Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  “This is my favorite,” Michel mutters as she helps me into the dress. With my back to the mirror, I don’t get the full effect until I turn. In the reflection is someone I don’t recognize. The bodice clings to my midsection, accentuating my breasts yet keeping them contained. Lace wraps from neck to wrist with large cutouts of exposed skin. The waist hugs my true waist and flows A-line to the floor. The large swatch of fabric opening the skirt does what I expect—exposes my left leg almost to my hip.

  “You won’t be able to wear thigh-highs with that,” a rough male voice says behind me, and I twist to find Garrett in the room. Suddenly, the place seems too small for three people and this dress. Michel walks over to him—dressed impeccably in a charcoal gray suit with a vest—and gives him the two-cheek kiss. She mumbles something to him, but he isn’t looking at her. His eyes are trained on me. He chuckles softly and then asks her if we can have a moment alone.

  Garrett steps up on the circular platform and runs his hands down my sides, under my arms, outlining my hips. He’s examining the material like he’s a connoisseur of female clothing. His head lifts, and he meets my eyes in the mirror. His hands pause at my waist.

  “This isn’t the one I envisioned, but now I don’t think I can see you in anything else.” His voice is chalky, deep, and low. We stare at one another in the mirror. “You are so beautiful.”

  A blush creeps up my skin, tainting it pink, and Garrett’s hand slips to the revealing slit. His mouth presses below my ear. “Shimmy out of your panties.”

  “What?” I choke, trying to find his eyes in the mirror, but he faces the side of my head, his eyes close as his lips press under my ear again. I reach within the skirt and tug until the material slips over my hips and falls to my feet. I step left, revealing the deep cut, leaving my underwear wrapped around my right ankle. Garrett faces forward once again and watches his hand disappear under the black silk. Without a word, his fingers plunge into me, and my mouth falls open with the intrusion.

  “Watch yourself,” he whispers. “See what I see when you come apart.”

  “Garrett,” I warn. “The dress?”

  “It’s already yours, and I want to watch you fall to pieces in it.” His fingers slide in and out, curling in a manner I hadn’t felt before with him. He’s demanding and delving, and the rush comes quickly. I watch myself as my breathing accelerates, and my chest heaves. Garrett’s bright eyes don’t leave the mirror. His fingers are hidden under the skirt, but I don’t need to see them. I feel them. Every fiber of my being feels his fingertips and the edge of his knuckles and the hair on the backs as he takes me with those firm digits.

  “Garrett,” I whisper, warning him again. It’s going to be fast, and it’s going to be huge. A scream rumbles in my chest. My eyes widen in the mirror, but Garrett doesn’t break his expression. His concentration on bringing me to my knees remains intact as we both watch me explode. I need something to hold as my legs shake, so I reach back for his neck, curling my arm behind me to hold on to him. His fingers on my hip tighten, and I close my eyes.

  “Watch,” he commands, an edge to his voice as if any moment he’s going to tip over instead of me. When I open my eyes and witness our position, I come undone. I bite my lip to hold in the scream burning up my throat. I moan and curse him in my head until he starts swearing at me.

  “Fuck, you’re fucking beautiful, and I want to fucking fuck you right here in this fucking gorgeous dress and watch you drip all over me.”

  Whoa. The words set off a second detonation, and this time, I choke on his name, fighting the rebel yell inside me.

  “Garrett,” I hiss, dragging out his name.

  “Fuck yes, again,” he barks. His lips press against my skin as he watches me fold in the mirror. My fingers clutch at his wrist where his hand has disappeared within the dress. I groan, almost in torture as a second orgasm rips me in two. I want him inside me like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. Right here. Right now.

  But he kisses my shoulder and slowly withdraws his fingers. Within seconds, he’s back under the dress with a cloth wiping me.

  “What’s that?” I don’t recognize my voice as I ask. My legs tremble, and I’m still on edge, wanting him to fill me.

  “A handkerchief.” He removes the material and folds it with one hand, tucking it back into his suit pants pocket. I chuckle with the thought of this modern man carrying such an antiquated piece of fabric. He pats his pocket after securing it.

  “You can’t walk around with that in your pocket,” I mock in horror.

  “It’s the closest I can get you to my dick right now. I’ll feel it against my thigh all day, torturing myself until I can get home to you tonight.” Home. To me. He kisses my shoulder again and then tips my chin to face him. “It won’t be fair to the other ladies that you’ll be the most beautiful woman at the event.”

  “You said it was a party,” I bite, my voice breaking on what the word event might mean.

  “Po-tay-to, Pa-tah-to.” He quickly kisses me and steps down from the platform. “Change and I’ll take you to lunch.”

  Lunch? Sure, he’s all cool as a cucumber after what he just did, and right now, the only thing I want to eat is him.

  + + +

  The week passes in a blur of casual dinners and sexy time with Garrett, and I should be happy. I am happy. I can’t remember ever being so content in all my life, but a sliver of me is missing.

  It’s colder in California than I expected in early December, but I quickly find my destination as I walk the streets.

  On the Go Diner.

  I climb the stairs as if I’m entering another era when I enter the diner car. The theme is the mid-1950s, so loud and bright and white. The space practically gleams from the chrome accents. The music croons, and the heat cranks. It isn’t exactly my taste, but I like the premise behind the place. True to their branding, soft drinks are served in shapely glasses, and fries come on paper plates. The women wear bright uniforms in pink, turquoise, and yellow. I wonder for a moment how a themed diner might work in Blue Ridge. I’d want something more sophisticated, a little older looking, more classic. Think black and white movies, my brain says. Ideas begin to pour into me. Lush booths. Dim lighting. Candles. It doesn’t exactly fit the image of the current diner, which is more your typical greasy spoon. A one-stop shop for coffee and breakfast, but it’s time for a change. Could Blue Ridge handle it?

  The community has already been rather accepting of Blue Ridge Microbrewery and Pub up the street. Billy Harrington didn’t open the place to hurt me; he did it to revive the downtown strip as well as attract tourists. He had his own personal reasons for mixing things up, and I admit it’s helped our little town. The locals love Dolores’s Diner, but does Dolores? I sigh as I question myself and sip the coffee placed before me. We don’t have a Starbuck’s in Blue Ridge like every other American town, but maybe what we need is a coffee shop and a diner. I fall back in the booth and look out the window at the quiet side street.

  How can I guess what Blue Ridge needs if I don’t even know what I want?

  I’ve been skipping out on life for nearly eight weeks. Two months. This isn’t me. I don’t run away. I don’t avoid. Then I consider Rusty. It’s what I’ve been doing the whole ten years I’ve been with him—avoiding my emotions just to have sex with him.

  And after sex with Garrett Fox, how could I ever return to a man like Rusty Miller?

  You can’t, my heart says. And you don’t want to, my girlie parts cheer.

  I reach forward and cup my hands around the thick ceramic mug. What about Garrett? He enjoys playing dress-up-Dolores, but how does he feel about me? We’re ignoring the elephant in the room, which includes the fact I don’t live here. Could I stay? I’ve enjoyed California, but I’m still in vacation mode and disassociated from the day-to-day living. What would I do here? Garrett’s the only person I know in the area, which is dangerous. It makes me dependent, and I don’t want to be. Then there’s the matter of not hav
ing a job. How do I explain myself? I own a business, but I walked away.

  You can take the girl out of the diner, but can you really remove the diner in the girl?

  I should call Denton. I should call Hollilyn and see how the diner is managing without me. I should get my shit together. My phone pings, and I notice a text from Garrett.

  Home soon.

  I smile weakly, but I’m no longer certain where that is anymore.

  24

  It’s a party thing

  [Dolores]

  “Have I told you how stunning you look?” Garrett says to me, leaning toward me in the back seat of the hired car. This car is a little different from the others I’ve been in with Garrett. More plush. More legroom. I could kneel before him and give him a blow job if I wanted to, or he could lay me across the seat and make me silly, but I’m too on edge to think of sex. Then again, sex might be just the thing I need to take the edge off.

  “Yes,” I say softly, squeezing his hand in reply. My palm is sweaty against his, and I’m surprised he hasn’t complained. He’s told me at least six times that I look beautiful, starting with the moment he walked into Denton’s place and found me fully dressed and waiting for him. Of course, he looks beautiful as well in a black tuxedo with a vest. I’ve seen men wear them at weddings over the years, and I can honestly say no one wears one as well as Garrett. He’s comfortable in his own skin and equally comfortable in the formal attire. He looks ravishing if that were a word still used today.

  When we pull up to the hotel where the party will be held, my nerves hijack me. The place is alight with bright lights and a line of cars. People crowd what looks like a red carpet and cameras flash. I notice the couple before us getting out of their vehicle. The man helps the woman exit the car, and they pose for a second. She’s a vision of gold with dark hair piled on her head. Slim. Young. Confident.

  “What am I doing here?” I mutter.

  “You’re with me,” Garrett states, leaning into me once again and kissing my neck. The hairstylist decided my hair should be up, emphasizing the textures of ink and chrome within it. I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud, and I’m too late to reply as the driver stops. Our turn to exit. “Just hold my hand,” Garrett suggests, scanning my face before telling me one more time I look beautiful.

  Garrett exits first and then holds out his hand for me, like the gentleman in the car before us. The second I exit the vehicle, I’m blinded.

  “Don’t look at any one light,” he warns too late. Thankfully, we pause for a moment so I can at least get my bearings on the red carpet leading into the hotel. “Keep your head up, sweetheart.”

  I’m thankful for the coaching, though I’m beside myself. A little warning would have been nice. This is anything but a party. It’s a full-on event, and I feel like royalty without the tiara as Garrett leads me down the path to the entrance. A blonde in a formal gown greets Garrett before he gives his name, and then Garrett hands over an envelope.

  “We don’t have your guest’s name on the list, Mr. Fox,” the woman sweetly says to him.

  “Candi, you know I called and added Ms. Dolores Chance to my ticket.” The woman—Candi—scrolls down her iPad while she sweetly blushes from Garrett addressing her by name. My arm rests loosely within his, and he tugs it tightly against his side, casually keeping his hand in his pocket. He’s poised. Prepared. As though he’s done this a hundred times, and I imagine he has.

  “Oh, here she is,” Candi states, all sticky sweet like her name.

  “Thank you, Candi.”

  “Anything for you, Mr. Fox,” she replies coyly, and Garrett leads us forward.

  “Anything for you, Mr. Fox,” I mock once we are out of earshot of the waif of a woman.

  “Hmm, I have so many ways I could address that request from you,” he teases me as we wait in another line. He explains the receiving line leads to the fundraising hostess, a world-famous woman who advocates for women’s rights and assists those domestically abused to get back on their feet. She has locations in New York, California, and Chicago. Ingrid Tintagel is a stunning woman, roughly my age. Her hair is an interesting shade of rust, and her eyes sparkle bright green when she sees Garrett. She’s obviously familiar with him as her face pinkens like the young thing who took our ticket information.

  “Garrett,” she drones. “How wonderful to see you again. I can’t wait to hear your speech.”

  What?!

  “And who must this be?” she questions, reaching out a hand for me. I wait a second too long before reaching for hers, remembering too late my hand is clammy. It doesn’t matter as she only grips my fingers in an I’m-holding-a-dead-fish handshake.

  “Ingrid, this is Dolores Chance.” Ingrid’s pleasant smile responds to his introduction.

  “What a lovely dress. I’m so happy to see Garrett attend one of these events with a date.” Her teeth nearly clench as she says date as though she’s crunching on sour candy. I turn to Garrett, surprised by her comment. “I hope you enjoy the evening. Garrett, honey, Candi will find you during the evening and let you know the particulars.”

  Garrett smiles, and I continue to marvel at this woman’s familiarity with him. He leads us forward, smiling and nodding at people as we cross the room.

  “What the hell?” I mutter through my own clenched teeth. “A speech?”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m the keynote speaker. I just give a little address before dinner.”

  I tug at his arm to stop us from walking, forcing him to spin and face me.

  “This sounds like a much bigger deal than some Christmas-themed office party.”

  “It isn’t,” he says, nodding in the direction of someone off to my left, and then leans forward to briefly kiss me. I don’t think our lips even met, and I don’t like it. It’s unfeeling and cold, and reminds me I don’t fit in with these people.

  “Garrett, you could have warned me. You could have told me.”

  Looking me in the eyes, he smiles, and says, “Dolores, I need to give a speech before dinner. I hope you like prime rib. That’s the main course.”

  “Garrett,” I groan until his arm wraps around my waist, and he tugs me against him. He leans toward my ear, and whispers, “Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

  “Oh my God, you’re complimenting me to avoid the subject.”

  “I’m complimenting you because it’s true. Relax. Let’s have some wine.” Taking my hand, he leads me to a crowded bar where he knows many of the people, or at least those people know him. He shakes more hands than I can count and introduces me to so many I’ll never remember.

  When we finally sit for dinner, Garrett is introduced. I’d like to say I paid attention to every word he spoke, but I’m too impressed by his public speaking to a room full of people to fully listen to his words. He’s calm, cool, and collected. The audience chuckles, and I miss the joke. He thanks the organization for their work with women, and then Ingrid Tintagel moves to stand next to him. She kisses him on the cheek and holds his arm a second to address the crowd.

  “Your generosity this evening will keep doors open for women in need and provide them with much-needed opportunities to get back on their feet. I don’t need to remind you all of this night’s purpose, but I would like to honor Mr. Fox for, once again, being one of our top gift givers. Tonight’s donations from him were made in the name of his lovely date, Ms. Dolores Chance.” Ingrid scans the front row of round tables where we’ve been seated until her eyes fall in my direction. “Thank you for inspiring this man.”

  The audience applauds as Candi walks up on the raised platform and holds up a giant check with five zeroes to display Garrett’s contribution. Cameras flash. People stand and clap. I remain seated, staring at the man I don’t know on the stage.

  When Garrett returns to his seat, I lean over, cup his cheek, and kiss him sweetly. During the time it took him to return to me, I remind myself the money is for a good cause.

  “I think I’m supposed to say tha
nk you. That was very generous, though unnecessary to do it in my name.”

  Garrett’s cheeks pinken. “Yeah, I didn’t know they were going to do that. I’m by no means the largest contributor to their fundraising efforts, but I think she did it because I was the speaker.”

  “Your speech was wonderful.” Although I didn’t hear it. He beams with pride and reaches for his drink. He’s on his third one, and I realize for the first time he might have been anxious to speak to all these people. It makes me wish I had paid better attention to what he said, but I was too distracted by how good he looks and his commanding presence over the crowd.

  Before dinner is served, I excuse myself for the restroom. Garrett offers to walk with me, but I need a moment. While I’m taking care of business, I hear women chattering outside the door, oblivious to the others within the restroom. It reminds me that I don’t have any girlfriends here. I hardly have any at home either. Occasionally, I went out with Mati and Cora Conrad, but the times were rare. I worked too much, and I was tired most late nights. Then there was Rusty.

  I exit the fancy stall, which was more like a private toilet closet, then wash my hands and head for the lounge separating the sink area from the main door to the washroom.

  “I heard he found her on the street. She’s a survivor of domestic abuse.” I don’t know why the statement stops me, but I step back and reach for another hand towel as if I’m drying my hands. I can’t quantify them as paper because they are too soft, but they are disposable.