“I’ve got my iPod out in the truck,” Wyatt said cautiously. “But it’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”
Grace looked out the shattered front window. The sun was hanging low in a bright orange-tinged sky. “Wow, it’s almost sunset. What is it, after eight?”
“Five after eight,” Wyatt said. “Are you ready to quit yet?”
“Are you?”
“I’ll keep working as long as you want to. But you’ve been at it all day, Grace. Since nine this morning, with only a half-hour break at lunch. Do you really want to keep going?”
“No,” she admitted. “As Rochelle would say, my get up and go got up and went. Maybe I’ll head home.”
“Good idea,” Wyatt said.
“Unless…” A smile crept over her face.
“Unless what?”
“I was just thinking, you might like to see my other design project.”
“I didn’t know you had another project.”
“It’s Mitzi’s condo over on Gulf Drive. She’s turning it into a furnished vacation rental, and she’s hired me to fluff it. The back of my car is actually full of towels and rugs and bedspreads and curtains for the place. I just started shopping for it yesterday.”
“Sounds nice,” Wyatt said, wondering where this conversation was headed. “But it’s getting kind of late for a sightseeing tour. Maybe you could show it to me this weekend?”
“It sits right on the gulf,” Grace told him. “The master bedroom has a balcony with a spectacular sunset view. And it has a king-sized bed. And I have the key.”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Would you think less of me if I were?”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “And I promise. I’ll still respect you in the morning.”
* * *
They left Wyatt’s truck at Mandevilla Manor and drove to the Publix on Holmes Beach to pick up supplies. While he circled the parking lot, Grace made a sweep of the supermarket. She hummed as she careened through the aisles, tossing a bag of dog food, a bottle of wine, a six-pack of beer, a pound of boiled shrimp, some good cheese, a loaf of French bread, and some grapes into the cart. On her way to the cash register, she caught sight of herself in a mirrored display in the floral department. Ugh! She was a mess. She backtracked through the store and added a bar of scented soap and some shampoo and conditioner to the cart, and then, in a flash of genius, she added a jug of detergent because the condo had a laundry room.
“Get everything we need?” Wyatt asked, pulling alongside her at the entrance to the store.
“I think so,” she said, holding up the wine.
When they got to the condo, Wyatt snapped a leash to Sweetie’s collar and carried the grocery sacks, and Grace loaded her arms with the linens she’d bought. She juggled the packages while she dug in her pocket for the key. When they entered the apartment, it was already flooded with the dying light of the sunset.
Grace glanced down at her paint-spattered sneakers and kicked them off before stepping onto Mitzi’s pristine white carpet, and Wyatt followed suit.
Wyatt dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and walked back to the living room, standing in front of the sliding glass doors that led out to the balcony. The sky was streaked with brilliant layers of colors, from navy to violet to scarlet, orange, and pink. “Awesome,” he breathed. Grace hurried into the bedroom and dropped her packages. By the time she got back to the living room, Wyatt had opened the wine and poured glasses for both of them, and Sweetie was curled up on the rug in front of the television.
“Come here,” he said, holding out her glass. She took a sip of the wine. He put his arm around her, and she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Nice place,” he said, looking around the room. “Kinda white, though, isn’t it?”
“Mitzi’s a great lawyer, but, as she herself admits, she sucks at decorating. She gave me a five-thousand-dollar budget and a deadline of two weeks, but otherwise no restrictions.”
“Hmm.” He was nuzzling her neck. “Is it okay for me to be here?”
Grace chuckled, thinking of her conversation with her lawyer. “I think she’d be okay with it.”
He turned her toward him and slid his hands around her waist. “Pardon me for being forward, but didn’t you say something about a king-sized bed?”
“Mm-hmm.” She gave him a lingering kiss. “What about the sunset?”
“I thought you said the bedroom looked out onto the gulf.”
“So I did.” She kissed him again, then pulled away.
“Much as I hate to bring up the subject, I am absolutely filthy, and I smell like a goat. I’m just going to jump in the shower, and then maybe we can continue this discussion somewhere else?”
“Okay,” he said, running a finger slowly down her arm. “Need anybody to scrub your back?”
“Mmmm. Hold that thought.”
* * *
The master bedroom had a huge tiled walk-in shower with an adjustable rain-forest shower head. Grace hummed as she lathered her entire body, scrubbing at the streaks and specks of orange paint that seemed to coat every inch of her exposed skin. The hot water sluiced down her back and over her chest and her head. She washed and rinsed her hair and wished she’d brought along a razor to shave her legs. The thought struck her that she still had two weeks to work on the condo. She’d make sure and stock the bathroom with a razor—and a toothbrush and toothpaste—after her next shopping trip.
She towel-dried her hair and finger-combed it as best she could, then wrapped herself in another one of the big fluffy towels she’d bought. Then she gathered up the clothes she’d left on the bathroom floor.
Wyatt’s voice drifted in from the other room. It sounded like he was on the phone. She hesitated, then pressed her ear to the door.
“Hey Dad.” His voice was low. “How’re you feeling?
“That’s good. Did you have dinner? Did you eat the vegetables I bought you? No Dad, Tater Tots don’t count. Yeah. Salad’s good. Did you take the new medicine the doctor gave you?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I know you’re a grown-up, but I just want to make sure you take your pills. Is that a crime? Okay, great. Callie didn’t call, did she? No, Dad, remember? You promised the judge you wouldn’t call her that anymore.
“Listen, Dad, I’m, uh, probably not coming home tonight, but I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to get the animals fed and open up.
“What? None of your business. I’ll see you in the morning.”
How sweet is it that he calls his dad to check on him? Grace thought. This is somebody I could love.
And then something else occurred to her. She grabbed the jeans she’d dropped on the floor and dug her cell phone out of the pocket. It was Thursday night, which was ten-dollar-pitcher night. Hopefully, Rochelle would be too busy to answer her phone. She really did not want to have a variation of the same conversation Wyatt had just had with his father.
The phone rang once and went right to voice mail. “Hi Mom. Just wanted to let you know I’m not coming home tonight. I’ve got so much to do, I think I’ll just camp over here tonight. See you in the morning.” She disconnected hurriedly.
Wyatt was standing by the sliding glass doors in the bedroom when she emerged from the bathroom dressed only in a towel and a smile.
He gave a long, low wolf whistle when he saw her and held his arms open.
Grace padded across the room to him. “Take off your clothes.”
He grinned. “If this is your idea of foreplay I can’t wait to see what happens next.”
“Don’t be smutty,” Grace said primly. “I bought detergent at Publix, and I’m going to wash our clothes so we have something clean to wear after … dinner.”
He reached out and grabbed her. “Does this mean we get to have dessert before … dinner?”
She kissed him lightly. “We’ll see.”
He set his wineglass on a table by the window and made a huge production out
of stretching and yawning.
“Oh man,” he said. “I am soooo tired. I think I’m so tired I’m gonna need you to undress me.”
Grace wrapped her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “Please.”
Grace blushed. “You know I haven’t been with another man in a really long time, right?”
He cradled her face between his hands and kissed her again. “It’ll come back to you. It’s like riding a bike.”
She tugged his T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, then ran her hands over the flat plane of his bare chest, resting her fingertips on his nipples. She kissed his ear, then his collarbone, and worked her way to his chest. Wyatt slid his hands around her waist and kissed her hungrily.
Grace slid her hands down lower and felt him inhale sharply. She worked her fingers inside the waistband of his jeans and nimbly unfastened the metal snap before slowly easing the zipper down. She rolled the waistband of his cotton briefs over his slim hips, brushing her hand lightly over his erection.
“Oh God, Grace,” he whispered in her ear. She slid her hands around to his rear, cupping her hands on the smooth, cool flesh of his butt, while he kissed her neck, the warm spot at the base of her throat, and then her lips again, parting them with his tongue, both hands entwined in her damp hair.
Grace tugged the waist of his jeans and briefs lower, past his hips, feeling the bulge of his erection pressed against her groin, lower, until she could wrap one bare leg around his and ease the jeans down to his ankles with her toes.
“Nice trick,” he murmured in her ear. He released her long enough to kick free of his jeans, then, naked, pulled her to him again.
He flicked the edge of her towel and it dropped to the floor. He took a step backward and gazed at her pale body, silhouetted against the deep-purple sky outside. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “So beautiful.” His hands roamed slowly, lingering on her butt, traveling up her spine and then around her ribs, until he cupped a breast in each hand. His head dipped, nuzzling and suckling each nipple until Grace could hear her own ragged breaths in the still of the darkening room.
She ducked her head and felt the blush starting at the roots of her hair and spreading downward. He pressed a finger under her chin and she looked at him from beneath her lowered lashes.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said. He took her hand and led her toward the bed.
51
Grace lay on her side, gazing out the sliding glass doors at the deep-blue sky. At some point, Wyatt had opened the doors, and they could hear the waves washing ashore. He was spooned up against her back, his arm draped over her side, with his hand cupped against her breast, his thumb rhythmically brushing against her nipple. He was already aroused again. For that matter, so was she.
She rolled over to face him. “You’ve got to stop that, or we’ll never get any dinner.”
Instead, he bent his head and kissed her other nipple. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I’m starved,” she announced. He caught at her hand, but she neatly slid out of the bed. Still self-conscious, she groped around on the floor for her forgotten bath towel, finally crawling over to where Wyatt had dropped it, several feet from the bed.
As she fastened it, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him, propped up in bed, watching her with amusement.
She gathered up their clothes and went out to the laundry room to load them into the washer. When she’d started the wash, she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of the chilled white wine. Through the open bedroom door she heard the sound of the shower starting.
Grace found a large bowl—white pottery, of course, in one of the kitchen cabinets. She dumped in the bag of boiled shrimp, cut up a lemon, and arranged the slices around the edge of the bowl, humming as she worked. She rinsed the green grapes and placed them on a cutting board, next to the loaf of French bread. There was no bread knife in the scarcely appointed drawer of kitchen implements, so she simply tore the bread in hunks and heaped them beside the grapes along with the cheeses she’d picked up in the deli department.
She heard the clicking of nails on the tile floor and looked down. Sweetie jumped up, her front paws scratching at Grace’s bare knees.
“Ow,” Grace said, leaning down to scratch the little dog’s silky ears. “We’ve got to get you to the groomers to get your nails trimmed. In the meantime, thanks for reminding me. I actually did bring some dinner for you, too.”
She poured dog food into one bowl and water into another and set them on the floor, then went back to her preparations, loading all the food, along with the wine bottle and two glasses, onto a large wicker tray.
Wyatt was just emerging from the bathroom as she walked into the bedroom. He had a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and, with a hand towel, he was rubbing his closely shaven head. His chest was muscled and his abs were not quite male-porn-star tight, but close enough. His skin gleamed darkly tan in contrast to the white towel. She stopped dead in her tracks, forgetting what she’d been about to say.
“You’re staring at me,” Wyatt pointed out.
“That’s not staring. That’s lusting.” Grace set the tray with the food on the nightstand. She wrapped her arms around his waist and backed him toward the bed.
He laughed, but offered no resistance.
When she had him right where she wanted him, she placed one hand on his chest and toppled him backward.
“You’re freaking gorgeous,” she said, looking down at him, spread-eagled across the bed. “I thought I liked you best dressed in your little Ranger Rick safari outfit, but that was because I’d never seen you naked. Or in a towel. I definitely like the towel best.”
She leaned forward and brushed her fingertips lightly across his chest. Wyatt caught her hand and pulled her down beside him. He pinned her arms to the bed and rolled until he was on top of her.
He frowned down at her. “That is not a Ranger Rick outfit. I’ll have you know it’s an official Jungle Jerry uniform. My grandmother had them made for everybody who used to work at the park. The one you’ve seen me wearing is the last one left. The rest are all in tatters, and that one is one rip away from the trash.”
She easily worked her hands free from his and ran her palms down his flanks. “You can never throw that uniform away,” Grace said sternly. “It’s what you were wearing the night we met.”
“Minus the parrot poop,” he reminded her. “But that wasn’t the first time we met. The first time was that day we both went before Stackpole. Remember? I have to confess, I have no idea what you were wearing either time. You looked so angry and intimidating, I was about to flee the premises.” He pointed at the tray. “Room service? I like your style.”
“There’s no dining room furniture yet,” she said. “And I still have to buy barstools for the island in the kitchen. And I don’t want to eat on that white sofa, not until I have a chance to spray it with a stain repellant. So … dinner in bed.”
She crawled onto the bed and propped herself up against the padded headboard. Wyatt handed her a glass of wine and took his own. He lightly clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to divorce camp.”
* * *
An hour later, they’d devoured every morsel of food on the tray and drained the bottle of wine. The towels were scattered about the floor, and after another longer, more leisurely session of lovemaking, they were spooned together on the big bed, Sweetie asleep on the floor beside them, moonlight pouring in through the open doors.
At some point, Grace was vaguely aware of her cell phone, which she’d left on the dresser, dinging softly to indicate an incoming voice mail, and then another, and then another. But she was still too drowsy, too warm and happy and overwhelmingly, bone-deep contented, to rouse herself and see what was going on in the rest of the world.
52
Driving back to the Sandbox the next morning, Sweetie sleeping on the front seat beside her, Grace finally took the time to
check the voice mails from the night before.
The first, at 9:45 P.M., was from Rochelle.
“Grace! Those women from the other divorce camp sessions are here. They’re on their second round of free drinks. You need to get back here and talk to them.”
Shit! She’d totally forgotten her mother’s plan to leave free-drink coupons on the windshields of Paula’s other divorce campers. She couldn’t believe her mother’s crazy scheme had actually borne fruit.
The second call, ten minutes later, was also from her mother. “There must be seven or eight of those divorce women in here,” Rochelle said, her voice cracking, either from excitement or desperation, Grace didn’t know. “What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you here? These women all have hollow legs. They’re drinking me broke!”
The third call was from Mitzi Stillwell, and she didn’t sound happy. “Grace? It’s ten fifteen in the evening. And I have a deposition at 8:00 A.M. I just got a call from your mom, insisting I get over to the Sandbox, to talk to some women she claims have some important information about Stackpole and your therapist. I have a vague idea where you might be right now, but I’m going to claim attorney-client privilege and not divulge that to Rochelle. Instead, I’m going to get out of bed, get dressed, and drive over to that bar to check this out. All I can say is, this had better be good. And he better be good, too.”
* * *
Rochelle was practically beside herself by the time Grace walked into the bar, shortly before nine.
“Didn’t you get any of my messages last night?” her mother demanded. “I kept calling and calling!”
“I’m sorry,” Grace said. “Vandals broke into the cottage on Mandevilla sometime Wednesday night. It was a huge mess. They splattered paint all over the place and tried to burn it down. I kind of had my hands full. I had to try to get the paint off the floors and the appliances before it dried, and wash everything down. It was late by the time I got done, and I kind of just collapsed. I didn’t get your messages until this morning.”
Ladies' Night Page 38
