Lola laughed. “Has anyone told you that you’re actually pretty amusing?”
“No, they use the word amazing.”
“That, too.”
“And you don’t even have to pay big bucks for all this advice.” Then she leaned in very close and said softly, “I suggest first you figure out exactly what you want. And, Lola, make sure you don’t use his kid as an excuse to get out of a really good thing just because you’re afraid of getting rejected later on.”
Brilliant. Lola’s phone chirped once, softly, signaling a text message. And saving her from answering.
“Oh my God.” Charlotte grabbed for the phone. “Is it him?”
Lola beat her to it. “Don’t you dare touch that.” She glanced at her watch. He was texting her from the football field.
“Hah, it is.” Charlotte’s smile was wide enough to show her gleaming teeth. “This is a paranormal event. We’re talking about him, and miles away, he senses it.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What does he say?”
Lola hit the button and read. Her heart began to thump. “You’re not going to believe it.”
Charlotte gave her a wind-up motion.
“He wants to have dinner.”
“Wow.” A sparkle grew in Charlotte’s eyes. “It really is paranormal. Telepathy. He heard what we were saying.”
Lola ignored the absurdity. “Dinner. I don’t know.”
Charlotte threw her hands up and huffed out a breath. “Are you crazy? You said you wanted more from him.”
“I said I don’t know what I want. And then we started talking about his son. And I’m really not ready for all that.”
Charlotte stared at her deadpan. “If you do not say yes, I am going to have to send you round to his house for a really big spanking.”
“But what am I supposed to do with the boys?”
“Tell them you have a date. They’re old enough to stay home alone for a few hours.”
“But—”
Charlotte shook a finger. “Do not but me. Tell him yes.”
She typed Yes because she really wanted to. She’d think about his son and relationships and getting hurt later.
He came back with: Tonight.
She was suddenly terrified, why, she had no idea. They had sex. She’d gone to his house, his office, he’d come to her place . . . “He wants dinner tonight.”
“So say yes.” Charlotte made everything sound easy.
Lola typed another Yes. Again, because she really wanted to.
After several back-and-forths, they agreed to meet at six on the downtown’s main street, which had several good restaurants.
“Why don’t you let him pick you up like a normal date?”
“Because I don’t want to have to explain anything to Heckle and Jeckle.” She stopped Charlotte with a look. “You’re the one who said we don’t have to tell his son. Same goes for my nephews. It’s my business, not theirs.”
Charlotte put up her hands in surrender. “You’ve got me there. What are you going to wear?”
“Something sexy.”
“Let me help pick it out.”
“I can choose my own clothing, thank you very much.”
“But that’s no fun.” Charlotte pouted.
Lola’s phone buzzed with another text, and she immediately hit the button. And there, all over the little screen, was BITCH WHORE SLUT. In capital letters.
“What’s wrong?” Charlotte touched her arm.
Before she could stop her, Charlotte turned the phone to read. “He is a dirty one, isn’t he. From asking for a date to calling you filthy names.”
She should just let Charlotte think that. Then she wouldn’t have to explain. Wouldn’t have to analyze. Instead, what came out of her mouth was “It’s not him.”
“Who is it?”
Lola checked, but she already knew. “It’s from a blocked number.”
Charlotte gave her a narrow-eyed glare. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“I’ve had some calls and emails.”
“And the dead flowers.” Charlotte wasn’t stupid. “For some strange reason, I get the feeling you know who’s doing it.”
Lola chewed the inside of her cheek. After her talk with George, she didn’t believe it was him. She still didn’t despite this new message. “I think it’s the twins.”
Charlotte gaped. “No way. They’re bad, but that bad?”
“I got an email on Tuesday morning”—she didn’t load it on by saying she’d had a letter, too—“and when I picked them up from football, they were so concerned that I appeared to be nervous and anxious. They asked if I was okay. Was something bothering me? And they did the same thing about the dead flowers. Remember they bought me another bouquet?”
“Yes, at the mall.”
“That’s not like them. And now, only a few minutes after Gray sends me a text, I get this text”—she pointed at the phone—“not a call, but a text. As if they can’t call, but they can send a surreptitious message.” Which meant Gray hadn’t confiscated their iPhones today.
“Why would they do that?”
“Because it’s fun.” It made perfect sense to Lola. And the coincidence of this latest text message coming only minutes after Gray’s was confirmation. They’d probably been watching him and assumed—correctly—that he was texting her.
“It could be something worse. They could be serial killers in the making.” Charlotte leaned in. “Have you seen small dead animals around the condo complex?”
Lola rolled her eyes. “They’re yanking my chain. That’s why they’re being so good. Because they’re playing this game.” It was dirty and underhanded. And just like them.
“Then you should call the police. That would scare the crap out of them.”
Lola pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. “I think I’ll just observe and evaluate, gather evidence. Then I’ll think of how I’ll make them pay.” This wasn’t a matter for the police. It was a game. And she had to outsmart the twins.
21
“SO, YOU’VE GOT A DATE, AUNT LOLA.” WILLIAM SMIRKED.
“Someone from work?” Of the two, Harry was the better actor. He didn’t overdo with more than passing interest, barely looking up from his video-game console. He’d attached this one to the TV, and, from what Lola could see, the game was excessively violent with buildings blowing up, tankers exploding, gunfire erupting, but, thankfully, very little blood and guts. “Does your mother approve of these games?”
“They’re just games,” Harry said, his fingers and thumbs flying over the controls.
“All right, fine. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home. The lasagna in the oven will be done in thirty minutes.” She’d felt honor-bound to produce a meal. “Don’t have anyone over and don’t burn anything down.”
“Have a wonderful time, Aunt Lola,” they said in unison. Harry added, “And thanks for the lasagna. You really make the best.” Okay, now he was laying it on thick.
“You look really nice, Aunt Lola,” William added. Yeah, way too thick.
“Thanks, boys. Be good.” If they weren’t, she probably wouldn’t figure it out anyway.
She’d chosen a stretchy white top with a square neck that made her breasts look more tempting than they actually were. She’d never bemoaned her chest size enough to do anything about it, but the top and the push-up bra at least gave her a hint of cleavage. On a normal date, she would have paired it with tight jeans, but this was Gray. And after dinner, well, who knew what was in store. So she wore a skirt. Panties or no panties didn’t matter; if he wanted her, he’d tear them off. It had given her a delicious thrill yesterday in her office when he’d ripped the delicate material.
By the time she’d parked in the downtown lot behind the grocery store, locked her car, put her phone on vibrate in her purse, and headed out to the sidewalk by the bank, a tiny thread of anxiety had her nerve endings thrumming. Dinner. Conversation. What would they talk about? What topic
s were off-limits? The only things she knew about him were that he was a divorced CEO with a teenage son who didn’t seem terribly fond of him. And he liked football. Which just about described every man. Oh wait, she also knew he’d had an exciting sexual summer in his sixteenth year. Which is when he learned to enjoy spanking and various other forms of bondage, dominance, and submission. The safest topics would be sex and work, forget his divorce and fatherhood.
A warm evening breeze fluttered in her hair like the light touch of fingers. Diners thronged the sidewalks, heading to outdoor seating along the street. A couple with a well-behaved poodle were drinking champagne cocktails and consuming a plate of sliders at one eatery. The dog didn’t even beg. For a small San Francisco suburb, the town had more than its fair share of restaurants, from Italian to Chinese to steak and seafood, upscale, middle of the road—but no fast food, at least not on the quaint main street.
Where was Gray? She glanced at her watch. Okay, she was early. But she felt conspicuous standing alone at the corner of the bank. A couple of men looked at her, looked away. What did that mean?
Then something brushed her backside. A palm cupped her, squeezed. She turned her head slightly and said, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”
He laughed softly, his breath minty against her hair. “May I squeeze something else?”
“Not in public.”
He stepped around to face her, dressed in a black button-down shirt and jeans. God, yes, she’d let him squeeze anything he wanted.
“So what do you want to eat?”
Lola glanced up and down the packed avenue. “You didn’t make a reservation?”
He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t think it would be so crowded at six o’clock.”
“Then let’s eat at the first place that has a table available right now.”
“You’re easy.”
Yes, she was.
He took her hand in his. It was the oddest feeling, holding hands with him, in public, where someone he knew might see them. Like it was a real date. He didn’t scan the sidewalk for familiar faces, in case he needed to duck into a doorway quickly. He didn’t hurry her along. He was just there, with her. A big, handsome man, turning female heads. But with her.
“Their salmon is great here.” He pulled her through a doorway. There was a fifteen-minute wait for an outside table, but they could be seated right away inside.
Once they were in the booth, Lola understood why. “God, it’s loud.”
The ceilings were high, and the bar was in the middle of the restaurant, surrounded by people waiting for one of the outdoor tables. The grill and the brick oven were separated from the diners only by a wall along which the chef set out the completed dinners for the waitstaff to swoop by and pick up. The tap of high heels and men’s dress shoes echoed off the terra-cotta tile floor. With so much open space, the mix of voices became a cacophony.
Gray slid around the booth until his thigh rested against hers. “The noise just means we have to sit close.” He leaned an elbow on the table, propping his chin on his hand to look at her. “That top you’re wearing is hot.”
Miss Manners would have shaken her finger at the elbow on the table, but Lola loved his rapt attention, as if she were the only woman in the room. She could melt under that gaze. Yeah, she was hooked. “And you’re hot in black.”
He didn’t acknowledge the compliment. “I was watching you for a few minutes out there.” He quirked an eyebrow. “And I thought I might have to bash a few heads in.”
“Why?” She wasn’t quite sure where he was going with it.
He tugged on the top’s neckline, pulling it up slightly, his knuckles brushing the swell of her breast in the push-up bra. A flush of heat raced across her skin.
“Too much drooling,” he said. “There were a couple of guys about to turn around and accost you. I had to step in.”
She didn’t believe him. He was teasing. And she liked it. “But I thought you wanted to do me in front of an audience. So why would you care if some guys were checking me out?”
He clucked his tongue. “There’s a huge difference. One thing is all about us”—he waved two fingers back and forth between them—“the other thing is about other men.”
“So it’s okay for men to watch me as long as I’m doing naughty things with you.” She liked the idea. It was proprietary, even if it was kinky.
“Now you’re getting it.” He trailed a finger down her nose, which was another intimate gesture. “And I asked you to dinner because I wanted to take you somewhere I couldn’t touch you. Where I could only feast my eyes on you and imagine what I’d do to you later.”
“That’s why you asked me out?” So it was about sex.
He trailed a finger down her arm. For someone who couldn’t do any touching, he was doing a lot of it. The tug on her neckline had been very intimate.
“After yesterday, I need to tease myself.”
“What does that mean?” She wasn’t sure it was good. Maybe she was too easy for him.
His eyes darkened. “I like how crazy you make me. Dinner in public, no chance to jump you, it’ll make everything hotter”—he gave an eloquent pause—“later. Tell me what you do.”
“What I do? I—” She did whatever he wanted. When he wanted it.
“For your work.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t even realized they’d never discussed it. Of course, it brought home the fact that they were all about sex and nothing else. Why was that starting to sound bad? “I’m a technical writer. Cell phone transmission equipment.”
“Very interesting.”
“It’s not.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
They talked quietly, intimately close, so they could be heard over the dinner traffic. She could see darker specks of brown around his irises, the shadow of whiskers along his chin. She wanted to touch him.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Totally engrossed in Gray, she hadn’t seen the waiter approach or heard him slide the breadbasket onto the table.
Gray deferred to her.
“I’d like a glass of Riesling,” she said.
Gray ordered a German beer. When the waiter was gone, Gray went back to the intimate position on the table and asked, “So tell me about all your lovers.”
She choked back a startled laugh. “My lovers?”
“Yes. I told you about my projectionist. Tell me about your most formative experience.” He grinned. “In exquisite detail.”
That was the problem with getting down and dirty with a man on the first date—or whatever you called the first time she’d gone to his house. They could skip all the preliminary stuff about where they were born and how many siblings they had and jump straight to the subject of lovers. “I . . . ah . . .”
Saved by the waiter bringing their drinks. She could have kissed him.
“Are you ready to order?” He withdrew a pad from the pocket of his dark blue apron and held his pencil poised.
Lola hadn’t looked at anything besides Gray. But he’d already decided. “I’ll have the salmon.” He dragged a menu close, opened it, then handed it to Lola.
“I’ll have the salmon, too.” She couldn’t be bothered to look.
They spent another couple of minutes with choices and sides—they both passed on salads—then the man left and Gray tucked his beer mug close as he leaned on the table once more. He slid the glass of wine to her. “Drink. It’ll make it easier to bare your soul.”
Who was this man? He wasn’t the coach on the football field. He wasn’t the man who made her bend over a chair so he could spank her. He wasn’t even the man telling her about his sexual experience in the projectionist’s booth. He was almost . . . playful. And that was a word she would never have applied to him.
But Lola drank as ordered.
Then he issued another order. “Now talk.”
“I . . . um . . . my ex-husband.”
“Your husband was your
first lover?” He didn’t seem surprised that she had an ex-husband. Maybe she’d told him, but she couldn’t remember.
“He wasn’t my first”—he was the second—“but you asked about formative. And he was.” Mike had done a lot of forming.
Gray put a hand on her knee beneath the table. “As formative as the projectionist?”
Oh yeah, but in a far different way than he meant. “Probably, but not as good.”
He raised one eyebrow. “An asshole?” Then he snorted. “Of course he was an asshole or you wouldn’t have divorced him.”
“He divorced me.” She felt a twinge in her stomach having to admit it.
“Then he was an asshole and an idiot.” The hand on her knee started to move, caressing her, warming her. Or maybe that was just the sentiment in his words. “Did he cheat?”
“No.” She rolled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “Do we have to talk about this? I don’t want to be a pathetic whiner.”
Gray laughed. Her heart flipped over. He was absolutely gorgeous.
“You’re the furthest thing from a whiner.” And that hand rose tantalizingly higher on her thigh. Heat spread through her body. “I’ll bet,” he said, “that he was the whiner.”
Well, yeah, Mike could be described that way, but to be diplomatic—and not to come off as the typical divorced woman who couldn’t stop complaining about her ex-husband—she said, “I didn’t measure up to his standards, that’s all.”
“What were his standards?” Something about him had changed, a slight tension in his jaw, an infinitesimal flare of his nostrils.
“He just wanted me to dress better, do my hair differently, change my makeup, do a better job with the housework. And the cooking.” And at her job. And . . . well, the list went on and on. She wasn’t nice enough to his mother. She’d forgotten to send a thank-you note to his aunt. Everything about her had been disappointing.
“Why did he marry you?”
The callousness of the question shocked her until she looked right into his eyes. And saw something soft there, empathy. “I don’t know why he married me.”
The Naughty Corner Page 19
