by Unknown
Not like any of this was news to him. He had known for years that his reputation as America’s favorite perennial frat-boy preclud-ed him from ever having a serious relationship. Simon Says might be a character he had created but that character was as much a part of him as the skin on his back. Hence his goddamn tattoo.
He’d gotten it after signing his syndication deal, that much of what he had told Georgina was true. What he hadn’t told her was why he’d gotten it.
Sara Goodwin. She’d been a lawyer he’d met while going
through the process of hammering out his syndication deal. Intelligent, pretty and in possession of a smart mouth… his own personal kryptonite.
After the deal had been signed, she and Simon had spent the weekend in bed together and Simon had foolishly thought there was more between them than just really hot sex.
He’d been wrong. When he’d asked to see her again, she’d reacted as if he’d asked her to take a piss in church.
“What woman in her right mind would want to date Simon Says?” Sara had asked. Then, and this had been the hardest part of the truth to hear, she’d muttered, “Let alone marry the little bastard.”
Initially, he’d brushed off Sara’s pronouncement as one wom-an’s opinion. Then Simon Says had gone national and, as his fame grew, the pool of women outside the party circuit willing to date him (which had never been that deep to begin with) dried up.
And Simon realized that there was a painful kernel of truth in that one woman’s opinion.
Shell-shocked and not a little heartsick, his younger self had felt the need to make a grand gesture of it. As if he needed a tattoo to remind him that he didn’t have someone to call his own. He had his brothers and their wives as daily reminders of what he was missing.
Running out on Georgina last night had been the mother of
all self-defensive moves. Simon knew he didn’t have the sense to steer clear of her, and he didn’t want to torture himself by hanging around what he could never have. A woman like Georgina would never accept him back after he’d basically screwed her and then ran out on her. Anyway, just because she’d let him touch her didn’t mean she wanted anything else. All and all, it had been the best thing for both of them, not that it had been easy.
Not that being separated from her was any picnic.
To make matters worse, all any of the guys in the living room wanted to talk about was the fact that Valerie’s plain-Jane cousin was the infamous Abigail Scott.
And they kept using that phrase, ‘the infamous Abigail Scott’, as if she was an abstract theory rather than a living, breathing woman.
A living, breathing woman that you ran out on last night. A living, breathing woman that, if you weren’t such a big chicken shit, would be writhing and panting under you right this minute rather than shut away up in the attic, alone. Possibly lonely, possibly thinking that you had neatly lived down to her worst expectations of you. No wonder she turned her nose up at you at Valerie’s party.
She might have been attracted to you but she knew you weren’t capable of handling a woman like her.
“Would you give it a rest,” Simon hissed.
“Hey man,” one of the morons said, thinking Simon had been talking to them. “Give us a break. Not everyone was lucky enough to get a piece of the infamous Abigail Scott.”
You have my permission to kill him.
Simon rolled to his feet. Glaring around at the compendium of morons on hand, he said, in a cold, clear voice, “Her name is Georgina Kennedy, and she’s smarter than all of you combined. If any of you approach her, hoping to get a piece of the infamous Abigail Scott, she will laugh in your face and then she’ll really go to work on you.”
One of the guys snickered. “So, she shot you down, eh?”
The other guys hooted.
“Yeah,” Simon lied, throwing the word over his shoulder as he walked to the door, doing exactly what he should have done last night, namely, taking his drink upstairs to watch TV.
Slamming his way out into the hall, Simon took two steps then reared back when Valerie came barreling around the corner. She was shouting into her cell phone, had a plate of food in one hand, a bottle of wine tucked under her arm and a sobbing waitress trailing behind her.
“Hang on,” she yelled into the phone. “Simon, excellent timing.
Do me a favor.”
Simon glanced nervously towards the crying waitress.
“No, not her,” Valerie said. “What I need you to do is take this food up to the attic.”
Simon staggered back a step, holding up both hands in front of his chest, sloshing Chivas onto his hand in the process.
“No way,” Simon said, the very idea of seeing Georgina enough to make his blood run cold. “I’ll take the waitress.”
“Simon, stop annoying me and just do as you’re told,” Valerie ground out. She shoved the plate and bottle of wine at him, forcing Simon to juggle the bottle, his glass and Georgina’s lunch.
When he got a handle on everything, Valerie and the crying waitress were gone.
“Aw, well… shit. ”
Simon started muttering to himself as he walked up the stairs to the attic. “Hand her the plate, warn her about the morons, walk away. Hand her the plate, warn her about the morons, walk away.
Walk. Away.”
As far as strategies went, Simon believed that his was foolproof.
Warning her about the fact that half the male guests would be after her the second she stepped foot outside of the attic…well, that only seemed fair since his big mouth was the reason everyone knew about Abby.
Once he was standing in front of the attic door, Simon inhaled sharply. “Okay. Hand her the plate, warn her about the morons, walk away.”
Please let her be in bed. Preferably naked.
“You shut up. One peep out of you that doesn’t follow the plan and I’ll get that lobotomy.” With his now empty glass balanced on top of her sandwich, and the bottle of wine tucked under his arm, Simon let himself into the attic.
He was halfway across the room when he saw Georgina stand-
ing in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight. Her hair was down around her shoulders, a wild mass of curls she had made no effort to control, her long, gently curved arms bare, her dress, another loose linen affair, matched the velvet comforter on the bed and her lips were full and red, making him wish he had spent more time kissing her last night.
His foot hit a squeaky floorboard. Her head turned, her eyes widened and she stiffened, jerked back.
“What do you want?” she asked, this time making no effort to be polite.
You.
Simon growled.
Fine. Hand her the plate, warn her about the morons, walk away. Happy?
“Lunch,” Simon held up the plate. “Valerie was busy so I’ll be your waiter for this afternoon,” he said, walking around the back of the couch towards her. She backed up a step as her gaze skittered away.
“Just set it on the coffee table,” she said, turning back to putting books on the shelves.
Simon set the plate on the coffee table, plucked his glass off her sandwich and walked back the way he had come. He was reaching for the doorknob when his inner voice piped up.
Warn her about the morons.
Simon cleared his throat. “Uh, Georgina…” he began, turning back to see her standing by the coffee table, examining the ring shaped dent in her sandwich.
“Yes?” she asked, glancing up at him. Impatience radiated off her. She looked so much like she had in the gallery last night, it instantly pissed him off.
“Just thought you should know the natives are gunning for a piece of you,” he said with a smirk, reverting to full asshole mode to match her frigid librarian act.
Instead of pokering up, she laughed, a soft, mocking sound.
“They don’t want me. They want Abigail Scott, sex goddess.”
“I know how that feels. Women have been chasing after me for years when, all along, I kne
w all they wanted was a piece of the myth. As if having sex with a pseudo-celebrity would somehow make them famous by association.”
“And that bothers you?” she asked, her tone biting.
Damn right it does. Never knowing if a woman gives a shit about the man behind the myth.
“Walk away,” he muttered, even as he turned to face her, even as he allowed himself to fully appreciate the changes in her appearance. A man could get lost in those flashing eyes, that gorgeous hair, just spend the rest of his life trailing after her, intent on making her smile, laugh, come…
Where have you been all my life? I’ve been waiting for you for so long, I thought you’d never show up.
“Aw, well… shit,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead as those thoughts rolled through his mind. This was all so damn hopeless, and yet if there was a chance in a million that he could make this work…
“You said that last night,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I know and I’m sorry…” Simon ran out of things to say. He couldn’t very well tell her that he was going to be chasing her for the rest of their natural lives, until she either gave in and married his sorry ass or took out a restraining order against him.
“Apology accepted,” she snapped. “You can go now.”
Looking at her, it was the weirdest thing to know that Georgina somehow belonged with him. If he somehow managed to make this work, he was going to be dealing with her for the rest of his life…
and he knew next to nothing about her. She could be the most annoying person in the world to live with. She could eat nothing but bean-sprouts and tofu. She could be into yoga and pampering her inner child. Oh, God…
“Tell me right now you aren’t a Republican!” Simon ordered.
“No!” she squawked. Then, with a little shrug she said, “Well, I do admire John McCain but that hardly…”
Simon waved off her explanation as he walked over to lean his hip on the desk behind the couch. “That’s fine. Hard not to admire the man. What’s your stand on the designated hitter rule?”
“The what? Simon, what are you after this time?”
Simon. Not Mr. Campbell. He remembered something about her saying his name and owing her five hundred bucks.
“I forgot how much I owe you,” he blurted out, referring to their game of the night before.
“You owe me… oh,” Georgina blushed as she became terribly
interested in the rug beneath her feet. “Forget about it. That was just…”
“Forget about it?” Simon asked, a wicked smile curving his lips at the sight of that blush. Who would have thought that the way to this prickly woman’s heart was through kinky sex-games?
You are one lucky bastard.
“I would just forget about it but the thing is you might owe me.”
She really blushed at that. “Please don’t do this.”
Simon went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “The only way to
know what’s what and what’s fair, is if we agree to a time frame,”
Simon said, pushing off the desk as he spoke.
Georgina’s shoulders tensed but she didn’t back away. “Time frame?”
“Yeah, instead of going for a set amount of money, we agree to a set amount of time.”
“For what?” she asked, still studying the floor beneath her feet.
“For you to work off the money you owe me,” Simon mur-
mured.
Her head snapped up at that. “That I owe you?”
Simon nodded, snaring her gaze with his, willing her not to look away. “Last night, there at the end, I remember you saying my name quite a few times.”
A confusion of emotions played themselves out in her gaze until she simply let her eyes slide closed and asked the one question he couldn’t answer with total honesty, at least, not without scaring her into calling the Funny Farm to come pick him up, “Why did you leave?”
So he went for a partial truth. “Because I’m an idiot.”
That made her laugh but she composed herself quickly enough to ask. “And if you fall prey to another bout of idiocy? What then?”
“I won’t.” Simon murmured. “Give me this weekend, just until Monday morning.”
Please, oh please oh please oh please…
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?”
Oh, there’s a good answer.
“Okay.”
Simon was so surprised by her response he flinched. “Huh?”
***
“I said okay,” Georgina replied, reaching for the bottle of wine Simon had brought.
Simon took it and started opening it before she could, stealing her hope of having something to fiddle with while she absorbed the fact that, swayed by two little words, she had just agreed to spend the rest of the weekend with him.
“Why not?”
His logic had floored her, stripped away every defense she could have thrown at him, leaving only the truth.
With Simon by her side, she had felt more in one night than she had felt in the past how many years of her quiet, useful existence. With Simon, she had felt… free. He didn’t expect her to be the cutest, quietest version of herself. He actually seemed to like it when she mouthed off at him. He knew about Abby and yet he still treated her with respect. He hadn’t grabbed at her, assuming he could pick up where he had left off the night before. He had asked her to spend the weekend with him by teasing her with her own fantasy.
Taking a steadying breath, Georgina firmly reminded herself that this was no big deal. It was just sex for the fun of it, a casual affair to burn off the inexplicable attraction between them. What was going to happen this weekend wasn’t some sex-infused prelude to forever. If she somehow forgot that fact and became attached to him, she had no one to blame but herself. Simon had been very clear about his intentions towards her, going so far as to give their affair an expiration date.
Never forget that this ends on Monday.
The worst thing about keeping that knowledge securely in the foreground was that it didn’t change what she was about to do.
After years of saving herself for Mr. Right, she was entering into a brief affair with the quintessential Mr. Right-Now, and it was beyond more than likely that she would regret him later . But that was the beauty of kissing Mr. Right-Now…later simply did not matter.
Simon handed her a glass of wine then looked around the book strewn attic. “This place looks worse than it did last night.”
Georgina slapped her forehead and groaned. “What was I thinking? I can’t spend the rest of the weekend playing with you. I have to finish this.”
Simon snorted. “Buyer’s remorse so soon? Well, too bad. You’re not getting out of our agreement that easy. What needs doing?”
Georgina blinked at him in confusion. “Pardon?”
“This mess you’ve got going here, what needs to be done?”
“Well, I’ve cataloged most everything. All I need to do is shelve accordingly.”
“I can put books on shelves,” Simon muttered, walking around to see how she had piled books in front of the rows of mostly empty shelves.
“Simon, be serious. You didn’t come here to spend your weekend acting as a librarian’s assistant.”
Simon turned to face her, hands on hips. “We made a deal. You agreed to it and I’m not going anywhere. You finish your sandwich, I’ll shelve books… and, while you’re at it, how do you feel about the designated hitter rule?”
Georgina just stared at him, flattered that he wanted her enough to spend his afternoon shelving books to get her. Wow, she’d had dates that had cancelled when she’d called to tell them that she might be a few minutes late.
“Designated hitter,” Simon repeated, waving his hand in front of her face.
“What?”
“How do you…”
“Feel about the designated hitter. Yes… uh… no real opinion. I don’t follow baseball.”
Simon snorted. “N
ow why am I not surprised? Do you follow
any sport?”
“Uh, no, not really. But I like to swim and I’m pretty good at tennis.”
“Tennis? Shit.” Simon shook his head in disgust as he leaned down to scoop up more books.
Georgina sat on the couch with an offended huff. “Well, excuse me. I hadn’t realized there was a right answer.”
“The only right answer regarding the designated hitter rule is ‘I am against it’,” Simon said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Finish your sandwich.”
Georgina saluted him with it before taking a bite. Seemingly assured of her compliance, Simon started shelving books at an impressive pace, eclipsed only by the rapidity with which he asked her the most random questions.
Did she eat steak? Did she practice yoga? Did she have any contact with her ‘inner child’?
That one made her laugh. “My upbringing precludes me from
putting much faith in psychotherapy. One gracefully accepts the cards that one is dealt, then privately deals with them.”
Simon nodded. “My family was more, ‘You’ll get what you get and like it’ but the idea’s the same.”
“Pretty much.”
Before she could ask where all this was leading, he asked her another question and another, until she was laughing and answering without thought. The questions weren’t invasive and they were easy, even fun, to answer.
Did she prefer Macs or PCs? Coffee or tea? Eggs scrambled, fried or sunny-side up? Did she like black licorice? When she said that she did, he shuddered.
“Nasty stuff,” he muttered. “But if you like it…”
Georgina took that moment to ask a question of her own. “Box-ers or briefs?”
“Neither,” he replied, unfazed by such a personal question. “Do you have any underwear that isn’t white cotton?”
“Nope,” she lied, thinking that her small collection of ‘dress-up’
underwear was none of his business.
“That shit’s sexy as hell,” Simon said, turning then leaning back against the shelves. “I about passed out last night when you whipped your dress off.”
