possessed, Spencer kept her workspace very organized. Every finding, every tool, every roll of wire had its own space, its own little square plastic container, its own peg to hang on (well, at her house the tools were hung on pegs). So unlike her thoughts lately, which were a mishmash. A jumble. A ball of her beading wire, hopelessly tangled and knotted.
Confidence had never really been a problem for Spencer. She wasn’t overly confident; she had normal worries and concerns like any other girl growing up in a male-dominated world. But overall, it wasn’t really an issue for her. Not in school. Not at work.
Not until Chelsea.
“No,” she whispered aloud, in the quiet of the house. “We’re not going there.” Instead, she picked up her flush cutter and a length of wire and snipped, envisioning a necklace for Lucy. Something fun and colorful, something that represented the joy and cheer her new friend gave her on a regular basis. She used the bead board (even though the table was too small) and measured out the necklace, estimated size and how many findings she’d need, then got to work.
Spencer’s interest in jewelry-making had started with a class she’d attended with her mom. Jennifer had been the hostess (Jennifer hosted every kind of party imaginable, from jewelry making to wine tasting to sex toys) and the party had been at her house, complete with wine and munchies and an instructor to talk them, step by step, through making a bracelet. Spencer had found herself fascinated by all the tools, what each of them was for, how the design of each piece was totally up to the artist. Everybody’s bracelet had been a bit different, and by the end of the party, Spencer’s mind was racing with ideas. Designs for earrings, necklaces, and bracelets swirled in her brain u
ntil she couldn’t not at least give it a try on her own. She’d started small, buying a very basic tool kit, 19-strand wire, and some findings and beads that appealed to her as she stood in the aisle at Michael’s for what felt like hours and struggled to keep from being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of options.
She went home that night and made a necklace for Jennifer with alternating green and gold beads that Spencer knew would go beautifully with her favorite shirt. Jennifer loved it. Then she made a necklace for Travis, a hammered silver disk with the letter T on it, suspended on a brown leather thong. He never took it off, wore it until it nearly disintegrated. Spencer had replaced the leather three times so far.
Working on jewelry soothed her. Much like baking soothed some people. Or cleaning. Or reading. Somehow, she was able to set everything else in her life aside, any issues, any worries, anything causing her stress. It was simply pushed out of the way for a while, put in a box and put up on a shelf so she could focus her mind elsewhere, at least for a little while. Oh, it would all come crashing back in; that was inevitable. But for a short time, she could breathe.
Spencer alternated several different findings for Lucy’s necklace. Bright pink and purple beads traded space with silver balls and transparent purple disks. All small and tasteful—she wanted Lucy to actually wear the thing—but a definite representation of Lucy’s personality. She made it mid-length, to hang just below Lucy’s collarbone, measuring it by making it a little shorter on herself due to Lucy’s diminutive height. With her round nose pliers, Spencer made a loop in the wire, then switched to her crimp tool to fasten the wire to a clasp. When it was all finished and she was satisfied, Spencer held the necklace up, letting it dangle from her fingers.
It was perfect and so, so very Lucy.
With a grin, Spencer tucked it into a small black velvet pouch that cinched at the top with twine. She’d give it to Lucy on Monday at class.
Taking her wineglass to the kitchen, she set it on the counter next to the sink and took two steps toward the hall that led to the bedroom. Then stopped.
Doing her best not to spend too much time on why, she retraced her steps back into the living room, pulled the soft, fleecy blanket from the back of the couch, and covered herself as she lay down.
Each time she began to drift off to sleep, intense blue eyes filled her mind, staring at her, holding her captive, and Spencer did her best to shake herself free, to rid her brain of what had happened in bed with Marti.
She was mostly unsuccessful.
She remained mostly awake.
Chapter Ten
She never smells bad.
It was a strange thought that jumped into Rebecca’s head. Not for the first time. As a fitness instructor who worked in a gym, stinky, sweaty people were part of her everyday routine and, wow, some were so much worse than others. So much worse.
But not Spencer.
Like now. She was on the floor, up on her toes and forearms, struggling through a sixty-second plank that she wasn’t going to make. Rebecca had put the bride class through the wringer today, and all five of them were flushed and drenched in sweat, including Spencer, who collapsed to the floor with twenty seconds to go, still smelling like sunshine and coconuts.
“No.” Rebecca dropped down to her knees, her face very close to Spencer’s. “You’re almost there. Come on. Get up.”
“Fudge nougat,” was what Rebecca was pretty sure she heard Spencer whisper, and with a sound that was more a whimper than a groan, she pushed herself back up.
Before she knew what she was doing, Rebecca slid her palm underneath, set it up against Spencer’s abs, which were quaking with exertion. “Tighten this. Right here. This is the sweet spot. This is your core. This is what you’re making stronger.” As if suddenly realizing she was touching Spencer, Rebecca blinked several times and snatched her hand away just as the timer went off.
All five women lay on the ground sucking in ragged breaths as if they’d just run a marathon.
“I know it may not feel like it, but I’m seeing some significant improvement. How do you guys feel?” Rebecca shifted her gaze from one to the next. Lucy stayed face-planted on the floor but lifted an arm and gave Rebecca a thumbs-up, which made her laugh. “You worked hard today. Good job. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
It was the fourth week of bride class, and September was closing in on them quickly. Rebecca had to admit to some pleasant surprise that all five women had stuck with the class and all five of them put in 100 percent. Some, a little more. And Rebecca hadn’t been kidding. She was seeing results. Willow had gained some nice definition in her legs. Bella’s endurance had greatly improved. Both Brittany and Lucy were lifting heavier dumbbells than when the class had started. And Spencer…
Rebecca shook her head as she left the gym floor and headed up to her desk. She was still way too aware of Spencer and didn’t know how to shake it.
Off-limits.
It was the phrase she kept using, every time she found herself dwelling. She’d actually needed to scoot into the client locker room last week and had heard Lucy and Spencer talking about their upcoming weddings. Lucy was saying something about necklaces for her bridesmaids and Spencer had laughed that musical laugh of hers and Rebecca had smiled wistfully and pushed back out the door without them seeing her.
Off-limits.
Spencer had become a regular in Sherry’s spin class, going at least once a week—if not twice—in addition to the bride class.
And it was showing.
“Nope. Nope. Not doing this,” Rebecca muttered to herself, as she gathered her things. “I have a date. Let’s put our focus there.”
As if privy to Rebecca’s train of thought, Sherry came up to her. “Good luck tonight.” She gave Rebecca a one-armed hug. “Text me with a report.”
“It’s just coffee.” Rebecca shrugged in a manner she hoped came across as nonchalant.
“Are you nervous?” Again, reading her thoughts.
Rebecca sighed. “A little. Yes. I mean, I’m hoping this one actually shows.”
Sherry grinned. “What are the chances of two separate women from a dating site standing you up?”
Rebecca arched a brow. “We are talking about me here.”
“Good point.”
They both smiled and Rebecca slung her bag over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
An hour later, Rebecca had gone home, showered and changed, and was back near the gym, sitting at a small table in Grounded and nursing a mocha latte. It was a bit closer to her place of work than she’d like, but her date, Zoe, was a paramedic and only had a short time to sit with her. Grounded was the best location for her.
There was only one photo on Zoe’s dating profile and it didn’t really pull Rebecca in, but she liked her details. She liked that Zoe loved animals, hated politics, and was into biking, golf, and hikes. Everything had been in complete sentences (Rebecca surprised herself when she realized what a turn-off it was if a profile was in fragments and had misspellings). When Zoe had invited her to coffee, Rebecca figured, “why not?”
She walked into the coffee shop on a little wave of energy. Zoe was small, but large, if that made any sense. It was the only way Rebecca could describe her. Petite in stature, large in personality. It was obvious immediately. In the way she waved at the baristas. In the way she scanned the shop and seemed to make eye contact with everyone. In the way her gaze landed on Rebecca and stayed there.
She approached confidently, hand outstretched, friendly smile on her face. She was dressed in her uniform…black pants and shirt, several patches on it embroidered with various logos and phrases, and a gold name tag that said “Hernandez.” Her dark hair was short, her eyes a deep brown and accented by thick lashes, and she was cute in a boyish sort of way. “Rebecca?”
“Guilty as charged.” Rebecca stood, shook hands. Zoe’s grip was unsurprisingly firm. As she sat, Rebecca asked, “Did you want to get some coffee?”
Zoe waved a dismissive hand. “I
’ll get one on my way out so I can have it with me for a while.” She leaned her forearms on the table. “Anybody ever call you Becky?”
“Nobody who’s still living.”
Zoe grinned. “Noted. So, Rebecca not Becky, you’re a trainer?”
“I am. For about ten years now. And you’re a paramedic.”
“Yup. Same timeframe, roughly. Kinda cool.”
“You enjoy it?” Rebecca sipped her coffee.
Zoe nodded. “Definitely. Never a dull moment.”
Rebecca felt at ease with Zoe. Instantly, like they were simply old school friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. “What was your craziest call so far?”
“Oh, man, we get so many.” Zoe sat back in her chair, crossed one leg up and rested her ankle on the opposite knee. “I can tell you that recently, we had a guy who was convinced he was a flamingo.”
“Seriously?”
Zoe nodded with a grin. “Yup. Like, doing the weird walk, standing with one leg up, arms folded like wings.”
“Please tell me he was on a bad trip.”
“Such a bad trip. His roommate called us because he wouldn’t come off the front lawn. Said he was going to stand there like flamingos were supposed to.”
“Oh, so he thought he was a plastic flamingo.”
Zoe’s laugh was a startling yelp, which caused Rebecca to flinch as if she’d been poked. “Yes! A lawn ornament. It was nuts.” When Zoe’s laughter died down, she said, “What about you? Any crazies in your line of work? Any surprises?”
Rebecca sipped her latte again as she contemplated the question. “I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had any crazies. I mean, it’s a gym. But some of my clients can be more difficult than others. I get some that expect unrealistic results.”
“Like, ‘I’ve been here three times, how come I haven’t lost forty pounds?’ That kind of unrealistic?”
“Something like that, yeah. As for surprises…oh! I have one.” She filled Zoe in on the Be Your Best Bride class. How it started, how Kara marketed it and how much Rebecca hated that, how she had to take over when Kara got sick. “I was honestly dreading the thing. I didn’t go to school for this so I could listen to a bunch of bridezillas talk about how they need to fit into their size two wedding gown or they’ll just die.” She punctuated it with a roll of her eyes.
The Shape of You Page 11
