by Jane Porter
Why did Jean-Marc let me order Waterford instead of Baccarat?
The next morning by the time I arrive at work, Olivia knows about my date with Tom before I even hang my coat up and adjust my turtleneck sweater.
Immediately summoning me into her office, Olivia gestures to the protein bars on the corner of her desk—I pass—and tells me to pull up a chair. “Good for you, Holly. You’re smart to get back out there.”
I feel like a B actor in a spaghetti Western. “I’m not getting back out anywhere.”
“You’re right to start dating. You’ve got to. You can’t let what’s happened ruin your life. You’re only twenty-five. You’re still so young.”
You’d think Olivia had thirty years on me. And then I remember Tom mentioning my divorce last night. “How did Tom know I’d been married?”
“Aimee must have said something.”
No duh. I try to find a nice way to say this. “It’s not something I’m comfortable discussing with people I don’t know.”
“Lots of people get divorced.”
But I’m not lots of people. It happened to my mom, and it nearly broke her. It sure as hell wasn’t going to happen to me.
For a moment a cavern opens up inside me, and my whole life seems to be rushing at me: the childhood that seemed relatively normal until Dad abruptly disappeared, the teen years trying to get used to the fact that Mom was never going to be the same Mom she was before Dad left, and the fierce determination that my future would be so much different from (which translated to so much better than) my past.
Wrong.
The cavern opens wider, and I can almost taste the champagne and my white-chocolate wedding cake again, and isn’t it horrible how the best night of your life can be someone else’s worst nightmare?
Olivia’s been studying me. “You’re not over your ex, are you?”
Over him? Or over the pain? I realize that the two are tangled up together now in my mind. “Legally he’s still my husband.”
“I thought you filed.”
“I did. It’ll be final by Christmas.”
Olivia blows on her chai, expression thoughtful. “Tonight’s your first date?”
Somehow I’d forgotten all about Tom Lehman and the fact that we were supposed to be getting together for drinks. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“It’s good you’re going out. This is how you meet people.”
I’m not in a good mood. “Even people you don’t like?”
Olivia’s eyes crease. I must amuse her, but I’m not sure why. “How do you know you won’t like him? You haven’t even gone out yet. There could be chemistry.”
“If I was drunk.”
“So drink.” She’s trying not to laugh.
And I’m trying not to be insulted. “You’re kidding.”
“You’ve got to be practical.” Her slim shoulders twist, her silk eggplant sweater playing up her dark honey complexion, and she crosses her leg, showing off one knee-high black boot with a stiletto heel. “He has money—”
“I don’t care about money.”
“Connections.”
“So what?”
“Could get you into places where it’s good to be seen.”
That’s another problem. I don’t want to be seen. I need to lose weight. My hair hasn’t been highlighted in ages. I hate men. I don’t really like me. This adds up to social disaster.
“So what are you going to wear?” Olivia persists, taking a sip from her tea.
“Clothes.”
“Just not too many, I hope.”
“He’s a dweeb, Olivia.”
“Which means he probably has a big dick.”
“Disgusting.”
She laughs, puts down her tea, and leans across her desk. “You like little dick?”
Of course, she can joke about little dicks and big dicks. Her boyfriend is the starting center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers and just signed a new contract for what seems like a hundred million dollars. You can have the littlest dick in the world if you make a hundred million dollars.
I stand as gracefully as I can. “Tom Lehman’s dick isn’t getting anywhere near me.”
Olivia laughs again and reaches for the phone. “Maybe an O is just what you need.”
I give her a dirty look and exit from her office. I’m serious. Tom Lehman’s dick isn’t ever leaving his pants.
Returning to my desk, I bury myself in work. Unlike most days, today I don’t want time to pass quickly. I pray for interruptions, a heavy workload, annoying problems. Let there be a reason I have to cancel tonight’s date: let a meteor fall from the sky; let the San Andreas Fault shift again; let Tom Lehman eat something fishy and foul at Fisherman’s Wharf at lunch and end up with a bad bout of food poisoning...
But none of that happens. The day sails along, far too quickly for my tastes, and before I know it, it’s five thirty and I’m home (not even traffic to slow me down!), changing for my date with Tom Lehman.
If my dread could be visualized, it’d look like something contestants on Fear Factor have to eat. Spoiled. Slimy. Maggot-infested.
Stepping out of the shower, I try to give myself a pep talk. Tonight may not be that bad a date. It could be fun. Tom may be less of a pompous ass in real life than he is on the phone.
And yet, as I towel off in my bedroom, I know I’m about as excited as I was last March when I went to the dentist for my second crown and discovered that a root canal was needed, too.
Standing in front of my closet, I try on virtually everything dangling from a hanger. Most of the things I want to wear don’t fit, and the things that do fit make me look huge.
No female likes gaining weight, and for me, those extra ten, fifteen pounds equal failure. It’s not that I care if I look chunky-ish for Tom, but the extra weight reminds me I’ve lost control, and good girls never, ever lose control.
Eventually I settle on black jeans and a long, lacy black sweater I wear over a black silk camisole. The soft sweater covers my hips and butt, but the open lace weave shows off my slender collarbones.
I pull on a silver necklace, silver bangles for my wrist, and with the flat iron I go over my hair, flattening it straight. I use more makeup than I have in a while, darkening my eyes, lining my lips, using blush to contour imaginary cheekbones.
The doorbell rings. Butterflies fill my stomach. I look in the mirror, study my now serious face.
I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know how to do this. This is a date, my first real date in years, and I’m petrified.
But I can do this. I can, and Aimee and Olivia and everybody say he’s a good guy, a really nice guy, so I open the door bravely.
Tom enters my narrow entry hall and checks me out, his gaze sweeping up and down before he gives me a nod of approval. “You look hot.”
The guy’s word choice isn’t my favorite, but I’m trying to be flattered. I haven’t felt pretty, much less “hot,” in ages, so I smile. “Thanks.” I try to find a compliment for him even as I suppress a whisper of disappointment. He’s... okay. Medium height. Nice features. Dark hair. Except at the back of his head, where he’s bald. I shouldn’t be disappointed. He could be a wonderful guy. I just need to give him a chance. “You look great, too.”
I get my coat, lock up the house, and as we descend the front steps, I see his car, a small BMW model, waiting in the driveway (Cindy would love that), headlights on even though the engine’s not running. I reach for the passenger door, but Tom stops me.
“Don’t you even think about it,” he says loudly, firmly. “That’s my job, sweetheart. A woman should never have to open her own door.”
“I don’t mind opening my own door.”
He presses between me and the car. “A man should take care of a woman.”
It’s a nice idea, I want to tell him, and there’s a part of me that would love to be taken care of, but it’s beginning to seem like a fairy tale.
Inside the car, Tom fiddles with the music, the dashb
oard electronically bright. He’s changing CDs, flipping through his extensive collection before settling on something that reminds me of Norah Jones.
Mood music.
It’s going to be that kind of evening all night long.
I buckle up, tell myself to lighten up, and then we’re off, gunning up the hill.
“So what do you like to do in your free time?” Tom asks, shifting gears hard and fast.
We tear around the corner. I grip the edges of the seat. “The usual.”
He shoots me a side glance. “What’s that?”
“Read. See movies. Hang out with friends.”
“What kind of movies?”
“Comedies. Drama—”
“Chick flicks, right?”
He weaves in and out of traffic as if we’re in the Indy 500 and the checkered flag’s about to come down. I’m glad for the front and side air bags. “Not necessarily. There are all kinds of good movies being made these days, and I love indie films—”
“Indies? Like India?” He shifts down abruptly, slams on his brakes, gives the car next to us a look as we’re forced to change lanes. “What do you call those movies? Bollywood?”
I’m not even going to go there. Jean-Marc and I used to see all the foreign films we could, and of course, Jean-Marc adored the French films in particular. He collected the older French films, had one of the most extensive black-and-white collections I’ve ever seen. “What kind of movies do you like?” I ask, determined to get the focus off me.
“Action films. Thrillers. Tom Clancy’s my favorite.”
“Clancy hasn’t done anything in a while.”
“I know.” He makes another abrupt lane change. “What do you think of The Rock?”
“He’s all right.”
“And Vin Diesel?”
I purse my lips. “He’s good, too.”
“Who do you like better?”
“I don’t know that I like one better than another. They’re; both interesting.”
“But who would you rather watch in a movie?”
Are we really having this conversation? “I don’t think you can compare them.”
“Why not? They’re both big guys, and they’re both part black—”
“So Cuba Gooding and Laurence Fishburne are interchangeable?”
Tom shoots me a blank look. “What does that mean?”
“Well, if you can compare Vin Diesel and The Rock because they’re both part black, I was trying to—” I break off as Tom leans forward, opens the sunroof to let the damp San Francisco night in. “Never mind.”
Tom laughs, reaches over, pats my knee, his hand lingering longer than I like. “You were getting a little worked up there, weren’t you?”
I bite my tongue, hard, as the evening stretches before me. Lengthy. Endless. A Kevin Costner film brought to life.
“Feisty girl,” he adds. “I like that.”
And then he growls at me.
Chapter Five
I wish I could say the night improved.
It did not.
Tom Lehman liked to talk, especially about himself. Within the first hour of our cocktails, I learned that Tom had attended Brown University, considered going back to school for his MBA, but by then was making so much money as a broker, he passed on higher education to continue building his financial portfolio.
Tom owns his own condo by the water—stunning place, with a view—and has two cars: the BMW and a fun SUV for hauling his toys. He co-owns a “rustic place” in Tahoe with some buddies from the firm so they can ski every weekend in winter (the hot tub Tom insisted they put in has been the best investment ever), and he’s decent on skis but kicks ass on the board.
“You look like a skier, Holly,” he says, motioning to the waitress that we’d like another round. He’s already had two martinis to my one, and I could use another drink, but I can’t stomach another sickly sweet-tart appletini, which is what Tom ordered for me since all girls like it.
“Can I just get a glass of chardonnay?” I ask, trying to smile at Tom as I flag the cocktail waitress down. I don’t know why I feel compelled to ask permission—must be a leftover trait from my good-girl training days—because I really don’t care if he approves or not.
“You loved the appletini.”
“I know. It’s great, it really is, but I don’t want to get too tipsy before dinner.”
Tom winks. “Gotcha.” He orders the wine for me and another Stoli martini for himself, dry, three olives, up. “You don’t have to worry,” he adds in a whisper as the waitress moves on, “I’ll take care of you if you do have too many.”
I smile small and tight. “I’m sure you will.”
He laughs, ha ha. “So what were we talking about?”
“I don’t remember,” I answer, because honestly, at that point, I don’t. And for a moment there’s silence at our bar table, and Tom glances around, drums on the table with his fingertips. He’s not bad-looking—decent features, dark sideburns on the short side, blue eyes-^but his energy makes me nervous. He continues to scan the interior of the bar as if looking for someone or something.
“I usually know people here,” he says abruptly. “It’s wild, but every time I’m here, someone I know walks in.”
“Really?”
He shakes his head. “It used to piss my girlfriend off. She said we were never alone, we always had a half dozen of my friends hanging around.”
“Ah.”
“We were going to get married. I mean, we’d talked about it.” His gaze keeps darting to the door. “I was the one that broke it off. I felt like shit when it ended. She was a good girl, she really was, and I don’t like breaking anyone’s heart, but man, she could be clingy. She didn’t have any opinions of her own. Couldn’t make a decision without asking me what I thought.” He sighs, a heavy, tired sigh. “She just needed so much.”
I find this fascinating. I can’t imagine any woman who’d need Tom that much. “I’m sorry.”
He sighs again, reaches up to pat the back of his head where his missing hair should be. “She took it pretty hard when I broke up with her. I think for a long time she thought we’d get back together.”
“How long were you together?”
“Seven months.”
I nod because he nods, and for a moment we stare at the table, and I think Tom must still have feelings for her, because his expression is distant, almost brooding.
“Christ, she had a hot body,” he says after a minute. “A really great body.” His hands rise; they’re broad through the palm, fingers medium size, and he shapes his hands as if he’s grabbing coconuts. “The sweetest, tightest little fanny ever. I loved her butt. Her face... it was okay...”
And then he looks up at me, straight into my eyes. “But nothing like yours.”
I don’t know what to say.
Tom is leaning so far forward that I feel as if we were in prison, exchanging secret information. “You’re beautiful.”
I pull back. “It’s just a face.”
“No, no. You have a great face. Really pretty. Beautiful eyes.” He’s still leaning forward, and he smiles warmly. He’s paid me a huge compliment. He wants me to realize that it’s significant. “I’m sure you know, there are two kinds of men: the kind that just want a hard body and don’t care about the face, and then there are the men that need a pretty face and can put up with a wide ass.”
I gather I fall into the wide-ass category. “So you’re saying I don’t need a paper bag?”
He laughs. Ha ha ha ha. “No. I’d never put a paper bag on your head. I’d want to see those beautiful eyes when I make love to you.”
Please let me throw up, so I have a reason to go home.
“Tell me, Holly. I want to know. How old do you think I am?”.
I think he thinks he’s being deep. I also think he thinks this is a really great conversation. However, I will go with the trivia questions any day if it means we don’t have to talk about him making love to me. “Twent
y-eight?”
He grins. I guessed well. “Thirty,” he says flatly, firmly, clearly impressing me. “You couldn’t tell.”
“No.”
“I work out a lot. Run. Lift weights. Spend a lot of time on the elliptical machine.” He looks at me, as if waiting for me to ask the question I’m dying to know, and when I don’t (because I haven’t a friggin’ clue what he’d want me to ask now), he supplies more. “In case you’re wondering, I’m in great shape.”
“Yes.”
“Reaaalllly great shape.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve got stamina.”
Ah. I see where he’s going now. We’re back to sex. We get to talk about Mr. Penis now, and I suddenly think of my brother, Jamie, and I can’t imagine him ever talking about his body parts. Not on a date. Not even to other guys. Jamie would be appalled. But then, he’s never had a difficult time meeting women. They’ve always fallen all over themselves to get to him.
Jamie was a star baseball player in high school, went to Arizona State on a baseball scholarship, and his senior year he was Mr. October in the Arizona State University calendar the sororities put together to raise money for literacy.
Clearly Jamie never felt his masculinity questioned, although Tom seems quite insecure about his at the moment.
Tom’s still talking. “I swear. I can go all night.”
This guy’s amazing, I think. He’s everything I never wanted, and more. “That’s fantastic, Tom. You must love night skiing.”
“Night skiing?”
“You said you could go all night.”
“I’m talking about... sex.” He leans forward. “In bed.”
“Oh!” I feign ignorance. “Wow. Congratulations. That’s really wonderful. You must be so proud.”
Tragically, it seems he is.
We somehow make it from the bar, across the city to Ghirardelli Square. A new restaurant has opened opposite the square, and this is the cool place Tom’s been talking about. It’s certainly crowded when we arrive, lots of young, glamorous folks standing in the entrance, and even more spilling from the bar. It’s a big restaurant, and yet every table is full. The over-the-top lighting—-red spotlights only, softened by little votives glowing on all the tables—illuminates the massive statue in the center of Ovio, the statue resembling a Mayan god with a massive erection.
