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LOVE AT LARGE

Elizabeth Angus

Judy Bagshaw

Jennifer Harrington

Sue Ann Jaffarian

Nancy Trausch

Eileen Wilson

And Featuring a Collaborative Story by the writers at BBW Romance Writing

Draumr Publishing, LLC

Maryland

Love At Large

Copyright © 2004 by Draumr Publishing

The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

“Illustrated Woman” copyright © 2004 by Elizabeth Angus

“A Work of Art” copyright © 2004 by Judy Bagshaw

“Dirty Laundry” copyright © 2004 by Jennifer Harrington

“Love Bytes” copyright © 2004 by Sue Ann Jaffarian

“A Change in Direction” copyright © 2004 by Nancy Trausch

“An Unforgettable Kiss” copyright © 2004 by Eileen Wilson

“Passion Unmasked” copyright © 2004 by BBW Romance Writing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Cover art by Patricia Storms.

Kindle Edition

PUBLISHED BY DRAUMR PUBLISHING, LLC

www.draumrpublishing.com

Columbia, Maryland

Printed in the United States of America

FOREWORD

Danger - Large Love At Work!

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

I have a dream…

• That one day the lingerie billboard I pass on my way to work will feature a size 22 model in a fire-engine red teddy;

• That one day a plus size actress will put an imprint of her big fat behind in the cement in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood;

• That one day interviews with talented and accomplished women, who also happen to be large, will not include questions and comments about weight;

• That one day books with full-figured heroines will be the norm, not specialty fiction shunned by major publishing houses.

Love at Large is part of that dream; at least it’s a healthy foot in the right direction.

Plump, fat, plus size, zaftig, full-figured, chubby…no matter what the word, it is no secret that in our weight obsessed society women who are defined by these and similar adjectives are treated as though they are invisible or seen as merely cardboard cutouts with stereotypical personalities.

Generally, in media, whether it is film, television, books, or even magazines, full-figured women are given the roles of good sport, helpful neighbor and/or gal pal. Seldom, if ever, is seen a fleshy vamp or a sexy and desirable woman who just happens to shop at the plus-size stores. They sell laundry soap and laxatives, not perfume, cars or beer; always a bridesmaid, never the bride. Sometimes, they don’t even make the cut as a bridesmaid. After all, what fashion conscious bride would want a double helping of lime green taffeta in her wedding photos? Right?

But the reality is that plump (fat, plus size, zaftig, full-figured, chubby, etc., etc.) women are brides and bridesmaids, as well as girl friends and significant others. They are as capable of being sexy sirens and exciting lovers as they are of being best friends and dependable employees. If not, then who is buying all that plus size lingerie? And please don’t say it’s that quiet man who lives on the next block with his mother.

Love at Large is a courageous book of charming romantic stories; each one a celebration of the lives and loves of full-figured women. It is a book of fiction featuring real women searching for real love and finding that men do indeed send long-stemmed red roses to women with double digit dress sizes.

Within the pages of Love at Large, you will find spunky, attractive, sexy, and smart heroines. These are women who love, are loved, and make love. They are all that and a bag of chips; and they make no apologies for not being the fat-free variety.

SUE ANN JAFFARIAN is the author of the award-winning Odelia Grey mystery series which features a plus-size paralegal as an amateur sleuth.

WITH MANY THANKS

To Judi McCoy, for her endless editing and her constant support. Judi is the author of the upcoming release, “Wanted: One Special Kiss”

To Heather Donovan, for her creation and leadership of the BBW Romance Writing Group.

Heather is the author of the upcoming release, “Love and Kilts: Book One of the SpiritBadge Series”

To Jennfier Harrington, for all her time and effort in getting this anthology organized and ready for publishing!

You can see Jennifer’s first release right here in Love at Large!

CONTENTS

“Illustrated Woman” by Elizabeth Angus

“A Work of Art” by Judy Bagshaw

“Dirty Laundry” by Jennifer Harrington

“Love Bytes” by Sue Ann Jaffarian

“A Change in Direction” by Nancy Trausch

“An Unforgettable Kiss” by Eileen Wilson

“Passion Unmasked” by BBW Romance Writing Group

THE ILLUSTRATED WOMAN

Elizabeth Angus

CHAPTER ONE

I’D BEEN THINKING about getting a tattoo for the longest time. It was far from a whim. I’d decided at last that acquiring one was a good way to celebrate turning thirty.

So there I was, in a tattoo place named Rip’s Parlour. It was little more than a shopfront, consisting of a minute waiting room with walls plastered with sheets of potential skin art, ranging from the ubiquitous roses and hearts and skulls to dramatic Native American pieces that would decorate an entire torso.

At the rear was a tinier backroom almost filled with a sink topped with a cupboard and an adjustable chair that looked like a dentist’s instrument of torture. The back wall boasted a huge mirror, presumably to watch the action as parts of one’s body were adorned, parts not visible unless one was a contortionist.

“Go to Rip’s,” my friend, Jim, had said. “My sister-in-law Sharon knows him, and I hear he’s good. Keeps a clean place.”

No one else of my acquaintance had ventured into a tattoo parlour, and this at least was a little better than playing eeny-meeny-miney-mo with the phonebook. A little.

Now that I was there, about to consign my precious and virgin skin to the hands of a stranger, my nerves were dancing a military tattoo of their own in my stomach. I clutched the piece of paper with my design and willed the nerves away. It had taken me several hours of sketching before I came up with one I’d be happy to permanently etch onto my person.

Before I could turn tail and run, the man behind the counter looked up and smiled.

“Hi,” he said, proffering a paw the size of Texas. “My name’s Rip.”

I extricated my hand from his considerable grip with minor difficulty and returned the courtesy.

“Remy. Remy Martin.” I waited a beat.

“Like the brandy?” he asked.

“Yep.” I gave him full points for recognizing the derivation, which was far better than the blank incomprehension that often followed my introduction. “The one craving that my mother couldn’t satisfy while pregnant with me.”

I refrained from enlightening him regarding the cravings she had been able to satisfy: pickled onions and ice cream, gravy and vegemite sandwiches, choc-dipped parsnips. Grown men have been known to blanch at Mama’s gastronomic fancies.

I’d long been glad to end up with the more innocuous yet rather spirited appellation of Remy. Imagine going through life as Parsnip Martin. Just the thought made me shudder.

I offered Rip my sketch, glad to see that my hand had steadied.

“Nice,” he observed. “Did you draw that yourself?”

I nodded. We both gazed down at the sketch. My design depicted a delicate seahorse, about an inch and a half high, in shades of green and golden yellow. Sinuous strands of seaweed swirled around her, and her tail spiralled down a slender stem. Ripples of blue twining about both seahorse and seaweed suggested the currents of the ocean sweeping past, and the whole was outlined in black. I was pleased with the final result of my sketching.

“Couldn’t find something you liked on display?” Rip tipped his chin at the sheets of mass-produced designs adorning the walls.

Surprised at the question, I hesitated. I’d expected the tattooist to just take my money and get on with it. I wasn’t prepared for curiosity regarding my motives.

“Sorry, none of my business,” Rip apologised, shrugging. “I just wondered…”

“No, it’s okay.” I gathered my thoughts. “I didn’t want to permanently acquire something impersonal; something I’d chosen from a wall of mass-produced designs that anyone could have for the right price. I wanted something unique. Special.”

Great, now I sounded like a prize idiot.

“Ah.” He smiled, and suddenly I didn’t feel quite so stupid after all. “Is that the size you wanted it?”

I nodded.

“Where are you planning to put it?”

I made a vague gesture at my upper left chest.

He grinned. It was a lovely grin, I thought, bemused.

“Okay. It’ll take me a few minutes to draw it up on transfer paper and get my gear ready. We should talk price, too. How about eighty dollars? I prefer cash.”

He gave me another grin, and I felt a strange tingle start somewhere in the vicinity of my knees.

I hadn’t been sure what the cost would be, but eighty dollars seemed reasonable.

“Eighty’s fine.” I hoped I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. “Roughly, how long do you think it will take?”

“Well, maybe an hour and a half, two hours. Most people, though, find an hour is about as much pain as they can take. Some handle it well, some don’t. Is this your first tattoo?”

I nodded. Maybe I was in over my head?

“Okay. How about we see how you’re feeling after an hour, and if it’s bothering you too much, we’ll call it a day, and you can come back in a week or two and get it finished off?”

“All right.” The last syllable came out in a squeak. I was about to find out the hard way just how high my pain threshold went.

Rip busied himself with his preparations, gathering ink and, gulp, instruments. I leaned against the counter and studied him at my leisure while he was otherwise occupied. He was a tall man, with a well-muscled body. Shiny chestnut hair was gathered into a longish ponytail low on the nape of his neck. He had long legs clad in well-worn leather jeans topped with a black t-shirt, the sleeves ripped out leaving his arms bare. His feet sported black-strapped boots with Cuban heels. I wondered if the motorcycle parked out front belonged to him.

While he might never have been described as handsome, he had a pleasant and open face with a high forehead, deep brown eyes with lashes any woman would envy sweeping dark against his cheek, and a wide mouth with a full lower lip. There were laugh lines etched beside that mouth and matching ones crinkled the corners of his eyes.

I pondered my own reflection in the mirror stretched across the back wall. I only just reached the shoulder of the tall man I’d been watching. If short and fat were where it’s at, I’d be there. My hair, a deep lustrous red that owed more to the chemical industry than nature, curled below my shoulders to brush the slopes of breasts that were more than generous. My hips flowed out in corresponding curves from a narrow waist – an hourglass figure, with several extra minutes of sand. I had wide-set grey eyes in a round face, tipped with a pert nose and garnished with a full mouth. It was far from meeting the narrow standards of conventional beauty, but it wasn’t an unappealing package to the discerning viewer, if I did say so myself.

As he straightened from retrieving the last of his impedimenta from beneath the sink, a posture that provided a very enticing view, the butterflies in my stomach metamorphosed into elephants and shifted up a gear from soft-shoe shuffle to tap dance. I’d managed to distract myself from impending events in contemplation of Rip and my own vanity, but as he beckoned me toward the torturer’s chair, I realised my moment of truth was at hand.

I lowered myself into the chair with trepidation.

“Show me again where you want this positioned,” said Rip, donning latex gloves as he seated himself on a wheeled stool and scooted it over beside me.

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as I unbuttoned my blouse, my modesty grateful I’d had the foresight to wear a tank top beneath it. Not that I really minded being ogled if it were done with sincere admiration, but there was something very intimate about disrobing, even partially, while in such a vulnerable position with a man who, I had to admit, was getting to me in ways I didn’t dare examine in detail.

I pointed to the expanse of upper breast thus bared and avoided his gaze.

“More to the left?” His hand, holding the paper with my design, hovered awaiting my assent.

I peered down my nose trying to see if that was where I wanted to put the tattoo.

“Don’t worry too much. I’ll apply the transfer, then you can have a look in the mirror and see if that’s right. It’s no hassle to wipe it off and try again,” he said, smoothing the paper over my skin.

His knee brushed my arm, sending another of those disconcerting flutters freewheeling through me. He peeled it away, leaving the outline of the sketch printed on my skin, and stepped back to allow me a view of my reflection.

I pondered. “Maybe a bit more to the left, please.”

Rip swabbed the first try away with a little alcohol, and repositioned the transfer.

“Better.” I smiled.

“Great. Make yourself comfortable, and we’ll start. I’m just going to adjust the chair, don’t be alarmed.” He raised the chair and lowered the back to a reclining position.

Getting comfortable seemed an impossible task in the face of the ominous nature of the contraption in which I was seated, as well as my puzzling reactions to Rip. I squirmed, feeling awkward, reminded again all too vividly of being in the dentist’s chair, fitting my knees over the long leg rests. I was about as comfortable as I was going to get, given that every tendon in my body had gone rigid with fear.

“So does your other half know you’re doing this, or will it be a surprise?” he asked.

“I don’t have an other half.”

“Ah.”

I wasn’t sure what his ‘ah’ meant, but I had other more immediate worries.

He pulled himself closer into my left side, so close I could feel his knee warm against my thigh while his breath stirred loose strands of my hair. He smelled of something herbal and spicy, and I had to drag my eyes away from his too close face.

I was blushing again.

“Ready? If the pain’s bothering you too much, tell me and we’ll take a break. Okay, here we go.”

His forehead creased in concentration as the needle began to buzz. He dipped the tip in black ink and lowered it toward my skin. My right hand gripped the armrest so tightly my fingers tingled, as if I were in an aircraft and in mortal fear of flying. I hoped I didn’t actually take flight when the instrument touched my vulnerable bosom.

I hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the sensation that ripped through me was electrifying. Every instinct told me to swipe the source of the fire that burned into my epidermis away, right now. I steeled myself to remain still, though every muscle I possessed, and some I wasn’t aware I had, screamed with tension. I gritted my teeth, determined not to whimper. This was a choice, I reminded myself, and I’d be damned if I wimped out with just a thin black line to show for drumming up the courage to get to this point.

“How are you doing?” Rip interrupted his excavation on my chest to re-ink the needle.

“O-okay,” I gasped. The respite was welcome, but I couldn’t summon breath enough for a more detailed reply. Both the tattooing and his proximity combined to suck all the air out of my lungs.

He gave me a sympathetic glance. “Worse than you expected? It won’t feel this painful for too long. Most people say the outlining is the worst part. I’m not sure if that’s true or if the body’s natural painkillers, the endorphins, kick in after a bit and take the edge off it. Anyway, like I said, if it gets too bad, tell me and we’ll stop.”

I nodded, and he bent his head to his task once more. The buzzing of the needle so close to my ear sounded like a nest of hornets, a not unlikely simile given the sensations I was experiencing. I tried to concentrate on the music coming over the sound system, Santana followed by Janis Joplin, losing myself in the songs in an attempt to focus on something other than pain and the unnerving effect of an attractive man invading my personal space in such an intimate way. The frequent short stops as Rip re-inked the needle helped, though during those breaks I found my attention riveted to his person in an entirely disconcerting fashion.

Twenty-five minutes in, and I was feeling rather more in control of myself, both with regard to Rip and the pain. Either the outlining was the worst of it or my endorphins were kicking up a storm in my bloodstream. Whichever, while I wasn’t exactly enjoying the experience, I was up to getting a crick in my neck trying to see what he was doing.

Noticing my contortions, he straightened. “Gotta change colours and clean the needle. Want to stretch and take a look in the mirror, see how we’re going?” He lowered the chair until my feet could reach the floor when I sat up, then stretched his arms over his head. The series of impressive cracks emanating from his spine were audible even over the music. I tried not to stare at the expanse of bare abdomen exposed as his t-shirt rode up.

I stood, grateful my knees weren’t quivering more than a bit, and stretched myself, working the kinks out of muscles tense with apprehension. I took two steps to the mirror and pushed my shirt back.

There was my design, at least the outline of it, etched against skin slightly reddened from the trauma inflicted upon it. I pulled back the right lapel of my shirt and compared the pristine décolletage there to my now illustrated left. My stomach did its umpteenth nervous flip flop for the day, but I was grinning.

I liked it!

Rip stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at our reflection. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth of him all down my back. I suppressed a shiver and fought the desire to take a step back to find out how that body would feel pressed against the length of mine. Instead, I met his gaze in the mirror as he raised his eyes from the beginnings of my tattoo.

“What do you think?”

I regarded my inked bosom again and smiled. “Let’s colour it in.”

“Good! The way you were inspecting it, I was afraid you were having second thoughts or didn’t like my work, or – well, anyway, it’s a bit late to take it back now…”

“Oh, I don’t want to take it back. I like it.” I liked him, too, but I wasn’t planning on saying that. Not just yet.

I arranged myself in the dreaded chair again, even more aware of the warmth of his body so close to my flank. He had gentle hands, even wielding an instrument of torture.

The first few seconds of the incessant buzz, and the nagging prickling of my skin took me by surprise all over again, but after a stern word to myself I found my zone in the music once more. The short intervals of respite as he re-inked the tool brought me back to a too complete awareness of his closeness. I could see small beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he worked, and I resisted the impulse to wipe them away. I didn’t want to startle him while he was etching something permanent upon my person.

At last he put down the needle and pushed himself back, casting a critical eye over the results.

When I glanced at the clock above the sink, I was surprised to see an hour and a half had passed. I’d have guessed at perhaps a scant hour since my panicky self had first reclined in the chair.

“May I take a look?” I could see my chosen colours emblazoned on my breast, but from the corner of my eye the image was blurred. I could hardly wait to see what it really looked like.

“I’m not finished, but I think that’s enough for one day, hmm? Here, go ahead and take a proper look.”

Rip lowered the chair for me again, and I made my way over to the mirror.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

I parted my shirt where it had fallen together as I rose and looked.

My design was almost exactly as I had imagined. The graceful arc of equine tail followed the curve of my breast. Dark green shaded to palest along the seahorse’s body, highlighted in yellow. Washes of blue water curled about both beast and the seaweed, the whole delicately outlined in black. I could all but smell the salt.

I could see it wasn’t quite finished, but I loved it.

“Looks good, eh?” Rip seemed pleased with himself. “The blues need more shading, I think, and I’d like to do a little more shadowing with the black, but you can see how it will be.”

“Yes.” I wasn’t sure if it was the approval, the heady proximity of a healthy specimen of male, the end of the torture, or the endorphins partying it up in my system but I felt great, as if I could take on the world and bite its head off if it didn’t do exactly what I wanted.

“Come back in, say, ten days to two weeks. What we’ve done today should be healed by then and I can put in the finishing touches. Here, I’ll write down the name of an antiseptic cream to use, and this should explain everything you need to do to take care of the tattoo.” He scribbled on the back of a double fold business card and handed it to me. “And if you’ve got any questions, phone and ask, or drop in. Otherwise I’ll see you in around two weeks.”

“See you then,” I agreed, buttoning my shirt and pocketing the card. I was already looking forward to seeing him again.

The shopfront had filled up with several customers, a couple of them surely too young to acquire a tattoo without parental consent. Rip, depositing my payment in the cash register, had clearly encountered them before.

“I’ve told you a dozen times, I won’t tattoo either of you until you produce proof of age. Go on, clear out!”

He meant business, but his grin and the cheeky retort from one of the youngsters took the sting out of the exchange. He waved to me, hovering in the doorway, and turned his attention to the next victim, er, customer.

Out on the street, my euphoria only increased. Though the day was cool, the afternoon was sunny, blue skies boasting scarcely a cloud. Everything looked so clear, colours brighter than I’d ever realised, the breeze fresh and invigorating. I strode down the slope back into the main shopping precinct, reminding myself to pick up the recommended antiseptic cream before I headed home.

I could hardly wait to strip off my shirt for another, closer look at my tattoo.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO WEEKS LATER found me once more passing through the portal of Rip’s Parlour. My tattoo had healed well, at its worst like a bad sunburn.

I was still pleased with my new acquisition but sadly, not all my friends and family were as enthusiastic. I’d told no one my plan - preferring to keep it as a surprise - though I’d talked about a tattoo on and off for years. I guess none of them thought I’d ever really go through with it.

My mother’s reaction had been the most extreme. “Are you insane? If your father was still alive, he’d be spinning in his grave!”

Hmm, I wasn’t touching that!

Others were more appreciative, and anyway, I was the one who would be wearing it, and I was happy.

Rip was behind the counter, negotiating with a young man with so many visible piercings I couldn’t help wondering about those possibly not on public display. A page of commercial skin art was stretched out on the glass top, the young man pointing to a large eagle with a banner in its claws, ready to be inscribed with a phrase of the buyer’s choosing.

“Are you sure that’s what you want? It’ll take several sessions, and I charge by the hour. It won’t be cheap. And think really carefully before you have that written on your back. It’ll be there for the rest of your life, short of lasering it off, and what you think is cool now may not seem so great in fifteen or twenty years. Even five years. Anyway, I can’t do it this afternoon, I’ve got an appointment already.” He nodded over the youth’s shoulder to indicate me, and smiled in welcome. “Why don’t you think about it overnight, and come back in tomorrow if you’re still sure you want to go ahead?”

Eagle man blustered a little about not changing his mind once it was made up, knowing what he wanted and being willing to pay for it, before finally agreeing to return the following day.

“Come through,” said Rip. “I’m hoping he’ll get cold feet. I mean, he has the right to tattoo whatever he likes on his body, but he’d be better off starting small. I won’t tell you what he wants written on that banner, but I think he might regret it before too long. Anyway, how did you get on? Any problems?”

“No, just minor discomfort, that’s all. I followed the instructions on the card, and it’s healed up quite well.” I parted my shirt to show him.

Rip inspected my chest and once again I blushed, even though I assumed the attention to my bosom was purely professional.

“Yeah, that looks good.”

Oh, yes? Was that a compliment? Perhaps not purely professional, after all!

“You handled the pain well. I was impressed.” He grinned.

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” I lied. I didn’t want him to think I was a wimp, and anyway the memory had faded. And truly, it could have been worse…yeah, like a close encounter with an iron maiden or sleeping on a bed of nails worse. I changed the subject. “I meant to ask you about the name of your place. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like it, it’s just that ‘parlour’ has a kind of old fashioned sound.”

“Think so? When I named it, I was more on the ‘come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly’ track.” Rip looked at me sidelong with an evil grin.

“Ah.” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Just who was the spider and who the fly in this scenario?

Rip made a subject switch of his own.

“So, what have you been up to over the last couple of weeks? Taking your new tattoo out to show it off?” He tossed the questions over his shoulder as he made his preparations.

“Well, showing it off has gotten a mixed reaction, but you know what, I like it. And I haven’t been up to much lately, just been to a couple of movies.” Drat, that made me sound like the most boring person on the planet—not at all the impression I wished to make.

“I wouldn’t worry about the reactions, especially not if you’re happy with it. Anyway, it’s in a good position, where you can let it show or not, as you choose. What sort of movies do you like?” He indicated the chair, which this time seemed less like a medieval torture accessory and more like an odd piece of modern art.

I slid into the contorted leather and tried again to get comfortable, my wriggling less indicative now of anxiety and more of the desire to avoid a cricked neck. “Oh, I have varied tastes. I like the big blockbuster sci-fi stuff, but I also like some of the less, um, mainstream films, too.”

“Yeah, I love all the fantastic special effects in some of those movies, but I know what you mean about the left-of-centre stuff. Like Tim Burton. Did you see ‘The Ghost of Sleepy Hollow’?”

He seated himself and pulled in close to my side, brushing the lapel of my shirt aside, and with a gentle touch cleansed my tattoo with a swab scented with eucalyptus. I had a sudden wicked urge to slide a hand up the thigh so temptingly close.

“Oh, yes, that was great, wasn’t it? Dark and atmospheric. And I like Johnny Depp, too. I can appreciate an actor who looks for a bit more in a role than star billing and big bucks; he chooses some quirky scripts.” I let my head fall back against the rest. Gazing at the ceiling, I gave up on trying to look down my nose and see what was happening almost directly below my chin. Last time I’d been petrified of the whole process. Now that I knew what to expect, I could wait until he was done to look.

“Like Edward Scissorhands. Now that was quirky!” He picked up the tattoo gun. “Okay, ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Though I knew what was coming, the first few minutes had me once more clenching my hands till the nails dug into the palms. Had I not been concentrating on staying still for fear of embellishing my design with unwanted additions, I might have jumped so far out of the chair Rip would’ve had to peel me off the ceiling.

I tried to use the tactic that had worked the first time. Even though the treacherous periphery of my awareness was all too conscious of the warm body nestled so closely into my side, for the most part I distanced myself from the incessant cicada buzz in my ears by listening to the music. Jeff Buckley this time, a CD that was often my choice of play at home. I felt myself caught up in that tragic young voice, wailing and lilting like a lost soul, as if somehow he knew his life would be cut short.

I jumped when Rip spoke. “The black shadowing’s done. Want to stretch while I change inks?”

I stood, one of my feet darting with pins and needles. “I like your taste in music. Sad that he died so young, Jeff Buckley, I mean. It makes me wonder what he would have been capable of as the years passed.”

Rip paused at the bench and turned to look back at me. “Yeah. I have a kind of weakness for the ones that burned out early. Buckley, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison. Hendrix. Even Elvis.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh. If you can look past the hype and the sheer over-the-topness that was Elvis in the latter years, and just listen to that honeyed voice, appreciate the showman…he had magic.”

“Ah, a woman of good taste and discernment! I should’ve known from your preferences in movies. I have rather varied tastes in most things, and not everyone appreciates that.”

Since my own tastes followed a similar path and usually garnered similar reactions, I knew what he meant. “Yep, been there. I’m interested in all kinds of things, and too many people seem to think I should confine my interests to a single area, that having a number of hobbies is somehow weird. There are too many things to see and do in the world to narrow my view down that far, and besides I’m way too curious to limit myself to just bits of it.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “Might as well see as many bits as you can…”

I choked on a giggle, and we stood there grinning at each other, till he recalled the task at hand.

“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the chair. I fitted myself back into position and braced for the needle. Apparently my endorphins had kicked back in during the interim, and I felt the first faint fingers of that odd euphoria creep up my spine into my brain. By the time Rip lifted his head from his task, I was feeling on top of the world.

I had a sudden and tantalising image of him leaning in, further and further, about to kiss me.

My unbidden fantasy was interrupted as he took my hand to help me to my feet, and my face flamed as if he could see the thoughts flashing through my mind. My skin tingled where his fingers curled about mine.

Dragging my eyes away from him, I inspected my tattoo in the mirror and felt a huge grin plaster itself across my face.

“Thank you. It looks just like I imagined it. The extra shading and shadowing really make it pop out.”

He made a mock bow, his ponytail sweeping down over one shoulder. “Ma’am, I aim to please.”

Now there was a leading line, if ever I heard one!

Buoyed by the wellbeing induced by all those happy little hormones now coursing about my bloodstream, I turned bold.

“Do you have the live Jeff Buckley CD?” I asked.

Rip looked up from putting his equipment away and shook his head. “No, I’ve heard of it, but never actually listened to it.”

“It’s not bad. I bought it a few months back. I could bring it with me next time…if you’d like.” Oh, so innocent!

He laughed. “Next time? I should’ve warned you before you started that these things are addictive. People swear they’ll just get one but before they know it they’ve started a collection. Any ideas on what you want next?”

I was beginning to think that he was what I wanted, but I wasn’t entirely sure the feeling was mutual.

“Oh, I have plenty of ideas, but I haven’t made a decision. I’ll be back when I do.” There, surely that was cryptic enough not to give my budding machinations away.

“I’ll see you then. Oh, and if you remember, I’d like to hear that Buckley CD,” Rip said, giving me a half-wave in farewell.

I returned the gesture, smiling. There were several people waiting. I wondered how he worked out who was first in line, but there seemed no doubt and no arguments as he ushered in a svelte young lady who chattered non-stop about her art choice; apparently, from what I could hear, a cartoon character set in the small of her back. Unjustified and unattractive as it was, a pang of jealousy swept over me at the thought of Rip bent over all that nubile semi-naked flesh.

I told myself I was being unreasonable, but it took several minutes and a severe self-talking to before I got the image out of my head. In fact, so caught up was I in this crisis of conscience that I nearly walked across the road against the lights, and it was only the angry blare of a car horn that startled me out of my reverie.

Distraction, I needed distraction. I started thinking about my next tattoo.

CHAPTER THREE

IT TOOK ME the better part of a month, several sweeps through all my illustrated art books, most of those in the local library, plus about a hundred discarded sketches before I had a design I liked.

By that time my first tattoo was well and truly healed. I’d been past Rip’s Parlour a couple of times, peering in through the window as subtly as I could. Which wasn’t very. The first time, a stranger had been behind the counter. The second, Rip had spotted me at the glass, grinned and waved, but he was talking to a customer, and I’d merely waved back before scuttling off, mortified at being caught peeping.

But I really wanted a second tattoo, and given his performance on the first, I wanted Rip to be the one to ink it. Of course, his personal charms were an added attraction. I’d decided on an anklet, probably on my left leg, and my design wove five narrow strands in Celtic style with two snarling dragonheads on the outside of the ankle as a psuedo-clasp.

Having phoned to check if Rip was working that afternoon and armed with my piece of paper, I strolled once more into the tattoo parlour. I was nervous again, but not about the tattoo this time. Over the past weeks I’d tried to talk myself out of my crush, telling myself Rip had just been friendly, an advantage in his line of work. I’d tried to forget the goose bumps that had marched up my spine when I felt the warmth of his body so close to my own, and told myself it was a reaction to being in pain, merely nerves. I gave my libido a stern talk, lecturing it that our matching interests were just a pleasant coincidence and that I shouldn’t try to read any more into it. The attempt had been a miserable failure.

I felt like a schoolgirl of sixteen.

I was determined that none of this would show.

Friendly as ever, Rip ushered me behind the partition and, accepting my sketch, studied the design.

“Ankle, wrist or upper arm?” he asked.

“Ankle.” I’d shaved my legs in preparation. Oh, all right, I’d shaved my legs, pumiced and moisturised my feet, painted my toenails a vivid and fetching scarlet, washed my hair, taken an hour over my makeup to achieve a look that suggested I wasn’t wearing any makeup at all, donned my best red silk underwear, worn barely there sandals and tried on seven different outfits before finally leaving the house then going back to change one more time. Not that I was making a big deal out of this visit to the tattoo parlour.

No, not at all.

“It’s a detailed design. It’ll probably take two, maybe three or four sessions to complete, depending how we go,” Rip warned.

“That’s okay.” Hey, it was more than okay. Any excuse to keep coming back, talking to him, seeing him, was just fine by me. So much for talking myself out of this! As if it were an afterthought, I went on: “Oh, I brought that Jeff Buckley CD we were talking about last time.”

“Cool. I’ll put it on.”

As the music began, Rip seated himself beside me. I knew what to expect by now, but I was no better equipped to deal with the brush of his knee against mine, or his hand casually curved about my calf as he began work on my ankle. Every chance contact made me shiver. Reclining on the couch with Rip concentrating at my feet at least gave me a better angle and opportunity to observe him and, oh, I still liked what I saw.

This time, he wore a white t-shirt; the sleeves again ripped out, and faded denim jeans that fit like a second skin. Thinking myself unobserved, I used my vantage point to take in the ripple of muscle under the stretched cotton, the curve of a broad back narrowing into the waist of jeans moulded about his rear end in a manner that should have been illegal. His lower lip was caught between his teeth in concentration, and I could barely drag my eyes off it.

Without taking his own eyes from his current task, and so softly I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right at first, he said, “Enjoying the scenery?”

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Oh, no. Caught in the act. I warmed from head to toe, and it was only the firm hand still on my lower leg that prevented me from leaping out of that devil’s contraption and running headlong from the parlour, never to return, embarrassed beyond belief.

“S-s--sorry, I didn’t mean, er, I, oh, hell…” Sputtering I hid my face in my hands.

“It’s all right. Why would I be anything but flattered?”

I peeked down at him from between my shielding fingers. “Really? You’re not gonna tattoo ‘pervert’ on my ankle in revenge?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.” He was laughing at me, gently enjoying my discomfort.

At least he wasn’t offended. Perhaps there was hope for me yet.

All too soon, he released my ankle, and I slid off the chair, slinking away under his amused gaze to lick my wounded sensibilities in private.

“See you next time,” he called after me, still laughing. Enticing swine!

By the time I returned for the next inking installment on my ankle, I had come to terms with my ignoble departure. I would hold my head high and pretend the whole event had never happened. Hey, if it worked for my cat, why wouldn’t it work for me? I ignored the smirk on his face, settling into the now familiar chair with hauteur worthy of royalty. It lasted, oh, fully twenty seconds. The moment he put a steadying hand on my foot I was a goner, all over again. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to admire him as I had the last time, to make casual conversation as he worked.

I was sure he was aware of my distraction, deliberately adding to my internal temperature with casual fingers over my instep, a delicate stroke brushing the curve of my calf, a warm sigh on overheated skin. By the time he finished, I had developed a twitch that would probably send anyone I encountered on the way home screaming for the men in white coats to hurry up with the straitjacket.

I had no recollection whatsoever of what I’d said in the past hour, and I doubted my hands would ever recover their normal function so tightly had I been gripping the arms of the chair.

All I was aware of was how he’d touched me. I felt as if his fingerprints had been seared into my flesh like a brand.

On the third trip, I was determined to fight fire with fire. Two could play that game. With a casual air, I leaned as I seated myself, gratified to see his eyes widen as my not inconsiderable cleavage hove into view and vanished just as quickly as I reclined. My hand brushed “accidentally” against his denim-clad thigh as he arranged his gear. I gave him an innocent smile as he glanced over his shoulder at me, tossing my hair, worn loose, back. The word coquette could have been coined for me.

As he settled at my feet, I ran an appreciative eye over the lovely lines of his body, the long muscled legs, the well-built shoulders, the luxurious lashes, and was tempted to continue on my wicked way, but it was time to settle down. As the saying goes, less is more, and I still didn’t want to distract him into an injudicious stroke on my tattoo.

Perhaps I had already made my point, for there was little teasing on his part during the next sixty minutes. We talked of movies and music, food and books, people and current affairs. There was a sharp mind inside his appealing outer package, and I found myself listening with appreciation.

Part of my plan of attack had included inviting Rip to have coffee, but despite my growing enjoyment of his company my resolution failed me. I kept hoping he would ask me, but telepathy was evidently not one of his talents. The hour drew inevitably to a close and my tattoo was nearing completion, though it wouldn’t be finished this time. I still hadn’t managed to gather my courage and issue my invitation.

With a melting smile at me over the counter, Rip uttered the usual “see you next time” and turned to the next customer, a young woman in a midriff top and tattered jean shorts that left little to the imagination. I scowled at her on my way out.

I found myself on the street, ankle and temper smarting, mentally kicking myself for cowardice. I dawdled down the street, berating myself for every foolishness under the sun. Where was my backbone? Did I want to find out if he was interested or not? What, after all, did I really have to lose? I should just ask and be done with it. If he said no, he said no. No biggie.

Yeah, right. And pigs might sprout feathers and launch themselves on aerial manoeuvres.

I stared into the eyes of my reflection in the window of the hairdressers. Stop being a wimp. Just get back in there and ask. Tell the elephants doing the samba in your stomach to take five, then gather up all your courage, and go ask him. You’ll live, whatever his answer.

Steeling every nerve in my body, I marched up the street and into Rip’s Parlour.

I hesitated at the counter, took a deep breath, and stepped into the workroom.

A naked female bottom confronted me, its owner’s tattered shorts bunched about her upper thighs. Combined with the midriff top a considerable expanse of youthful flesh was exposed, and Rip was bent over it with his nose practically touching her skin.

The outline on her butt was drawn to resemble a stamp, such as one would use to mark “Paid in full” on an invoice, but the lettering on hers read: “Made in Russia.” I had no idea what that meant.

For the second time in a few minutes, I scowled at the young woman I had passed on my way out, the effect of my expression somewhat lost on her as she lay face down on the couch.

It must have been sufficient to curl her hair, though, for Rip’s eyes widened as he raised his head and caught sight of me.

He straightened and looked at me with a questioning expression. “Forget something?”

I did my best to ignore the unclad backside looming so large in my view, though to be fair said rear end was actually quite petite. I just didn’t want Rip as close to it as he was, nor did I want to see him so cheerful about its proximity.

Dragging my scattered thoughts back into a somewhat straggly line, I remembered the resolve that had led me to return in such a hurry, and with such unfortunate timing.

“Would you like to go get a coffee, when you’re, er, done there?” My voice shook, nerves getting the better of me.

He looked up from his renewed contemplation of the naked female bottom under his hands.

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“Oh. Okay. Never mind.” My bravado fled, and I began to reverse toward the door, anxious to make my exit before I further embarrassed myself.

His voice halted me before I could complete my escape.

“What about tomorrow? That movie we were talking about earlier is still on. We could catch that and then go for coffee.”

My heart did a disconcerting dance. He hadn’t meant no, never, just no, not today.

“Okay. Sounds good.” I managed not to squeak with excitement.

“How about I meet you at the box office? Six-thirty show work for you?”

Six-thirty worked just fine for me.

“See you then.” He smiled at me and returned his attention to the rear end he was inking.

“‘Bout time!” complained its owner as I left. I blew her a kiss over my shoulder.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FOLLOWING DAY I was at the box office early, a jittering mass of nerves. I had spent several indulgent hours in the bathroom and several more littering the floor of the bedroom with the entire contents of my wardrobe, where I had tried on and discarded all my clothes in turn before deciding I had nothing to wear.

However, since arriving at the cinema stark naked was probably not a wise move, I’d resorted to tried and true favourites. My long swirly skirt in shades of blue and green shot with silver and the slinky black blouse at least had the merits of familiar comfort, and anyway, the décolletage revealed by the neckline of said blouse was, whilst not excessive, inviting.

And I wanted to be inviting. Just not too inviting. Yet.

Anxiety thrummed in my veins while the clock ticked on. At last I spotted Rip making his leisurely way through the small crowd gathered at the ticket windows. My breath caught. He wore the buttery leather jeans I had first seen him in and a red short-sleeved shirt that emphasized his biceps. He carried a denim jacket, and his hair shone, caught back in a ponytail.

He looked fabulous.

“Hi. Sorry if I’m a bit late. Had to shoo eager customers out the door or convince them my partner was up to handling their tatts. We’d better go in or we’ll miss the start, and I hate missing the beginning.”

I nodded, wordless, and nearly jumped out of my skin at the hand he placed under my elbow as we joined the queue. His fingers were warm curled about my arm. Standing next to him, I barely reached his shoulder. It was noisy in the foyer, and we passed the usher in silence, taking our seats as the lights went down.

In the dark I was somehow even more aware of the desirable man next to me. His flank rested warm against my thigh and, seated so close, I could catch enticing wafts of aftershave, clean skin, and a scent that was simply his own.

I began to wonder how I was ever going to pay attention to the movie with such distractions beside me. My thoughts went into overdrive when we both leaned on the central armrest together, hands touching by accident. Seeming to sense my agitation, he curled his fingers about mine, and I caught a glimpse of white teeth as he smiled in the darkness, his thumb petting the back of my hand in a soothing rhythm.

Staring toward the screen, by slow increments I lost my hyper-awareness of him and became involved in the unfolding story. When the lights went up, I was surprised to find my hand still nestled in his.

Blinking, we made our way out into the foyer, hands still linked. I felt self-conscious, drawn along in his longer-legged wake, but nothing short of gunpoint would have induced me to let go.

He paused as we emerged into the night. “What did you think of the film?”

“I enjoyed it. The ending was unexpected. And you?” His thumb rubbing little circles on the back of my hand prevented my brain from coming up with anything more profound than that.

“Yeah, it was, a bit--” He hesitated. “Um, how are you getting home?”

“Taxi,” I answered, glancing around for the taxi rank.

“I could give you a lift…”

“That would be, er, kind. Thank you.” I was overjoyed that the evening was not yet over. Perhaps on the ride home I could persuade my rampaging hormones to kick back a little and manage some conversation on a level above that of mindless gnat. Or persuade him to have the cup of coffee I’d mentioned.

It wasn’t until we’d walked through the parking lot and the last space revealed a gleaming motorcycle that I realised why he had grinned when I accepted his offer. He hadn’t specified his mode of transport and, like a fool, I hadn’t asked. I should have remembered the bike parked at the tattoo parlour.

I must have blanched, for when he looked down at me, the amusement faded from his face and he relented enough to give me an out, if I wanted to take it.

“Sorry, I should have told you about the bike. I do have two helmets, but if you’d rather not ride pillion, I’ll walk you back to the taxi stand and not take offence.”

Cowardice warred with determination not to admit defeat, but finally I shrugged. To back out now would be to lose face, and I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of him.

“Show me how to put the helmet on. And, er, how to get on this monster in a skirt.”

“Well,” he was laughing again, “I’ve never had occasion to saddle up while wearing a skirt, but you pretty much just throw one leg over and prop your feet on the pegs. That’s about it.”

He handed me the helmet and helped me buckle the strap. Settling on the bike, he held out a helping hand and, as instructed, I threw my leg over the saddle. I gasped as I slipped down the angle of the seat to come to rest in intimate contact with his denim-clad back. My feet fumbled onto the pegs, and I placed hesitant hands on his waist.

I was glad my voice was steady as I gave him directions.

“Ready? You might want to hang on a bit tighter…” The words had barely left his lips when he started up the engine and the machine beneath us throbbed with power. As the motorcycle leapt into motion I was nearly thrown off and, terror-struck, I flung my arms about him in a death grip.

Crushed against his back, my hair whipping across the visor, I clutched him for dear life. I couldn’t see much through my flying locks, but the impression of speed and danger was clear, the black road beneath us tearing past, the streetlamps streaks of light. My skirt swirled ever higher about my thighs in the wind, but I didn’t dare spare a hand to satisfy the demands of modesty.

I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage as if attempting to reach escape velocity and launch itself into outer space. The denim of his jacket was cool against my cheek. I could feel the muscles beneath his skin, still smell the spicy aroma of him. His hips brushed against the insides of my legs, and I censored that thought as I felt a blush threatening at the direction my fancies were taking.

He slowed to take a corner and pulled up outside my house. I unclenched my hands from about his torso with difficulty, and he slid from the bike, holding out a hand to help me dismount. My knees were trembling, my heart still beating like a tom-tom. I handed him my helmet and attempted in vain to restore order to my hair.

Turning me about so he could see my face in the streetlight, he peered into my eyes.

“Are you all right? For a moment I thought you were going to squeeze the last bit of oxygen out of my lungs! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Scare me? That was the single most frightening, alarming, terrifying ride of my life. It was…fun! Can we do it again?” I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was exhilarated! All that speed and power was exciting.

“Seriously? Sure, but maybe not tonight.” He chuckled, relieved.

“Okay, I’ll hold you to that.” I was a tad disappointed not to be taking another turn about the highway. “Would you like to come in for coffee?” I hoped he would realize that “coffee” was not a euphemism.

“Sure.”

We sat on the couch, mugs in hand, discussing the movie. I was enjoying his company but hard as I tried to fend it off, tried banishing yesterday’s image of the bare-bottomed girl under his hands to the back of my mind, the vision kept haunting me. Finally my curiosity and, yes, ugly jealousy got the better of me.

“Remember the girl having the ‘Made in Russia’ tattoo on her butt? You seemed so, um, intent on her…”

“I remember her. Yes.” I could tell he wasn’t going to give me any help because of the single raised eyebrow that indicated he found this turn in the conversation highly amusing.

“Oh, look, I’m just going to ask.” Having made this brave utterance I found that my voice had dried up, so I took an intemperate gulp of coffee, provoking a savage bout of choking and spluttering.

He pounded me on the back until my coughing fit subsided.

While I was still incapacitated, he observed, “If you’re going to ask about the ‘Made in Russia’ thing, I should tell you I have no idea of the story behind that. I didn’t ask. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better not to know!”

I shook my head, wiped my streaming eyes and took the plunge.

“Okay. Thank you. What I really wanted to ask…what I’m trying to work out…oh, dammit! What are you doing with me?” Hmmm. It didn’t come out quite the way I’d intended.

“Nothing. Yet.” He grinned lasciviously. “What did you have in mind?”

I ignored this sally. “So, you’re not interested in Miss Slavic Nude in a more than professional way, then?”

“No.” He hesitated. “Not interested in her, or any of my other clients in more than a business way. Look, I don’t usually date customers. But I have to say, I was very tempted to break that rule for you. I - ”

For a long moment he searched for words. “The time you came in to start the tattoo on your ankle…ah, Remy, I don’t know how I kept my hands off you before that, so close to your, um, your, well, that first time you came in. The scent of your hair so close, that incredible view down your shirt, your blushes.”

He laughed, as much, I thought, at himself as anything, and went on. “You were lovely. Then when you came back and those pretty legs were exposed, I’m sorry. I knew I was making you squirm, but I couldn’t help myself. You felt so…good. I wanted to ask you out, but there was my stupid rule, then when you asked me it just seemed like fate. Meant to be. And here we are.”

“Just where are we?” I had to ask, had to hear him say it.

He made an exasperated noise. “I’ve fallen for you. Here, let me show you something that might convince you.”

He stood up and tugged his shirt out of the waist of his jeans, slipping it over his head in one fluid movement. Disrobing so abruptly was not at all what I’d expected.

“Er, um, that’s alright, you don’t have to prove anything—” This was not at all what I’d anticipated.

“Sshhh. Hush for a moment. You need to see this.” He dropped the shirt to the floor.

Not taking my eyes off him, I scrabbled after it, not sure exactly how I was going to accomplish it but determined to get him dressed again before this went any further.

“I’m sure there is, but, um, now may not be the right time—”

He turned away from me, revealing his bare back, and my mouth shut with a snap mid-stall.

Etched on the smoothly muscled skin of his torso was a lusciously naked beauty, a lovely zaftig woman, all ample curves and dimples, smiling like a fox in the henhouse, her generous body inked in loving detail. She looked proud and confident. And dare I say it? She looked rather like me.

“That’s not new, is it? When did you get that?” I was burning with curiosity, and more.

“No, she’s not new. She’s been with me a long, long time. She’s the woman of my dreams.” He hesitated, turning to face me again. I was having a hard time paying proper attention to his words while confronted with his semi-nakedness. He sank back onto the couch and took both my hands in his.

“Can’t you get it through your head? You’re the one I want. You’re the one I’ve been dreaming about, not a skinny girl with bad taste in tattoos.”

“Oh,” I said, in a very small voice.

“Oh? Is that the best you can do?” He was laughing at me.

There were no words to express what I was feeling, but action speaks volumes. I launched myself into his arms, and all of a sudden neither of us was laughing.

His bare chest was hard beneath my fingers, the silken skin warm and smooth. Long lashes brushed his cheek as his eyes half closed under my touch. His hands snaked about my waist and under my blouse to find my own bare skin, and the sensation was as electrifying as the first touch of ink had been, but far more pleasurable.

As I bent my head to his, I saw my long auburn elflocks brush about his shoulders, raising a trail of goose bumps in their wake. Matching goose bumps wended their way along my spine as he swept his hands up my back, drawing me closer.

Our lips met, and I felt as if the clocks stopped. His lips were soft and expert, waking a passion in me that had been dormant for too long. I met and matched the soft foray of his tongue along my upper lip, my hands hard on his shoulders, urging him on. He needed little encouragement and with a lithe movement deposited me beneath him. The long luscious length of his body hard against mine took my breath away.

He laid a hot path of kisses down my throat, paused and teased his way back along the slope of my collarbone and the curve of my neck. The spicy-sweet scent of him intoxicated me.

Burying his face in my hair, lips against my ear, he whispered: “What are we going to tattoo on that inviting hide next, Remy, my sweet?”

Hmm. I could see it now: I was destined to become the Illustrated Woman.

About the Author

Elizabeth Angus was born in Melbourne, Australia, sometime in the swinging sixties, and has lived there most of her life. There are thus forty-some years of odd and varied information crammed into her brain, snippets of which emerge at odd moments in both writing and conversation. She has been writing for as long as she can remember; even before learning that the odd little squiggles in books were words, she was making up stories in her head. Though she’ll read anything if desperate, her preferred genres are science fiction, fantasy and mystery, preferably with some romance thrown in. Her favourite colour is purple, except for the days when it is black. Or red. Or green. Apart from writing, her passions are travel, quilting and art, not necessarily in that order. If she could live anywhere in the world apart from Australia, it would be Canada. In order to eat and pay the bills, Elizabeth’s working life has been spent in libraries, but she is currently searching for a more lucrative and less fulltime career in order to spend more time writing and fuel her escalating shoe addiction.

A WORK OF ART

Judy Bagshaw

Dedication

To my many big beautiful friends. I think you’re all works of art!

DARBY MARSHALL SHIFTED on the hard wooden stacking chair, trying to find any position that would be comfortable. She was tired, she was bored, and she asked herself for the umpteenth time what had possessed her to bring her fractal art to a community craft sale. Especially one where the seating was designed by some size nothing sadist to torture her size twenty-six butt. Thankfully the day was almost over.

She was more accustomed to having her work—her paintings and sculptures—in galleries. To have allowed herself to succumb to doing a favor by taking a table—well, it irked.

She looked around at the other vendor’s tables scattered around the community center hall. They appeared to be doing a brisk business. Although she’d had lots of lookers, she hadn’t had any takers. She couldn’t blame her lack of customers on the weather. It was a perfect September day. She sighed and changed position once again.

She perked up a little when a young couple stopped at her table.

“Your pictures are so…um…unusual.” The girl flashed her a too-bright smile.

Darby inwardly cringed, but plastered a similar strained smile on her own face.

“Thank you,” she replied, standing. “It’s fractal art. I design it on the computer.”

“No kidding.” The young man picked up a picture and stared at it for a long moment. The piece was a vivid blue with various sized circles ringed in orange and yellow. “Way cool. I didn’t know you could do stuff like that on the computer.”

“Oh yes,” Darby said. “In fact—”

“How much is this one? It’s kind of pretty,” the girl said, annoying Darby with her rude interruption. She held up a whimsical piece Darby called ‘Strawberries and Cream’ that looked almost satiny in texture with vivid red stylized berries scattered on the creamy background.

“One hundred dollars framed and signed,” she replied. “I’m offering a bargain just for today.”

“Bargain?” the girl squealed. “It’s not that pretty.” She dropped it back on the table, nearly sending several of the fractals to the floor. The couple strolled off shaking their heads and muttering.

Darby slumped back with a sigh. She wasn’t surprised. It was a craft show after all. People wanted to get something for next to nothing. Her sister, Connie, had told her this would happen, but Darby, being Darby, wouldn’t listen.

She had always been like that, strong minded and charging into things without thinking them through. She had the kind of personality people described as a force of nature. They were drawn to her enthusiasm and innate optimism.

She had convinced herself that her work would speak for itself, and people would be happy to own a piece of original artwork. After all, her acrylics and sculptures sold well at the shops and galleries around town. Besides, she had been kind of badgered into taking a table by her parent’s obnoxious neighbor, Sylvia Donaldson, the mastermind behind the whole affair. Sylvia had a way of wearing you down and guilting you into volunteering against your better judgement. Connie called her the “Terminator.” As kids, Darby and her sister had been railroaded into all sorts of things from serving tables at community suppers to collecting junk for the church white elephant sales. As if reading Darby’s mind, Sylvia bore down on the table.

“Darby dear. How are we doing?”

How Darby hated that annoying singsong voice. “Gee, Sylvia, I don’t know how ‘we’re’ doing. I’m doing bupkis. It seems that fractals aren’t the flavor of the day.”

“Well, they are rather different, aren’t they?” Sylvia remarked dismissing Darby’s work with a flick of her hand. “Maybe you should’ve brought in some of those lovely ceramics and wonderful paintings like you have for sale at the Griffith gallery instead of these…things.”

“Clay sculptures,” Darby said, her cheeks growing red.

“What, dear?”

“Clay sculptures. I don’t work in ceramics.”

“Of course.” Sylvia giggled. Darby winced at the sound. “Silly me. Well, people like that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but I doubt they’d be willing to pay what I charge for an acrylic or a sculpture.”

“Well, they don’t seem to want to pay for these fractures, either. Such a pity.” Sylvia’s expression was one of compassion for the downtrodden.

“Fractals,” Darby said.

“What?” Sylvia didn’t wait for a reply. “I have a suggestion, dear. Next year perhaps some pretty little landscapes, or pictures of flowers. Everyone loves flowers.”

Oh, bite me. Darby thought. She fumed in silence. Sylvia, perhaps sensing that the conversation had run its course, sailed away like some great ocean barge. The long silk-screened scarf she wore looped around her neck billowed in her wake like a flag in the wind.

“There will be no next year,” she said with firm resolve.

“As cheerful as ever, I see.” The familiar voice grabbed Darby’s attention.

“Hey, Nathan.” She stood to hug her sixteen-year-old brother.

“I gather old ‘sobersides Sylvia’ is the reason for that black cloud snapping lightning over your head.”

Darby laughed a great belly laugh that had the vendors at the surrounding tables looking at her. “I’m glad you’re here, little brother. I’m bored to tears, and there’s still an hour to go.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay,” he said. “I’m off to soccer practice, but Mom wanted me to tell you she expects you at dinner tonight, and won’t take no for an answer.”

“Yeah, like I’d have a choice.”

As strong willed as she was, she couldn’t rival the original…her mom. Mrs. Marshall ruled her home and family with an iron fist in a velvet glove, and her family adored her. Darby chuckled and shook her head. It looked like she’d be dining with her family.

She stood up to straighten her table, pausing here and there to run a critical eye over the display. Overall, she was satisfied. The fractals were bright and new, and that excited her. She enjoyed the unpredictability of the medium, the surprises that appeared each time a fractal was rendered.

She had worked hard for what she had and was now lucky to have reached a point at age twenty-seven where she could demand respectable prices for her work and make a decent living. She had several of her acrylics and sculptures in galleries, even the prestigious Griffith gallery. The fractals, she was sure, would be just as successful once they caught on. She needed to arrange a showing to introduce them to the art buying public. But until then, this craft show was the gallery and the locals, her customers.

She looked up and caught Sylvia’s eye across the hall. The older woman waved. Darby plastered a tight smile on her face. This was not the venue for her work, that was for sure.

She had just settled herself back in her chair when a man walked up to her table. He was an ordinary looking sort, yet something about him captured Darby’s interest. Perhaps it was the intensity with which he examined each fractal on her table. Or maybe it was the quiet confidence apparent in his posture. She sensed that here was someone who appreciated and understood art. Though he wore wire-framed glasses and looked comfortable in black slacks and a blue checked short-sleeved shirt, she could easily imagine him in a business suit, headed to an office.

“Nice work.” He continued to scrutinize each piece on display. He lifted up a piece she called ‘Lace Corset’, a Victorian inspired garment in gold on a purple background. She liked it because the corset looked full-figured. She noticed that he smiled when he viewed the name.

“Thank you.” Darby was both relieved and energized that someone was at last taking genuine notice of her work.

“What’s the medium? I can’t seem to tell. Is it watercolor?”

She chuckled. “They’re fractals. I created them on the computer using a mathematical equation as my starting point. Once the image was generated, I did a little manipulating until I got a composition that pleased me. There’s a stylized feel to the work that I like. I mean, that one doesn’t look exactly like a Victorian corset, but the impression is there.”

“Interesting,” the man said, giving her a warm smile that caused her pulse to flutter. She was finding it hard to think straight.

“Then I printed it on my inkjet printer, using a special watercolor paper that absorbs the ink and allows it to bleed slightly, creating the watercolor effect you notice.”

The man looked up, and Darby got her first good look at his face. It was a nice face, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes bespoke a sense of humor. Intelligence shone from his warm brown eyes. He was smiling, and the way he leaned in so close to her made her feel as if he had a genuine interest in what she had to say. Her pulse began to speed up.

“Is there anything that can’t be done on computers anymore?” He stroked a thoughtful finger along the frame of the piece.

“It seems that way doesn’t it?” She noted that he was about five foot ten, her height, and a little soft around the middle, built to use his brain, not his brawn. He was the type that was usually described as a teddy bear…soft and cuddly. She felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the notion of cuddling up to this stranger. She hoped he didn’t notice. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Darby Marshall.”

His handshake was firm, and Darby felt his grip long after their hands had parted. “Martin…Thomas. Nice to meet you, Darby.” He scanned the rest of the room. “This doesn’t seem like the best venue for your type of art.”

“I agree. But it’s a way to get my work out there. It’s also a favor to my parents’ neighbor.”

“Darby dear.”

“Speak of the devil.” She jerked her head at Sylvia as the older woman once again sailed up to her table.

With a perfunctory nod to Martin, Sylvia began her oral assault. “You haven’t made a single sale all day, have you?” Sylvia’s loud clear voice was in contradiction to her conspiratorial body language. “Poor thing. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Of course not, Sylvia,” Darby gritted her teeth. “There’s nothing better I like to do with my Saturdays than—”

“Actually, she has made a sale.” Martin feigned innocence at Darby’s incredulous stare.

“Oh?” Sylvia said. Darby could swear she sounded almost disappointed. “How nice.”

“Yes,” Martin continued. He held up Strawberries and Cream and the Victorian Corset. “I’ll take these two, Darby, and I’ll let you know on that other one.”

“Okay.” In her shock, she nearly choked on the word.

“Oh wonderful.” Sylvia’s voice was tinted with sarcasm. “Your first sale. That’s so lovely for you.” She then drew in a long breath in preparation to hoist sail and move off. “Now I’ll certainly have to make sure you have a table again next year.”

“Over my dead body,” Darby said to her retreating back. She then turned at the sound of Martin’s low rumble of laughter and found that she really liked it. “Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure. I objected to how that woman was condescending toward you. Besides, I really like your work, and I do want these two pieces.”

Darby felt flushed with pleasure. “Really? You don’t have to buy them. I mean, don’t feel obligated.”

“I’m not doing this out of any reason other than liking your work.”

“I’m flattered,” Darby said. “Thank you.”

Martin opened his wallet and counted out the bills.

“Would you possibly be interested in teaching someone how to do this?”

“Well, I do teach some art classes.” With crisp efficiency, she counted the money and wrote out a receipt. “I’ve never thought of teaching a fractal class, but I suppose I could. Are you interested?”

“Well, yes. It would be a nice change from my regular work. Besides, I’d like to get to know the teacher a bit better.”

Darby blushed for real this time. A brief flash of shyness made her hands shake as she handed him a business card and his fractals wrapped in protective layers of newspaper. “That’s my email and phone. Call me this evening, and we can set up some initial classes.”

He took the card and waved it. “Thanks. I will.” He tucked the card in his shirt pocket, gathered his new artwork under his arm and prepared to leave. “And thank you for your wonderful art. I’ll really enjoy these. ‘Til tonight. Bye, Darby.”

“Bye…Martin”

Her smile widened as she watched him leave. She had a little extra spring in her step as she began packing up her table. She went over her conversation with Martin. He had been so kind and funny. It was obvious he was financially comfortable to drop $200.00 on her work. And he had flirted with her. He wanted to get to know her better? Well, the feeling was definitely mutual. She was flushed and energized, ready to take on…well, even Sylvia, if she had to.

Darby picked up the last fractal that Martin had set down on the table. She held it to her chest and smiled, reviewing every word he had spoken in his low-pitched voice.

Something about him had really attracted her, and it wasn’t just his interest in her art or his gallant rescuing of her from Sylvia’s onslaught. No, there was something about Martin—some intangible thing that had Darby very, very intrigued.

The dinner with her family turned into a celebration of sorts, thanks to the charming man who had set Darby’s pulse to racing. She decided to ask Nathan to come over if or when Martin came for his lesson. Although she was sure Martin was a nice guy, he was a stranger, and she was smart enough to be cautious.

She got home later than she intended, replete from her mom’s hearty beef stew, and found the ‘message waiting’ light blinking on her phone. Her fingers shook a little as she punched in her code and her heart sped up just a bit in anticipation of hearing Martin’s voice.

“Hello, Darby. It’s Martin Thomas.”

Such a nice voice.

“Call me back, and we’ll set up my fractal classes. My number is 555-3069. I can’t wait to get started.”

Darby was sure she detected an extra measure of warmth in his words. Her fingers couldn’t move fast enough to punch out his number.

“Hello?”

She closed her eyes and drank in the deep sexy tone of his voice. “Um—hi. Martin?”

At his affirmative, she plunged on. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you called. I was hoping to hear from you and well, here you are.” She cringed at how silly she sounded. She heard Martin chuckle.

“Indeed,” he said. “I’m sitting here looking at your wonderful pictures. I’m so glad I decided to stop in at the craft show—for many reasons.”

Darby’s breath caught in her throat. She swallowed.

Neither spoke for a moment, and she felt pressed to fill the void. “You asked about classes, and I wondered when you’d like to begin.” The sound of light laughter filtered through the phone and caressed her ear.

“That,” he replied, “I suppose, depends on you. My schedule is pretty much wide open at the moment.”

“What about tomorrow?” She said, quicker than she meant to. “I mean, unless you spend Sunday with your wife and family or work, or something.”

“No. I’m not married, and I don’t work on Sundays. What time would be good for you?”

“How about around one?”

“Sounds good to me. I have your address on your card so I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Darby.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

She hung up the phone, hugged herself, and whooped. The sound rang out in the silence of the late hour, and she did a little jig, feeling giddy.

Tossing and turning through the night, Darby’s dreams were filled with a kind, smiling face telling her over and over how he really liked her work…and her. Even with the less than restful sleep, Darby awoke refreshed and eager to start her day. She called Nathan to let him know when to come.

By the time Martin was set to arrive, Darby had straightened her apartment, and prepared coffee and blueberry muffins. She looked in the full-length mirror one more time taking stock of her assets, and was pleased with what she saw—a tall, soft, curvaceous woman with sparkling eyes and a bright smile. She ran her fingers through her curly auburn hair, and brushed imaginary wrinkles from her hunter green dress. She hoped Martin would like what he saw also. Her stomach was in knots, and she paced to try to expend some of the nervous energy. When the doorbell chimed, she nearly jumped from her skin.

It turned out to be Nathan.

“Hi, sis,” he said and moved into the living room. He dropped his laden backpack and headed into the kitchen. “Anything to eat? Oh cool, muffins.”

“Don’t you dare,” Darby called, following him. “I made those for Martin.” She scowled at Nathan’s saucy grin. “Never you mind. There’s plenty of food in the fridge. And if that’s not suitable, you can order yourself a pizza. And this is business, so just do your homework or watch TV, and don’t be a pest.”

“Sure, sis,” he said with another cocky grin, and then turned his attention to the contents of the fridge.

Darby smiled and shook her head. At that moment the doorbell rang again, and Darby’s heart skipped a beat.

With a last check of her appearance in the mirror in the foyer, she answered the door.

“Hi.” She ushered Martin into her living room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, handing her a small bakery box. “I picked up some muffins on the way over. I didn’t get lunch today and thought we might share these before we started my class.”

Darby smiled. “That was thoughtful of you.” They stood smiling at one another for a long moment. The spell was broken by Nathan’s appearance from the kitchen, laden with what appeared to be much of the content of Darby’s fridge, including a large bottle of soda under his arm and an entire bag of apples in one hand.

“Hi.” He plopped on the sofa, depositing his loot on the coffee table.

“This is my little brother, Nathan,” Darby said, watching as the teen propped his feet up on the table and dug into a half of a submarine sandwich. “Nathan, this is Martin Thomas, my new student.”

“Cool,” was all he said. Darby rolled her eyes but Martin just laughed.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Well, shall we leave the brat to his feast,” Darby said with a grin, “and have a cup of coffee before we start our class?”

“Wonderful.” Martin followed her into her kitchen.

Spotting the basket of muffins on the table, he said, “Oh, I see you were a step ahead of me.” He leaned over and sniffed. “Mmmm. Blueberry. My favorite.”

Darby opened the bakery box. “And you brought banana…my favorite.”

“Well, then, I guess we both win,” Martin said with a grin.

Darby made herself busy pouring coffee, hoping Martin didn’t see how his tiny words of praise had affected her. She set the mugs on the table and gestured for him to sit. She was suddenly aware of how tiny her kitchen was because he seemed to be sitting so close.

“I like your apartment.” He looked around at the cheerful kitchen painted in muted green and bordered in ivy. “You’ve made it very cozy.”

“Thank you. I know it’s not very big but it suits me.”

“Tell me, do you work in other art mediums besides your computer art?”

“Yes. Acrylics, and clay.”

“Would I have seen your work anywhere?” He sipped his coffee and gave her his full attention. His stare was making it hard for her to concentrate.

“Um, yes. There are a couple of my acrylics at the Griffith Gallery. I hope to have a one-woman show of my fractals there sometime in the next few years.”

“Really. Good for you.” Martin said. “Have you and the owner made plans for the exact date?”

Darby shook her head. “No.” She reached for a napkin. “Actually, I haven’t met the owner personally.”

“I thought you had some work at the gallery,” Martin said, adding cream to his cup.

“I do,” Darby replied, “but I dealt with old Mr. Griffith, the current owner’s grandfather. I was in a show at college, and this dear sweet old man was there. He bought my showpieces. I didn’t know until later that he was the Griffith Gallery.”

“You must have been thrilled.” He took a sip of coffee.

“Oh, I was,” she said. “I meant to thank him personally for his encouragement, but he passed away shortly afterward, and I never got the chance.”

“That’s too bad.” Martin picked up a muffin and broke off a chunk. “So, what about the new owner? You said it’s the old man’s grandson?”

“Yes, he took over the gallery.”

“And you haven’t contacted him about the show?”

Darby stirred her coffee. “No. The show is my dream. I just haven’t figured out yet how to convince Mr. Griffith to schedule one.” She picked up a muffin, tore the cap off and started nibbling the edges.

“This Mr. Griffith, is he a tough customer? Hard to approach?”

“I don’t think so. If he’s anything like his grandfather, then he’s really nice. I guess I’ve just been avoiding it. I mean, what if he flat out said no?”

“But what if he said yes?” Martin carefully set his cup on the table.

Darby picked up both mugs and moved them to the sink. “I suppose you’re right. Nothing ventured…”

“Nothing gained. Say, we never discussed fees for the classes.”

She thought for a moment. “Tell you what. Today’s lesson is on the house. If you decide to continue it’s twenty-five dollars an hour. Does that seem fair?”

“Absolutely. So, shall we start, ma’am?”

The afternoon flew by, and Darby was disappointed when Martin sat back in the computer chair and stretched his arms above his head.

“I think my brain is going to explode.” He rubbed his temples.

Darby laughed. “We covered a lot of territory today.” She stood and stretched her limbs as well, and was flattered to find Martin following her movements with his eyes. It made her feel warm all over. “Actually fractals look complicated, but if you start with the basic structure, you can create something really beautiful with ease.”

“Maybe you can,” Martin said, also standing to stretch, “but…” and here he turned and gazed into her eyes. “…I think I’m going to need many, many lessons to begin to understand all this stuff. I hope you can bear with me.”

She smiled and returned his intent gaze. “I think I can manage.”

They stood a moment, neither one speaking and yet saying volumes, then walked in silence from her office. Darby was intensely aware of his closeness. They entered the living room to find Nathan sprawled asleep on the sofa, the remnants of his attack on the fridge spread around him. The two adults laughed and moved toward the front door.

“I love my brother,” she said with an affectionate glance to the sleeping boy, “but he is a slob.”

“I think all teenage boys are,” Martin said. “Goodness knows I was.” He reached up and ran his hand down Darby’s upper arm, sending a thrill through her body. “Thank you, Darby. It’s been a lovely day.”

Then he was gone, and Darby shivered in her now so cold and empty apartment.

THE NEXT FEW weeks flew by. Each Sunday and an occasional Wednesday evening were filled with Martin’s lessons. A quick study, he was beginning to create some really interesting simple fractals of his own.

“You’re doing great, Martin,” Darby said one evening as the two sat hunkered over the computer screen. Their heads and shoulders were almost touching, and she could feel the heat of his body, and smell his spicy cologne. “This is one of your best so far. I like the glowing effect at the center, and the almost filament-like structures on the tips of the arms. It reminds me of a sea anemone.”

“High praise, indeed,” Martin said, giving her a grin. “You’re a wonderful teacher. You’ve made this so easy, and it’s fun…” His voice lowered in volume. “…especially with you.”

Darby’s breath caught in her throat. “I….” She stuttered and began picking imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Thank you. You’re a good student. And I’ve had fun too.”

The two sat not speaking for an electric moment.

Darby cleared her throat. “As much as I hate for the fun to end, I think you’re ready to branch out on your own. There’s really nothing more to teach you. You just need to practice and design on your own.” Having said the words, she slumped back and looked down at her hands. She felt Martin stir and glanced up. He had a strange look on his face.

“If you really think so,” he said.

“I can’t take your money anymore. It wouldn’t be honest.”

Martin sat back and seemed to gather his thoughts.

“Darby, may I be frank?”

“Sure, I guess.” She swallowed and braced herself for…what, she didn’t know.

“I think you should put together a presentation of your fractal art and go see this Griffith guy.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. “What?”

“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to get this one-woman show you want, then you’re going to have to be assertive.” He leaned forward and took Darby’s hands in his. “You have talent, Darby, real talent. And you have such a wonderful personality.” He grinned. “And you’re so darn pretty. Ol’ Griffith would probably fall all over himself to give you the show of a lifetime.”

“You really think so?” She couldn’t stop herself from looking at the way their hands seemed to melt together—a perfect fit.

“I feel very strongly that you should do this. Something tells me that if you approach Griffith personally the show will happen.” He squeezed her hands for emphasis.

“But I don’t know if I have enough pieces ready.”

“So what. Show him what you have, then work on more if they’re needed.”

“And I have a couple of commissions to complete.”

“Again, not a problem. Plan the show for after the commissions are finished.”

“But what if—”

“Come on, Darby,” Martin said. “There are plenty of reasons to put this off longer, but one really good reason for doing this now.”

“Oh?”

“You’re good. It’s time to take this step.”

She glanced up, and when her gaze connected with his, her mind was made up. “All right, I will!”

“Excellent!” Martin stood and pulled on his jacket. “I’ll be waiting to hear how it turns out.” At the door of the apartment, he turned and cupped her chin with his hand. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched. “Now I don’t want you to chicken out once I walk through this door.” She chuckled. He read her very well. “Tomorrow morning, you call and make an appointment, okay?”

She smiled and nodded. “Okay.”

The next morning, Darby found herself watching the slow crawl of the clock’s hands, waiting for nine a.m. when normal business hours would be starting and she could call the Griffith Gallery. At five minutes past nine she punched out the number.

“Griffith Gallery.” The slightly nasal, feminine voice pierced her eardrum.

“Hello, this is Darby Marshall. I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. Griffith.” Her hands were cold and sweaty, but her cheeks felt hot.

“I suggest making an appointment, Miss Marshall. Mr. Griffith is a very busy man.”

“Of course.” She felt stupid. Martin had told her to do that before he left, and she’d promised, so she made an appointment for the following Friday afternoon. By the time she hung up the phone, she was shivering from a mix of excitement and fear.

FRIDAY CAME TOO quickly, and yet not quickly enough. Darby arrived early at the gallery, her large black portfolio making her arm ache. She had dressed to impress, wearing her power suit of charcoal grey.

“Have a seat, Miss Marshall,” the receptionist said, with the merest glance up from her computer screen.

Darby sat on the edge of the chair and stared at the door that marked Mr. Griffith’s office. Beyond that door was her future, whatever that might be, and she was overwhelmed at the thought. She fidgeted in her seat and tugged at the hem of her skirt.

Minutes seemed like hours, and she almost decided to leave when the receptionist spoke.

“You may go in now, Miss Marshall.”

Darby hadn’t heard any buzzer or phone. It was as if this woman had channeled the information. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her portfolio and went to the massive wood door. The artist in her took a moment to admire the intricate relief carving that made the door quite special. With one last mental prayer, she turned the knob and entered the office.

At first, it didn’t appear that anyone was in the room. She took in the lush carpet, the rich, deep wood of the furniture, the muted light grey of the space, and the astonishing array of artwork on the walls. Vibrant color danced around the room. Darby’s eyes went from one piece to the next, dazzled at the talent residing there.

She began a slow tour around the office, stopping to drink in the beauty of the collection. She was so absorbed in admiring each work that it didn’t occur to her to wonder where Mr. Griffith was. She had circled the entire room and came to the last wall by the door.

What met her eyes stunned her beyond reason. For there, on the wall, hung two fractals. Her fractals. The fractals she had sold to Martin at the craft show.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll explain,” came a voice.

A hand rested on her shoulder. She turned and found herself looking into Martin’s wonderful brown eyes.

“First, let me introduce myself. My name is Martin Griffith…Martin Thomas Griffith.” He held out his hand and, in a daze, Darby offered hers. “I hope you’ll forgive my little subterfuge these past few weeks.”

“But…why?” She searched his face, but could not see answers.

“Truthfully? I stopped into the craft show on a whim. I never expected to find that the most beautiful work of art in the room would be a woman…”

He stepped closer, and Darby’s heart pounded.

“Even though I admired your fractals, I didn’t want to be Griffith, gallery owner at that moment. I wanted to be Martin, a guy interested in a girl. I wanted you to get to know me, and I wanted to spend time with you.”

She stood speechless as Martin continued.

“This will sound crazy, but I didn’t connect Darby Marshall, fractal artist to D. Marshall, painter and sculptor until after we had spoken at the craft show. It just added to my pleasure that you were one and the same.”

“So, the fractal lessons…” Darby put her hand over her heart.

“It was the only way I could think of to make it natural for us to spend time together. I thought if I asked you out on the spot, you might turn me down.” He stepped even closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “And I couldn’t risk that.”

Her knees went weak. “Oh,” was all she could think of to say.

“So, here’s what I propose.” He leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on her lips. “I suggest we go out for a nice quiet dinner and plan your first fractal show.”

“But you don’t have to….”

“Shhhh.” He placed a finger on her lips then replaced the finger with his mouth.

He ended the kiss and spoke. “You have to understand my strategy. It could take months and months of planning together to get this show launched. Hours together, alone…planning…” He kissed her again.

Each kiss was electric, and Darby wound her arms around his neck, certain it was the only way she would keep vertical.

“So, do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” she said. She looked with wonder into Martin’s eyes, seeing the desire there. To think she had met him at that cursed craft show. She’d really have to give Ol’ Sylvia a call and thank her. “Oh, yes.”

“Perfect.”

They sealed the bargain with another kiss.

About the Author

Canadian Author Judy Bagshaw is a woman with a mission and a unique vision. She has lived all her life as a plus size person in a thin-obsessed world. As a full time elementary school teacher for over two decades, she has personally witnessed the effect this thin obsession has had on many of her young, impressionable students. She has also recognized the need for people of size to see themselves represented in the media as more than the butt of jokes, the villain, or the jolly sidekick. To this end, Judy’s romance short stories and novels feature plus sized central characters living rich, involved lives, just as she has. You can find out more about Judy’s work at http://writerlady.homestead.com/homepage.html

DIRTY LAUNDRY

Jennifer Harrington

Dedication

To my family and my BBW writing pals, who always said I could do this.

“I TELL YOU, Flo, he sure got my pacemaker jumping!”

Lauren Giles backed through the door of the laundry room, arms straining under the weight of the wicker basket she carried. Her ears perked at the booming declaration just made by her least favorite neighbor, Gladys Bronowski. Gladys was ancient and didn’t have the least bit of use for other human beings, especially the male sort, so if some fella had caught her attention he must be something amazing indeed.

Assaulted by bright light and the whirring and clanking of busy machines, Lauren allowed herself a moment to adjust from the change of the cool, dim hall before searching for a space to claim as her own. Spotting a pair of rickety chairs huddled around a squat dingy table, she hefted the full-to-overflowing basket higher on one generous hip and plodded over to the far corner. On the way, she nodded to purple velour-clad Gladys and her cronies, whom she had long ago dubbed the “Bitter Biddy Bridge club”. Most days they were kind enough to her face, but Lauren had heard many hastily cut-off comments about her crumbling marriage during the past several months. It was just her luck to have to share her Saturday morning with them.

Sucking in a deep breath of dank air she blew her unruly bangs from her eyes, and staked her claim on a small corner of the room. There she unpacked her laundry room survival kit: a small box of chocolates, a can of diet cola, and her most beloved romance novel. This last item she gave a fond pat as she set it on the table. Lauren picked up her basket again, darting a final glance at the brawny kilted hero who graced the book’s cover. Releasing a wistful sigh, she shook her head and walked away. They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

A moment’s search led her to an available washing machine. She was about to load her darks into it when one of the old women shouted, “Dontcha see that it’s broken, girly?!”

Lauren slinked across the aisle to a trio of open washers and made a great show of searching for her change purse, wincing when Gladys barked, “Don’t see much, that girl. Husband having an affair right under her nose like that, and her too dim to see it!”

Lauren would have given anything to be able to stuff the cackling old crow into the nearest washer and set her on spin cycle! She dug some quarters out of her wallet, snapped them into the slots, and forced the levers home, then slopped some soap into both machines, adding bleach to the one on the right. Maybe this group of ladies would have been friendlier if she had sought them out. But Lauren’s innate shyness and discomfort at baring her wounded soul had caused her to shrink in on herself, rather than reach out to anybody during this past, painful year.

Anxious to be back in her haven of chocolate and happily-ever-after, she tossed clothes about in a flurry of activity. Blue jeans, left--white tee shirt, right. Red shorts, left--white sock, right. Almost entranced by the simple-minded activity, she was jolted back to reality by Mrs. B’s grating voice.

“Y’know, if I were just a few years younger, I’d go after that hot stud myself!”

Lauren’s brow furrowed even deeper over that last outrageous statement. She tried to imagine a guy, any guy, hanging around Gladys long enough for her to put some smooth moves on him.

“Gladys! You can’t be serious! Why he’s young enough to be your son. Or grandson, even!” Lauren recognized the nasal-sounding voice of the prudish Miss Carmichael, a shriveled husk of a woman who had been giving piano lessons to local children for the last 50 years. She would probably continue do so until she expired, most likely while sitting at the keyboard.

She grimaced at the thought of some unfortunate law enforcement officer answering a call about a strange smell coming from Miss C’s apartment. She could imagine him opening the door to find the old woman sitting stiffly on the bench, hands splayed across the keys, the metronome still keeping time for one whom time no longer mattered.

“Or grandson-in-law.”

Mrs. B’s thoughtful rejoinder pulled Lauren back to earth again.

“Yes, I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I had my girl over for a visit this week. Wouldn’t hurt to have her help me bake a few goodies and deliver them up to 7A as part of the welcome wagon, eh?”

Lauren gave another snort. It was unfair and ludicrous that a baby named Barbara had grown up to look like the fashion doll, but that was just what had happened in Barbie Bronowski’s case. Apparently babies named Lauren hadn’t such high expectations for when they grew up. Or rather when they grew out. She made a self-conscious shuffle to the left to hide more of her wide hips behind her washing machines.

“I wouldn’t wait too long to get her over here, or he might get snapped up by someone living in the building. That redhead upstairs, for one,” chimed in Mrs. Morretti, right-hand yes-woman to Mrs. B.

“She’s no match for my girl! There’s no one in this building who can even come close to her.”

Lauren felt rather than saw the crone tilt her head toward the corner. “Men don’t fall for a girl like that. Not unless she runs them down in the hallway.”

Lauren felt her cheeks burn with anger as she pulled another piece of clothing from her basket and clutched it in her fist. Of all the nerve!

The laundry room door bounced open, startling Lauren, who gave a small hiccup of surprise. Her jaw went slack as she saw the man who had kicked it open. Not just tall, he was broad and well-muscled, as though he was used to physical labor. The hair waving across his brow was the same shade of inky black as his T-shirt and jeans, which molded themselves to his hard body as though he’d been dipped in dark chocolate. His heavy black boots landed with decisive thuds against the grey tiled floor as he strolled through the group of swooning septuagenarians. Glancing from one to another with his intense blue-green eyes, he gave each of the ladies a roguish yet sincere-seeming smile through his close-trimmed moustache and beard. Her eyes followed him as he sauntered his way across to the corner.

Her corner.

She’d be sharing her table with this hunk of a man, this stepped-right-off-of-a-romance-novel-cover god! She cringed as she mentally heard her mother’s voice intoning, “Never put off washing your laundry ‘til you run out of clothes.” Why don’t I ever listen to her? Lauren moaned, feeling her absolute worst in her rumpled, stained sweat suit complete with moth-eaten granny briefs beneath.

Briefs? Oh Gosh! The sudden realization hit her that she had been standing about with her red thong dangling from her right fist for the entire world to see. In a flash, she dropped it straight into the gaping machine below, and raised her eyes heavenward in a silent thank you that no one had been watching.

Sucking in a breath of air to once more blow her bangs from her eyes, she found that the humidity had plastered them to her forehead. Yet another thing you shouldn’t have put off washing. Never in all her 30 years had she felt less attractive. Even the old biddies could beat me hands down in a beauty contest right about now.

The machines in front of her rumbled to life, bringing Lauren back to the task at hand. She sorted the remaining clothes in haste, stuffed them into the washers, and dropped the lids closed. She glanced back at her corner, trying to decide if the dire situation merited its abandonment. She felt the level of estrogen in the room surge to new heights as the stranger chose that moment to seat himself in one of the chairs, stretching panther-like in order to better accommodate himself.

Lauren made great pretense of arranging her empty basket, laundry detergent, and fabric softener on the top of her washers. Sneaking another look in the man’s direction, she realized he had carried a black leather bag into the room with him. He rooted around in it and smiled in satisfaction when a small foil-wrapped item emerged in his hand.

A Power Bar. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but had to give him points for the carton of chocolate milk which followed soon after. He reached into the bag again and withdrew a battered paperback, so old and tattered it was all Lauren could do to make out the words, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance splashed across its cover. She shrugged at that, figuring he had selected it for the motorcycle slant, as he looked more like a well-manicured Hell’s Angel than a benevolent Buddha.

His bright eyes caught hers and he gave her a friendly smile before flipping open his book and burying himself in it.

Lord, the man was magnificent! In panic, Lauren turned back to her machines, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she pressed her hands to the pit of her stomach as though they could calm the hundreds of butterflies taking wing inside her. She puffed out her cheeks, blew the air out through her teeth, and straightened her spine before turning back to see if he was still distracted by his reading.

He was.

She cleared her dry throat and decided this was as good a time as any to return to her seat. Feeling like the world’s frowsiest hausfrau, she crept back to the corner and breathed a self-congratulatory sigh of relief for reaching the table without drawing notice to herself. But she celebrated a moment too soon, for as she turned the back of her heel hit the metal leg of the chair, which gave a deafening screech as it skittered away from her. Lauren threw herself backward in a desperate bid to plant her backside on the retreating furniture, only (just) saving herself from plopping on the floor in a graceless heap.

Heat filled her face as she made a blind grope for her soda and missed knocking her book to the floor. Her numb fingers struggled until she finally popped the tab of the can. She raised her shaking hand to her mouth and gratefully swallowed draught after draught of the cool beverage, her tongue snaking out to lick any wayward drops from her lips.

Thirst abated, she turned her attention to her box of chocolates, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Much as she’d love to dive into her velvety treat, the unbearable heat of the room must have taken its toll on them. She could not, would not be seen by this gorgeous hunk dribbling candy all over her herself!

With reluctance, she turned from the chocolates to her book, which she picked up with as much nonchalance as possible under the circumstances, and opened to the little Celtic cross-stitch book mark she’d made the winter before last. Raising the novel shield-like in front of her face, Lauren tried to make sense of the words that on any other day she could have recited from memory. Leaning a bit to the left, she peeked around the paperback at her uninvited tablemate, who gave a deft lick to one large thumb and turned another page of his book, wreaking still more havoc on her frayed nervous system.

She brought her eyes back to the words on the page and tried to regain her normal breathing pattern. She heard a soft tearing sound: the chocolate milk carton.

She peered over the top of her paperback and saw him bring it to his shapely mouth. In a perfect world, he’d spill some of that on his shirt. And being in a laundromat, he’d think nothing of stripping it off and tossing it into one of the machines. Her mouth turned up at the thought of this divine creature having an unexpected moment of human klutziness.

Still…what she wouldn’t give to see it happen. Her vision blurred as she imagined the fluid grace with which he’d peel off the offending garment; the hard, carved torso that would be revealed as he did so. She could see a droplet of milk mingling with the sweat in the hollow of his throat, coursing down the center of his chest, slipping past his bulky rectangular pecs, easing its way over the ridges of his abdomen ‘til it slid down to . . .

Coming to her senses, her eyes snapped back into focus and she found herself locking gazes with an inquisitive pair of piercing blue-green ones. Her mouth formed a surprised little O as she opened her eyes wide. The stranger’s gaze dropped to the cover of her book, taking in the painting of the heroic bare-chested Scot, then recaptured hers. His mouth twisting in a wry grin, he raised one quizzical eyebrow as if to ask, Gotten to the good part yet?

Lauren bit her lip in complete mortification. Hiding once more behind her book, she tried again to apply herself to reading the words, but still found it difficult, as though she held the stalest of academic tomes rather than a pleasant and enjoyable novel. Before long, however, the comfort the familiar story always brought filled her chest, and she allowed herself to be transported to another world.

Lauren jumped as a dryer buzzed. The man in black wandered over to the machines lining the wall, opened the door to one and thrust a muscular arm inside. He shook his head, and managed to jam a large fist into the pocket of his painted-on jeans and pull out another quarter to plug into the slot.

She glanced at her own machines and saw that the violent shakings of one washer in its final spin-cycle was threatening to topple her detergent from its perch. Bounding from her chair, she snatched the bottle as it teetered on the edge of the undulating appliance. Then she slapped her basket on the washer top next to her and slammed the lid of the machine up.

Blinking in confusion, she bent closer to its opening. Horrified, she began pulling out item after item of pink-tinged clothing.

Will it never end?! She spied the culprit, a scrap of bright red lace at the bottom of the washer, and groaned. She’d managed to toss one of her teensiest, most flamboyant thongs in with her white load.

It was time to be discreet. She bent low to remove it from the washer and place it with all possible haste in her basket. But the dainty garment caught on the washer’s change slide. Grumbling under her breath she gave it a sharp yank when – SNAP! - the thong flew out of her hand and sailed over her head to land somewhere behind her.

Somewhere near the man in black. She was sure.

Ok. OK, just think. Play it cool. I’m sure it didn’t really land anywhere near him. In fact, it’s probably on top of the dryers. No, it’s behind the dryers. So if it isn’t lying around as evidence somewhere, how can anyone really be sure that it even happened? And if nothing happened, there’s no reason for me to look around.

Best intentions thrust aside, she whirled to see if her nightmare had been realized, fully expecting to find her wayward undergarment atop the man’s sleek raven locks.

She saw nothing.

No underwear. No man.

A polite cough behind her caught her attention. He stood with his hand extended, the scarlet lingerie dangling from his fingertips in sharp contrast with the ebony of his shirt.

“I believe this is yours,” his voice rumbled, deep and resonating. His full lips quirked with barely suppressed mirth. “Unless it came from that direction?” He motioned toward the group of elderly ladies, who ducked and bowed their heads in whispered conversation like so many chickens scratching up feed.

A burble of laughter escaped Lauren’s lips at the thought of those particular women owning such things. But then perhaps wearing size-too-small thongs explained the constant pinched expressions on their sour old faces?

She turned to him, grinning impishly at their shared joke. Never removing his gaze from her lush lips, he captured her hand in his larger one, which made her feel almost dainty. Holding fast, and with a gentle firmness, he pressed the lacy confection into it.

The tingling sensation wrought by his skin rubbing against her flesh unnerved her. She licked her lips, desperate for something witty to say.

“Uh, thanks.” Deserted by her voice, she squeaked like one of her young charges at the daycare center where she worked. Well. I’ll just be submitting that one to “Quotable Quotes”!

Gladys Bronowski waved at them from the opposite corner. “Excuse me, young man,” she oozed in the most syrup-laden voice Lauren had ever heard her use. “But do you think you might give me a hand with my basket? My old arms just aren’t what they used to be.”

Surprised by the interruption, as though he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room, the gentleman stepped away

“Certainly, ma’am. I’d be happy to.” He gave the crone a polite smile, and tossed Lauren a wink. She felt bereft when his hand left hers, but the emptiness inside her was fast filling with anger and a bit of guilt. The interfering biddy! Lauren cursed her luck for the second time that day. Be careful what you wish for. She regretted begging the cosmos for a chance to have the laundry room to herself.

The man in black hastened to the table, seized his basket, and filled it with clothes from his dryer, then stacked Mrs. B’s basket on his own and strode through the door held open by the salivating Gladys.

Lauren returned her attention to her own washing and, feeling forlorn, put her now pink white load into the dryer vacated by the handsome stranger, and her darks in the one next to that. Retreating to her seat, she saw the beaten-up copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance still sitting on the man in black’s chair. The ding of the elevator told her she’d missed her chance to run into the hall and return it to him.

Well, if he doesn’t come back for it by the time I’m done down here, I’ll just bring it on up to him myself, she thought. After all, it’d hardly be neighborly to leave it down here for any old person to walk off with.

Lauren settled into her chair and propped her book in front of her face once again, pleased to be back in Scotland basking in the love of her hunky laird. At last the dryers buzzed their end signal and alerted her to the fact that it was time to shake a leg. Grateful to discover the biddies were done, she stuffed her clothes into her basket and repacked her survival kit, with the gentleman’s wayward book perched in precarious fashion on the top of the heap. Thoughts of seeing the man in black again propelled Lauren out the door and back to her apartment. Before she returned his book, she really needed to improve her appearance.

Once inside the sanctuary of her home, she tossed the basket of rumpled clothes on a chair in the corner of her bedroom, and made a beeline for the shower. After much cleaning and primping, she shimmied into a bias-cut shell top and side-zip slacks that flattered her voluptuous curves, the burgundy tones of the outfit picking up the chestnut shade of her hair. She spritzed a cloud of her favorite lavender-scented perfume in the air before her and walked through it.

Running a self-satisfied hand down the front of her ensemble one last time, Lauren was sure the hunk would be hard pressed to recognize her as the sorry slob from the laundry room. Snatching her purse, keys, and the tattered book, she blew a confident kiss at her favorite Marilyn Monroe poster tacked to the closet door, and headed back to the elevator.

Lauren’s bliss received a slight dent as she stepped in and found herself joining none other than the infamous red-head and two of her dazzling friends. She offered them a shy smile and started flipping through the book in her hands. Inside the cover, scrawled in smudged black ink, was the name Dr. James Brandt. Lauren wondered if the book had once belonged to someone else, or if the man in black was indeed the good doctor. Riffling through the pages she saw notes crammed into the margins, but had trouble making much sense out of the scribbling.

The elevator slowed and she realized she’d reached the seventh floor. Stepping into the corridor, she angled across the hall to apartment 7B, kitty-corner from the left of the elevator doors. She waited for the redhead and her pals to disappear from view, then reached out a dainty finger, pressed the doorbell and waited with a sense of excitement.

Nothing.

No sounds of life inside the apartment.

She gave the bell another ring, and after a moment of waiting swallowed a rising sense of disappointment. It was probably better to shove the book under his door and leave.

She bent down and tried to gauge whether or not the novel would fit through the narrow crack. Distracted by her task, Lauren was surprised to hear the elevator bell ding and the doors swoosh open. Without a doubt, she knew deep in her soul that the mysterious man was standing behind her.

Of course, why not? Why shouldn’t I be bent over in front of his door looking like one of those ridiculous old-lady-gardening wood cutouts??

“Can I help you?” His voice was even more mellow and rich than she remembered, and her knees started to wobble.

“I, ah.. you forgot this downstairs.” She straightened and held the book to him, but pulled it back when she realized his arms were full of paper sacks overflowing with groceries.

“Oh, yeah, thanks for returning it. Would you mind holding it a second? I need to get this stuff inside before the cheesecake disintegrates.” He jostled the bags a bit, produced his apartment key, and unlocked the door.

“Come on in.” He graciously waited in the hall for her to make her decision to accept his offer.

“Thanks.” Lauren did a mental victory dance as she slipped through the doorway. He followed close, kicking the door shut behind them.

“Just set it down there.” He nodded at a teak coffee table with sleek Oriental lines. His apartment had an air of Asian mystique, with beautiful silk screen prints gracing the beige walls of the combined kitchen and living area. A small Zen sand garden sat nestled between green leafy plants and stereo speakers on the top of a crammed bookcase. A set of simple chairs and a matching futon-style couch all covered in a coffee-toned burlap cloth filled one corner of the living room, facing a tidy looking little entertainment center on the opposite wall.

“Your apartment is lovely.” Lauren breathed a sigh as she took it all in and moved to join him in the kitchen area. There, a large window showcased a beautiful picture of the sun setting over the bay.

“Not what you expected of a bachelor?” He deposited the groceries on the granite-topped island in the center of the spacious kitchen, retrieved a small bakery box from one paper bag, and crossed to the fridge where he placed it inside.

“No. I mean, yes.” Lauren laughed. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what the right answer is. Just that I really do think your apartment is lovely and I like it. It has ‘style’.”

“Well, I’m glad. Would you be interested in spending some time in it tonight? I’m making Chicken Marsala and would really hate to eat it all alone in my ‘lovely’ apartment.” He sauntered back to her.

“Chicken Marsala? Ohhhhh.” She smiled at him. “That just happens to be one of my favorite Italian dishes.” A sudden wave of shyness overcame her, and she stepped back from the counter.

“Since you were so kind as to return my book, I really feel I should repay you.” He paused as he took in her dubious expression. “If the Chicken Marsala hasn’t sold you, I’m also offering a fresh salad, new potatoes, focaccia, and chocolate cheesecake, though I confess I just bought those last two at the bakery. But the rest will be homemade, I promise.” He smiled. “Besides, it would be great to have a chance to talk to someone who’s lived in the building a while.” He raised a questioning brow, then began to unload his grocery sacks, divulging some of the delicious temptations.

Lauren hesitated a moment more, unable to breathe with that aquamarine gaze looking down at her. “Well, sure. Uhm. I’d love to have dinner with you. Do you need any help?” She made a nervous grab for the vegetables and began to line them up on the counter.

“I hate to make a guest work, but if you really insist, you can get down to fixing the salad, seeing as how you’ve already got the ingredients and all.” He pulled up a red leather and stainless steel barstool for her to sit on, then grabbed a remote control from a nearby basket on the countertop and gave it a click. Soft jazz filled the air around them.

“I, uh, ought to have said so way earlier, but I’m James Brandt. Most folks just call me Jamie.” He dropped the remote back in its resting place and stuck out a large hand.

“I’m Lauren Giles.” She nearly died inside as she shook his hand. “I live in 5C. Just next door to Gladys Bronowski, whose basket you carried earlier.”

“Ah. Yours is the place with the funny little cat-face door-knocker? Very cute.”

“Oh, you saw that?” She reached into the paper sack and pulled out a bag of lettuce. “Yeah, I’m a bit of a cat person. I collect cat artwork.”

“Do you also collect cats?”

“Oh, well, I have two. It would be impossible to have more than that in a small apartment. Besides, two shed more than enough hair as it is.” She set two bell peppers near the sink, orange and yellow, gave them a quick rinse, then reached for a knife from a nearby wooden block and began chopping them on an inlaid cutting board.

“Yes, collecting feline artwork is safer in that respect. Far less shedding. And no litter boxes.”

“How about you? Do you have cats?”

“No, no pets of any kind I’m afraid. I’ve spent too much of my life moving around to be able to keep one. That’s the trouble with growing up a military brat.”

“Oh? Your parents were in the service?” Lauren’s hands stilled over the peppers she was slicing.

“Dad was a Marine. He’s retired now and driving Mom crazy with his do-it-yourself projects. She finally has a house of her own, and Dad is doing all he can to bring it down around her ears.” His laughter was warm and mellow like burnished brass.

“Was it hard on you, moving all the time like that?” She reached into the bag once more, and out it came. The biggest cucumber Lauren had ever laid eyes on. Oh my--! Face flushing, she tossed it next to the sink and refocused her attention on Jamie’s deep voice.

“Well, yeah, a bit. Hard to make and keep good friends, you know? Plus, I was a bit of a nerd. Kinda shy. I always had my nose in a book, being the portable best friends that they are.” He shot her a glance across the sink as he shuffled crisp lettuce leaves beneath the water running from the tap.

“I guess you haven’t changed that much, then?.. Ahm.. I mean as far as loving books.” Lauren cursed herself for implying that he was still a nerd, and cringed yet again as Jamie picked up the cucumber and began to wash it. Unable to tear her eyes away from the sink, she stared, mesmerized by the way he caressed the vegetable.

Lauren Giles, you are pathetically juvenile. Grow up already!

“Oh, I’ve changed some.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave her a wolfish grin. “Things started getting better for me when I was ten and we moved to Okinawa. I discovered Karate, and I’ll tell ya, signing up for lessons was the best thing I could have ever done for myself. Since then I’ve branched out into other disciplines, Tai Chi and Thai Boxing.”

She blinked up at him. “What’s tie-boxing? Is that some sort of origami gift-wrapping technique?”

“No.” His magnificent lips twisted in a fascinating quirk. “’Thai’ as in Thailand. ‘Boxing’ as in knocking some guy around a ring.” He made a fist and flexed his formidable bicep.

“Oh!” She laughed. “That’s definitely not gift-wrapping then.”

“Nope. Not even close. Although I’ve also tried a bit of wrestling, and managed to tie one guy up in a pretty fancy knot.” He looked a bit wistful. “I loved living in Okinawa. Best three years of my life.”

“I can see it certainly influenced your decorating tastes. All the oriental accents make your apartment so .. elegant.”

“For a guy, you mean?” He grinned. “I’m frequently accused of having my place decorated by my mother.”

“Oh no. I think it’s very masculine, although I must say I don’t know many men who care for fresh flowers.” She smiled at the calla lilies arranged in a sleek ebony vase on the coffee table. “My place doesn’t look so much ‘decorated’ as ‘desecrated’. It’s a complete mess right now.” She sighed at the depressing thought of all the work waiting for her downstairs.

Jamie gave a derisive snort. “Well, if you could see around the corner into my bedroom, you’d be unable to miss the havoc I’ve wreaked with all my packing boxes and junk. The bedroom is unfit for human habitation. I’ve actually been sleeping on the couch for the past week.” He made a wry face in that piece of furniture’s direction.

“Yeah, well. Moving is a real chore. And it takes longer when it’s just one person unpacking and organizing.”

“Oh, do you have a lifetime of experience moving too?” He bent down, groped in the cupboard beneath him, and retrieved large bowl.

Lauren’s investigated his assets and made a swift nod of approval at the view.

“Well…no. I have to confess that I’ve never really moved much in my life. I mean, I grew up here in Portland. My folks still live in the same house, in fact.” She reached for a tomato. “The only moving I had to do was when I got married. I got the apartment in the divorce, so I didn’t have to move then. Oh, and I moved once before that when I finally convinced my folks to let me live on campus at PoGo.”

“PoGo?”

“That’s what it was called way back when my folks went there.” She smiled. “Portland-Gorham. But it’s been called USM for a long time now.”

“You went to Southern Maine?” He smiled. “I’m teaching Philosophy there. Or rather, I will be when the summer sessions start. That’s why I was reviewing the book you so kindly returned to me. It’s one of the texts I’m covering in my first class.”

“Oh, you’re that kind of doctor. I saw your name in the cover of your book, and I thought, well… I can’t believe you actually forgot it in the laundry room. I’d die if I left any of my teaching prep work lying around where someone might take it.” She dropped her jaw in mock horror.

“You teach too?” Pleasant surprise crossed his face.

“Yeah, I have a degree in Elementary Ed. But right now I’m head teacher at a daycare. It was only supposed to be a ‘tide-me-over’ job til I landed something at a school, but I love my babies so much I can’t convince myself to leave.”

“Must be fun getting to play with all those rugrats.“ His blue-green eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“It is! I can’t imagine doing anything else. Except maybe being a mother. The only way I’d give up teaching is if I had kids of my own.”

“I like kids too, and I hope I have some one day. But I’m afraid I can’t see myself giving up teaching for it. I mean, I really want them, but I enjoy philosophical debates far too much to quit the education biz. Nothing better than arguing circles around some pompous old fart of a professor who hasn’t bothered to re-examine his views since his best buddy Plato passed away.”

He sliced through the cucumber with deft precision, while Lauren pretended not to notice. She looked up at him instead, a smile hovering on her lips.

“If you like arguing so much, why didn’t you go into law?” She immediately regretted asking the question, stiffening as she recalled a certain lawyer from her recent past, and how miserable the cheating son-of-a-gun had made her feel.

“Oh, no. Law is not for me. I prefer pontificating about the meaning of life, not the man-made rules which govern it.”

He made another slice across the cucumber. Lauren took a deep breath and drew her attention away from Jamie’s work and focused it squarely back on her own where it belonged.

“HEADS UP!” JAMIE came from behind her with the frying pan and dispensed its contents onto the plates, arranging the chicken against the colorful salad and boiled new potatoes Lauren had dished out.

As a final touch, he uncorked a bottle of wine and poured it with a flourish into the delicate cobalt goblets gracing the table. He then pulled out one solid oak chair for Lauren and took his own place. His gentlemanly attitude was nothing new to her. Brad had done it all the time. But with him, it always felt like a show for the sake of whatever client or partner was in their presence.

“So.” Jamie speared a buttery potato with his fork. “Tell me how it is such a lovely lady as yourself didn’t already have a hot date on a Saturday night?” He winked at her as he popped the potato into his luscious mouth.

“Oh.” She could feel the heat of a full-strength blush creeping over her cheeks. “Well, I haven’t really gotten back into the dating scene yet. I mean I could have. The divorce has been final for months, but I just haven’t felt ready before this.” Lauren could have kicked herself for implying that she was suddenly ready to get back into the meat market just because of his arrival.

She cleared her throat. “Jamie, I have to say this is the best chicken Marsala I’ve ever had. But I am a bit curious, with your obvious preference for all things Asian why you didn’t make something eastern?”

“Actually, this meal is a treat for me. I mostly eat stir-fry, not just for the Asian connection, but because I’m trying to keep healthy. My mom’s side of the family is one long list of who’s who with heart disease and diabetes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I know what you mean. I’ve got that on both sides of my family too, but I can’t say that I’m really doing well watching what I eat. I used to occasionally go on a diet, but out of sheer vanity—not for health purposes.”

“You don’t need to be going on diets, you’re lovely as you are.”

Lauren blinked at him several times, trying to gauge his sincerity on the subject, then took a deep breath and plunged ahead when she felt he meant it. “Thanks. A couple of years ago I would have thought you were crazy to say so. But as it stands now, I agree with you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, that you agree with me now. But I’m sorry you didn’t used to. What made you change your mind?” He sipped at his chardonnay.

“I performed surgery on my self-diagnosed emotional cancer. A ‘divorce-ectomy’, if you will.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, I mean it wasn’t all Brad’s fault. I was a bit strung out when it came to food and my body before I met him. I can’t think of a single woman I’ve ever met who hasn’t been on at least one diet, you know?”

He nodded as he tore off a chunk of the focaccia. “Well, I can. But there aren’t many, it’s true.”

“I’d been kinda chubby as a teen. Not huge—well, I’d thought so at the time, but really not that big. Smaller than I am now by a good twenty-five pounds. And way more active. I was still hiking and biking and cheerleading back then. But when I started classes at USM, I got stressed out and started eating more. I always thought that the ‘freshman fifteen’ was reserved for students who lived on campus, but apparently commuters aren’t immune.

“Anyway, I saw Brad around campus, and just thought he was a dream—tall, lean, wavy blond hair and ice blue eyes. But Mr. “Captain of the basketball team” didn’t even know I was alive. So I decided to get his attention by getting thin and pretty. I starved myself over the summer and was nice and slender by the time fall classes started sophomore year.” Lauren pushed a piece of yellow pepper around her plate, tracing the Prussian blue pattern spiraling to its center. “As luck would have it, Brad and I turned out to have the same English class, so I had something to talk with him about. You know, as an ice-breaker. At first I tried to sit next to him and say hi or whatever. But after a while he started sitting next to me. And wanting to compare notes on class.”

Jamie smiled. “I see that sort of thing going on in my classes all the time. What happened next?”

“He finally asked me out, and I was over the moon. We went to dinner and he ordered everything for us. If I’d been more with it and there had been fewer stars in my eyes, I would have noticed what was really going on. He was chowing down on steak, and I was eating light pasta with salad. And it was always like that. Whenever we went out to eat, he chose my food. But I didn’t think anything of it. Just assumed it was all part of being a gentleman, you know?

“Anyway, we dated for two years, then he proposed Christmas Eve of senior year, and we got married in June after graduation. We did all right for a couple of years. He was taking law classes, and I was substitute teaching and trying to keep us alive financially.” Her hand clenched at the linen napkin by her plate. “But he got more controlling. When he finished law school and found a job, we moved into this building and he decorated our place--didn’t want me to have a thing to do with picking anything out. He wanted everything to be perfect for when we hosted dinner parties for work, and so on. He got more insistent about what I ate. What I wore. Who I talked to. And the more he yelled at me, the more I ate. The more I ate, the more he yelled. The breaking point was the office Christmas party year before last, when he told me he was going to go to it alone because he was too embarrassed to be seen with me. And so he just took off and left me home.

“But I screwed up my nerve, got all decked out and turned up anyway. And got the shock of my life when I saw him kissing a girl under the mistletoe. I mean really kissing her. As in examining her for tonsillitis with his tongue.” Lauren dropped the much-abused napkin into her lap and tried to smooth out the wrinkles she’d created.

“And that’s when it everything fell into place. All his late nights, his anger, his never wanting to touch me. I knew then he’d been fooling around. Maybe with that girl, maybe with others. I dunno. I think there might even have been one in this building.” She bit her lip.

“What a piece of… Tell me you let him have it right there in front of all his precious coworkers!”

“Heavens, no! I got out of that place as fast as I could. I sat in my car for…oh…an hour or more just sobbing. I thought my life was over. And I really considered driving myself into the bay, you know? But then I got mad. Really mad. And I started considering driving him into the bay instead. I mean how dare he? How dare he make my life so miserable and then go out and do whatever he wanted?

“I went back to the apartment and waited for him to come home. Which he did not do ‘til almost five a.m.. And I confronted him. Told him I knew he’d been cheating on me. Even described the girl he’d been choking to death with his tongue. And when he heard that, he knew I really knew. But instead of telling me he was sorry, he told me it was all my fault for being a big fat, disgusting slob.”

Jamie’s knife clattered against the plate as he dropped it.

“Oh yes, he did! And I got so mad that I pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and threatened to go through the numbers on the speed dial and see how many weren’t work-related so I could have a record for the divorce proceedings. He made a grab for it, and I dropped it and accidentally stepped on it. It made a crunching sound, and I could hear one last pitiful little whimper from the dial tone before it gave up the ghost.”

She sighed inside, wondering what had made her go on for so long. She’d told him this much, so she figured she might as well finish the story. “That’s when Brad hauled off and hit me. I mean he nailed me right in the eye. It hurt so bad I thought I was gonna be sick. I threatened to call the cops on him and he backed down. Having a record as a wife beater wasn’t going to help him in his line of work. He left. I didn’t see him for a week after that. And I didn’t care. I had to take time off from work because of my eye. Couldn’t have the kiddies see me all purple and swollen, so I spent the whole time packing up his crap. When he finally showed up, I directed him to the corner of the living room with all his boxes, suggested he remove them post haste, and told him to be expecting a call from my lawyer. From a rival firm, of course.”

Jamie nodded. “I’m glad you got that last dig in. But I wish I’d been around here back then. I would have been happy to belt him back for ya. Or better yet, taught you how to do it for yourself.” He took her hand in his, gave it a comforting squeeze, then returned it to her lap.

“Well. It’s water under the bridge now. I don’t care what he does anymore.” She took a bite of the chicken Marsala, savoring both the flavor of it and the knowledge that Brad would have pitched a fit if he’d seen her eating it.

“So how is life on your own, Lauren?”

She beamed at him. “Heaven. Absolute heaven. You’ll have to come down to my apartment sometime. I have pictures of what it looked like before he moved out, so you can see what I’ve done with the place.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Judging by that whimsical doorknocker of yours, I think I’m going to like your style.” He stood and cleared their plates.

Lauren got up as well. “Let me help you with that.”

“Nah. I’ve got it. Why don’t you grab some dessert plates and forks and we’ll put a serious dent in that chocolate cheesecake. It’ll be the perfect complement to that gorgeous sunset out there.” His eyes swept over the window, taking in the distant bay and the sun, half-hidden by clouds, sinking slowly behind the horizon.

Lauren did as he asked and before long she was seated at the table again, drifting away with the velvety cheesecake melting on her tongue.

“How is it that you only just moved here and have already discovered cheesecake from Aurora’s?”

“Luck of the Irish, I guess? We Brandts seem to have a knack for finding all the best food.” The chirping of the phone interrupted his last bite.

“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He swiped a napkin over his mouth and dashed across the room. “Hello? Oh, hi. Yeah. Hang on.”

He lifted an apologetic finger and mouthed that he would only be moment, then disappeared around the corner into his bedroom. Lauren felt like all the light had left with him. She got up and set the dessert plates in the sink, which she began to fill with hot water. She tilted her head and tuned into Jamie’s deep voice as it rumbled from the next room. Unable to make out the words, she smiled when she heard his distinctive laughter.

Normally doing dishes was not her favorite past-time, but she welcomed the task as she waited for him to return, the soft clinking of the glasses and silky bubbles soothing her. She swayed along with the jazz floating in the air and tried not to let her self-doubts overtake her mind.

I can’t believe I just ate supper with a man like that! Memories of Brad ignoring her chubby little freshman self on campus all those years ago flitted through her head. She shook it, trying to clear it, and brought forth the reassuring memory of Jamie pronouncing her “lovely as-is” instead.

Yeah, but… She heaved a sigh. Is he just being kind? Neighborly? Or does he maybe think I am potential date material? She considered his actions over the course of the evening. Well, he didn’t rush to throw me out so he wasn’t hating it, but then he did ask me in so maybe he just felt obligated to keep me here! Like he had made his bed and so he had to lie in it. She threw a glance in the direction of the room he now occupied. What I wouldn’t give to lie in it with him! In frustration, she splashed her hand down into the water and groped for another dish to clean. If I could just get a sign that he really is interested in me, I’d be more than happy to return the sentiment!

She thought again of his angry reaction to her story about her life with Brad. The tenderness he had shown when he’d taken her hand in his to comfort her made Lauren smile in remembrance. She made dreamy swipes at the plate, the damp sponge’s motions perfectly synchronized with those of her hips, which continued to sway to the seductive music.

Then she sensed his presence behind her, felt his body heat mingling with hers. Her heart jumped in her chest as he closed the gap between them, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

“Dancing by oneself seems a terrible waste of a wonderful good song.” He turned his head and rested it on her shoulder. “You do know that this,” he said, prying the sponge from her hand, “isn’t necessary? I have a dishwasher.”

Turning her to face him, he brushed wayward bangs from her eyes with a tender sweep of his long fingers. “May I have this dance?”

Lauren nodded and his large body enveloped her smaller one as she tried in desperation to remember how to dance.

And breathe.

After what seemed an eternity, her feet finally began to shuffle along with his. He pulled her closer, encircling her with his strong arms, and used his own gently swaying hips to coax hers back into their previous rhythm.

Her breath caught in her throat as Jamie traced his fingertips across her shoulder blades. “You know, I just can’t remember the last time I danced with such a beautiful woman.”

Oh! He thinks I’m beautiful! In a fit of shyness, she lowered first her gaze, then her head. She nestled against him, rubbing her cheek against his well-defined chest, willing herself to absorb his essence, his body heat. His heartbeat.

She reveled in their reflection in the large picture window across the room, where she saw the look of sincere pleasure on Jamie’s face. Then her eyes drifted closed in contentment, savoring the thrill of it all. This gorgeous, brilliant man was happy to be dancing with her!

“Mmmm,” she murmured against his chest, feeling braver and more relaxed by the moment. “You smell exactly like a man should.”

“Oh?” He stilled. “And just how should a man smell?”

She smiled coyly up at him. “Like equal parts soapy clean, great cologne, and—” Lauren stood on her tip toes and breathed against his ear, “testosterone.”

“Is that a fact?” He turned his head to face her, his blue-green eyes gleaming in the evening’s half-light. “Well now, I’m so glad I measure up to your satisfaction.” He resumed dancing, his large hand sliding lower down her back, his hard thighs brushing tantalizingly close to hers.

She lifted her head in what she hoped was a subtle hint that she wanted him to kiss her. On cue, he lowered his face to hers, first pressing the lightest of kisses against her temple, then grazing her cheek with another. Dipping lower, his gaze settled on her parted lips.

He spoke again, this time sounding far away…

“I’m sorry I took so long.” Jamie appeared from the darkened hallway and returned the phone to its resting place.

Lauren lurched back to reality. Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes flew open wide at being caught dancing around the kitchen by herself with a wet plate clutched to her chest, her grip on the wet ceramic plate she clutched to her bosom momentarily becoming an uncertain thing.

He strode across the room, reached for the plate and rag, and pulled them from her unresisting hands. When his arm brushed against hers, she shivered at the contact of the cool skin of his forearm on her own overheated one. Positioning himself just to the left of her, he began to dry the rest of the dishes she had washed.

“I didn’t mean to abandon you like that. And I certainly didn’t mean for you to pitch in with the kitchen work again.” He pulled another plate from the drying rack. “You do know this isn’t necessary—I have a dishwasher.”

Lauren whipped around to stare at him. Did he say what I think he just said?

“Then again, maybe you’re just an old-fashioned kinda gal who doesn’t go for those newfangled modern conveniences

The clock on the mantle struck nine o’clock, and Lauren jumped at the sound. “Oh, gosh! I didn’t realize it was so late.” She bit her lip in consternation. “I hate to end this, but I have school tomorrow and I need to go in early to get some projects set up.”

To her surprise, Jamie looked a bit disappointed.

“I suppose I ought to walk you downstairs. Would you like to take some of that cheesecake home with you? Just in case you feel like a little nibble later?”

I feel like a big nibble, of you! “Sure, that would be lovely.”

He cut a thick slice and placed it on one of the freshly washed plates. “And if you want more later, you know where to find it.” He smiled. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll walk you downstairs”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” Lauren dissembled. What am I saying? Of course I want him to do that. Her desire for continued physical closeness to this man warred with her fear that she was misreading his interest. But what if I make a complete fool of myself?

“Ah, but I do. I wouldn’t dream of not dropping a lady at her front door after a date.” He winked at her and scooped up his keys from the countertop.

She swallowed hard and made a grab for her purse on the coffee table. He called it a ‘date’. Lauren practically floated out the door and across the hall to the elevator.

The air inside was cold and stale, but for all she knew the elevator was a tropical paradise. Being near Jamie heated her blood. She sidled still closer to him.

“Hold that door,” a husky feminine voice called out. A well-manicured hand reached into the elevator.

The red-head, wearing a very skimpy, spangled green mini-dress on her perfect size two frame, appeared in the doorway. Her friends joined her in similar modes of dress. Together they looked like they were ready to audition for a girl group singing contest at the Apollo. The trio sashayed into the compartment and laid claim to one corner, all the while drooling over Jamie, who for his part issued a bland hello but seemed amused to be the center of so much female attention.

Prodded by a jealous impulse, Lauren decided to get things back under control. “Thanks again for dinner, Jamie. And dessert.” She gave a little wave of the plate.

“No, no. Thank you. I was glad to have the company tonight.”

The flame-haired sylph batted her tarantula-leg eyelashes and parted her supple, raspberry-red glossed lips. She was obviously looking to introduce herself, and would probably suggest she keep him company another night, or maybe even offer to have his children. But her comment was cut off by the chime of the elevator as it reached the fifth floor. To Lauren’s joy, all that came out of Ms. Red was a very unattractive squeak, as if someone had stepped on one of the tarantulas.
Jamie took her arm and escorted her from the elevator. She pressed herself into his side, aching to look back and see the expression on the trio’s faces, but kept her cool instead.

Until they turned the corner.

There, standing in the hall talking to her grandmother, was none other than a hot pink lycra-encased Barbie Bronowksi, a goddess who made the redhead look like a troll.

Lauren’s heart sank. It was one thing to face down the flame-haired diva-in-training. It was another to take on a living, breathing version of the Mattel nymphet, who happened to be backed by the Wicked Witch of the Northeast.

This was going to take some work!

“Oh, hello, Dr. Brandt!” Hobbling over to him, Gladys grabbed his large hand with her bony, birdlike one. “I just wanted to thank you again for helping me with that laundry basket this afternoon,” she simpered. “Please, let me introduce you to my granddaughter Barbie. Barbie this is Dr. Brandt from upstairs. Dr. Brandt this is my granddaughter Barbie Bronowski, a peach of a girl and the apple of my eye.”

Lauren wished she had a banana to gag herself with. She turned to her apartment door, brought up one knee to act as a table for the plate of cheesecake as she dug around in her purse for her keys.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bronowski.”

Lauren knew exactly how that handshake was affecting Barbie. Her stomach roiled at the thought of Jamie touching the blonde bombshell, even in so innocent a way. Her balance began to wobble, and the plate made a dangerous dip to one side of her leg.

“And of course I’m happy to help you any time I can, Mrs. Brownoski.”

Lauren overheard what sounded like a girlish giggle being filtered through gravel, and wondered if Mrs. B. ever regretted that pack-a-day habit.

“I’m so pleased to meet you.” Barbie’s squeaky voice drilled into Lauren’s ears. “You’ll have to excuse the way I’m dressed, but Gram left a message at work that I had to come over right away, so I didn’t even have a chance to shower after teaching my last step aerobics class.” She giggled. “Say, you look like you’re a work out kinda guy. Maybe you could stop by the fitness center sometime. I’d love to give you a rundown on our programs, especially our individualized ones. If you’re looking for a relationship with a great personal trainer, I’m your girl! And I know you’ll just love our club. We’ve got the best equipment and the most experience in town.”

Lauren didn’t doubt that she did.

“Thank you. I’ll tuck that information away for future use.” He cleared his throat. “I do hate to be rude and break up this delightful meeting, but I must be getting back to my date.”

There was that word again! Lauren grabbed the plate off of her knee before Jamie could see her looking like the Karate Kid getting ready to have dessert. This time she couldn’t resist, and glanced over her shoulder at the little group concentrated in the center of the hallway. Yes! Barbie and Mrs. B. were looking quite taken aback at Jamie’s proposed abandonment.

Shocked, even.

Now wait a minute, it shouldn’t be that impossible an idea. Lauren turned around, head lifted in defiance, the world’s most saccharine smile pasted on her face. She tried to ignore the way Barbie was clinging to Jamie and running her hands over him as though assessing him for the perfect personalized exercise program right there in the hallway.

Mrs. B.’s owl-like eyes fluttered in double-time behind her glasses, her dentures clacked together. “Well, erm… yes. Of course, we’d hate to keep you from—”

“Good night, ladies.” Jamie nodded in salute to the pair, pried Barbie’s grasping hands from his arm then turned his attentions back to Lauren, whose aching cheeks were grateful to relax her false smile into a genuine one.

“Now then, where were we? Oh yes. I was thanking you for saving me from a dreadfully boring evening alone, and was ready to beg you to do it again sometime. Soon.”

His aquamarine gaze was riveted to hers. He took her free hand, brought her knuckles to his lips, and whispered a feathery kiss against them. Lauren’s knees buckled and she lost her grip on the plate, which slid to the floor with a smoosh.

Jamie scooped it up and set it beside the door. “Thank heavens for saran wrap. No harm done, if you don’t mind it being a bit lopsided.” He straightened and leaned in closer, whispering against her ear, “Remember, if you want more you know where to get it.”

His pressed forward, his lips slanting over her mouth, and Lauren discovered she could indeed still taste the lingering flavor of chocolate cheesecake on him. Her heart started to drum in her chest; her face felt flushed with heat.

A vague awareness of being watched crept into her now-fuzzy consciousness, and she giggled into Jamie’s mouth. Jamie, laughing along with her, caught her lower lip playfully between his teeth before covering her mouth with his own once more.

Somewhere beyond them, Gladys Bronowski’s door clicked shut with a decided attitude of disapproval, which Lauren savored almost as much as Jamie’s amazing kiss.

Almost.

About the Author

Jennifer Harrington lives on the beautiful New England coast with her husband, two small children, and two even smaller cats. When she isn’t reviewing books for Dangerously Curvy Novels or murdering flowers in her sad little garden, she’s sitting in front of her computer avoiding both her housework and writing that breakout novel.

LOVE BYTES

Sue Ann Jaffarian

THE INTERNET PERSONAL ad began: Middle-aged, menopausal, owns gun.

Clark Baxter read it twice to make sure he had it right. He chuckled and took another swig of his morning coffee before reading further.

Divorced professional BBW seeks single or divorced professional man who is a non-smoker, light drinker, and able to converse beyond grunts and pointing. Personal baggage must fit into overhead compartment to board this flight.

He chuckled again.

“What’s so funny?”

Clark looked up to see his brother, Dave, standing in the doorway of the kitchen in boxer shorts and a rumpled t-shirt. It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning and Dave was finally getting out of bed. Dave and his current live-in, Marianne, had recently split up and he was staying with Clark until he got a place of his own.

“This personal ad on Love Bytes,” Clark responded. “This woman is either very funny or very bitter, or maybe a bit of both. And from the zip code she listed, she lives in the area.”

Dave came around kitchen table to read the laptop screen over Clark’s shoulder. “Forget it, bro, she’s a fattie.”

“A what?”

“See that BBW in her description? That stands for big beautiful woman; a politically correct way of saying she’s overweight.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me, Clark. This one tips the scales in addition to being old.” Dave stabbed at the computer screen with a knobby finger. “She says menopausal. That means she’s probably in her early fifties at least. More likely late fifties, if she’s telling the truth.”

Clark rolled his eyes at his brother. Dave was fifty-one; Marianne was thirty-two. Dave had been married and divorced three times and all his wives had been considerably younger. His relationship with Marianne had lasted only two years.

“Since I’m fifty-three,” Clark said, “early to late fifties would be just fine. It wouldn’t hurt you to try someone in your age bracket for a change.”

Dave ignored the dig. “Suit yourself. But as your brother, it’s my job to tell you that you can do better, much better.”

When Clark didn’t respond, Dave shrugged and padded over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. He returned to the kitchen table and sat down opposite Clark.

“What’s up with the personals anyway? I thought you were seeing someone. Sherry or something like that.”

“Her name was Cheryl,” Clark corrected. “We ended it last month.”

“Too bad, she was a knock-out.”

Clark thought about that a moment. “Yes, she was sweet and very attractive, but that doesn’t always mean compatible. We just didn’t click, I guess.”

Clark re-read the personal ad in front of him one more time and noticed that the woman did not offer a photograph. He closed the ad. Maybe Dave was right about this one, he thought. He was certainly more experienced when it came to women. Clark had been married to the same woman for twenty-four years until her death in a car accident three years before. He and Nancy had met in college in a statistics class. Their marriage hadn’t been perfect, but it had been good and strong. They’d had two beautiful children, twin boys, who were now away at college in Ohio.

Returning his attention to the computer, Clark shook off thoughts of his dead wife. Last year he had decided that it was time to get back out into the dating world. He was lonely and missed having a female companion. It was Dave who had suggested he join Love Bytes, an Internet dating site. So far, Clark had met three women from the Love Bytes site. Cheryl had been the only one he had dated consistently. He continued scrolling listings for another hour, reading several, and answering a couple of ads that did post photographs.

Before Cynthia Quinn could put her brief case down, Gwen Rogers materialized in her office with two mugs of coffee. She placed one on Cynthia’s desk. “So,” Gwen started without saying good morning first, “how was your weekend?”

“The usual,” Cynthia replied while settling herself behind her desk, “shopping, gardening, worrying about my seventeen-year-old daughter who came home two hours past curfew. You know, the usual.”

Gwen laughed. “How is Emma?”

“With any luck, Emma may live to see eighteen.” Cynthia smiled. “And thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

She picked up the mug and smelled the rich aroma before taking her first slow sip. She could tell Gwen was aching to be asked about her weekend in return. Cynthia was the owner of Quinn Legal Staffing, an employment agency in Los Angeles specializing in temporary and permanent placements for legal personnel. Gwen was her top employment counselor and had been with her for five years. During the time, they had become close.

She smiled. “You’re about to bust a button, Gwen. Is it safe to assume you had a great weekend?”

“Could be, still too early to tell.” Gwen demurely sat on the edge of Cynthia’s desk and coyly tossed her long auburn hair back over her shoulder. She was blessed with a stunning figure, a gorgeous almost unlined face, and a generally even disposition. She took her own slow drink of coffee.

Cynthia waited for more information, but none seemed to be coming. “So, are you going to tell me?”

Gwen batted her big brown eyes at her friend and boss. “Remember those ads we posted a few weeks ago on Love Bytes? Well, I got a response this weekend.”

Cynthia laughed. “A response? You’ve been getting lots of responses since we posted them.”

“True, but none I wanted to meet…until now.”

“Really?” Cynthia asked with great interest. “What makes this one so special?”

“I don’t really know, Cyn. Just a feeling I have.” Gwen put down her coffee cup, held up a delicate hand with fingers splayed and starting ticking off perfectly polished fingers with her other hand. “He’s fifty-three, a widower with two boys, owns his own company, loves reading, and the opera.”

Cynthia splayed one of her own hands and noticed she needed a manicure. She also began ticking off points on her fingers. “And you’re thirty-eight, divorced, no kids, love rock and roll, and think books are for doorstops. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”

Gwen laughed. “Okay, bottom line, he’s very very very handsome.”

“Ah, yes, now this is making sense.”

“Clark…that’s his name…wants to go out this week.”

“That’s a very very very good start, don’t you think?” Cynthia started going through some of the mail on her desk. She held up a formal cream-colored announcement. “Oh, look, the firm of Wolf and Swayze relocated to that new building on Wilshire Boulevard. They’ve been expanding like crazy these past few years.”

Gwen hopped off the desk and stood with her hands on her slim hips. “Cynthia Quinn, you are avoiding the obvious.”

“You’re right. Growth means lots of new jobs to be filled. We better send them a nice plant.”

Cynthia looked up to see a bony finger being wagged her way. “Come on, Cyn, you know the deal. Neither of us goes out on a first date alone. You have to get a date and come with me.”

“But I don’t have a date and I don’t want a date. Just make sure Mr. Wonderful meets you in a very swanky public place and take your cell phone with you just in case.”

“Well, you would have a date if you hadn’t written that stupid ad. It’s attracting all the wrong types of men.” Gwen defiantly crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And you did that on purpose. You sabotaged your own chances of finding someone. Don’t know why you couldn’t just write a nice romantic ad like a normal person.”

Cynthia laughed lightly. “Personally, I think middle-aged, menopausal, owns gun sums me up nicely.”

“It makes you sound like an old battleaxe, that’s what it does.”

“I think that about sums me up, too.” Cynthia’s phone rang and she answered it. After a few words, she put the receiver down and turned her attention back to Gwen. “Hildy says your nine o’clock appointment’s ready.”

Gwen started to leave, but stopped. She turned to face Cynthia, her expression serious. “I really want to meet Clark and I want you there when I do. Please re-write the ad and let’s go on a double date like we agreed.”

“Gwen, I told you when you first got this silly idea into your head that I don’t want to meet anyone. I’m perfectly happy being a divorced single mother. I like my life just the way it is.” She looked at Gwen’s determined face and sighed. “Tell you what; I’ll go with you when you meet this Clark person. I’ll even stay for the entire date, if you like. Tell him he’s got a two-fer; that’s every man’s dream, isn’t it? If he’s as nice as you think, then the second date you’re on your own. Deal?”

A shadow came over Gwen’s lovely face and her brows knitted together.

“Okay, okay,” Cynthia told her quickly, “I’ll go out with you as a third wheel until you tell me to take a hike or until this guy has me bumped off, whichever comes first. Deal?”

Gwen perked up. “Deal.”

CLARK AND DAVE Baxter waited in the bar at Houston’s in the Century City Mall for Gwen and Cynthia to arrive.

“I don’t know why you need me here,” Dave told his brother over the happy hour noise.

“I told you, Gwen didn’t want to meet me alone, so her friend is coming. I thought it would be nice to make it a foursome. It’s not like I expect you to marry her, just be civil and charming for a few hours.”

“So what does this friend look like? Did you bother asking?”

“No, I didn’t, but Gwen is in her late thirties and very attractive, so I’m sure her friend is about the same.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Dave said, giving his brother a nudge in the direction of the door.

Clark turned and saw two women walk into the bar area and look around. Based on the photo posted on Love Bytes, one was definitely Gwen Rodgers, and he thought her every bit as beautiful as her photo, maybe even more so. By her side was a very attractive full-figured woman with honey colored hair cut in a high-fashioned bob. She looked a bit older than Gwen and carried herself with an air of confidence and success. Both women were beautifully dressed from head to toe in fashionable business attire, and he noted with a smile that the friend’s suit was cut to accentuate her full bosom and curvy hips.

As the women approached, Clark couldn’t help but notice the striking deep blue of the older woman’s eyes. He also couldn’t help but notice his brother’s surly look. “I know it’s a stretch, Dave,” he whispered in his brother’s ear, “but I think a few hours of grown-up conversation might do you good.” Dave gave his brother a vulgar but discrete hand gesture.

“Hi,” Clark said cheerfully. “You must be Gwen.” He held out his hand to her and they shook politely.

“And you must be Clark,” Gwen answered back with a nervous smile. “This is my friend Cynthia Quinn.” Cynthia and Clark shook hands and Clark felt himself pulled into the woman’s eyes as if diving into a deep lake.

Clark turned to Dave. “And this is my brother Dave. He’s staying with me for a few weeks so I asked him to join us.” Dave smiled slightly at Gwen but his smile faded when he looked at Cynthia. He made no move to shake either woman’s hand.

All through dinner Cynthia wished that Clark had come alone. Where Clark was considerate and charming, his brother was rude and sullen. They were both very distinguished and successful looking and resembled each other a great deal. Cynthia guessed them to be close to six feet tall. The differences were that Dave’s body was very toned and his hair was dark with graying at the temples, while Clark’s physique was a bit soft and his hair was salt and pepper. Too bad, she thought more than once, that Dave was so unpleasant. It would have been fun to do more together.

“So you’re a lawyer?” Cynthia asked Dave when there was a lull in the conversation.

“Yes,” he replied curtly and gawked around the dining room, never looking at her.

“My brother is a sole practitioner. He specializes in real estate law,” Clark added to bridge the awkwardness.

Gwen chimed in. “Cyn and I specialize in legal staff placements. You’ll have to give us a call if you ever need a temp or a new secretary.”

“I doubt that I will,” Dave said, looking briefly at Gwen.

Clark smiled at Gwen. “Dave’s staff has been with him forever. They never leave or get sick. He wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Somehow, I believe that,” said Cynthia just before taking a sip of her water.

Dave shot her a scowl.

“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Clark told them. “He and his lady friend just broke up and he’s not himself.”

“Both Gwen and I are divorced,” Cynthia said to Dave with a sympathetic smile. “We understand how tough that can be.”

Dave looked down his nose at Cynthia with glaring disdain. Across the table Gwen sucked in her breath.

“My brother has been married several times, I’m afraid,” Clark added, giving his brother a stern look. “Too bad he doesn’t treat his wives and girlfriends like he does his secretaries.”

“I do,” Dave replied with a smirk. “Both require large sums of cash to keep around. The secretaries just don’t have to live with me.”

Cynthia laughed softly. “Now there’s an employment perk I could sell to an applicant.”

“CAN YOU BELIEVE it?” Clark asked his brother on the way home in the car. “Cynthia is the woman who called herself middle-aged and menopausal in her ad.”

“And don’t forget the part about owning a gun,” Dave added sarcastically. “That was also classy.”

Clark shot his brother an annoyed glance. “You certainly did your best to ruin the evening. Any special reason?” Clark made a right-hand turn off of Olympic Boulevard onto Beverly Drive, and soon after onto Sawyer. He and Nancy had lived in the Beverlywood area of Los Angeles, just south of Beverly Hills, for years.

“I prefer picking my own dates, thank you.”

“Both of those women are charming, intelligent, and beautiful.”

“Well, one of them was.”

“I would stack Cynthia Quinn up against any of your silicone enhanced bimbos any day. You know, she started up that agency from almost nothing after her husband abandoned her and her daughter.” He received no response. “Too bad you prefer flash over substance.”

Dave laughed. “Substantial, now that is an adjective I would use to describe Ms. Quinn.”

Clark pulled the car into the driveway and opened the garage door with the automatic opener. When they got into the house, he poured them both a brandy.

“I have another favor, little brother,” he said, handing Dave the snifter.

Dave looked at him suspiciously. “Maybe I should pay you rent while I’m here. It’d be less stressful than all these favors.”

“Aw come on, admit it, you had fun tonight in spite of yourself.”

“I will admit that the filet mignon was perfectly cooked and the wine particularly good.”

Kicking off his shoes, Clark settled himself on the sofa and took a sip of brandy. “I have four tickets to the Ahmanson Theatre this Saturday evening. I want to take Gwen and I want you and Cynthia to come along. We’ll go to dinner after. It’ll be my treat.”

Dave took several sips of his brandy before answering. “First of all, Clark, you’re acting like Ms. BBW of the Year and I are dating. We’re not. I don’t date fat chicks and you know it. But I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go to dinner first, then I take that hot little number Gwen out dancing and you and Cynthia can go to the theatre.

“What is wrong with you, Dave? Cynthia Quinn is a very beautiful and accomplished woman. You should be proud to be seen with her.”

“Then you date her. In fact, why aren’t you dating her? Seems you’re quite taken with Cynthia. You talked more with her than Gwen during dinner and you’ve talked more about her than Gwen since dinner.”

“I have not,” Clark shot back, but noted his brother’s raised eyebrows.

Later that night in bed, Clark thought about the evening, going over the dinner conversation. Dave was right; he did spend more time conversing with Cynthia than with Gwen. Gwen was smart and delightful, a perfect companion, but she didn’t have Cynthia’s poise or razor-sharp intelligence. She was also more withdrawn and guarded about herself and changed the subject when asked personal questions. And it had been obvious to him that Gwen looked to Cynthia as her mentor and not just because of the age difference.

He thought about their physical attributes. Gwen’s figure was firm and trim and perfectly proportioned; exactly the type of body every woman vied for. Her face was angelic, though bore a deep sadness. He wondered about that. Maybe that was part of her reluctance to talk about herself. Cynthia’s face, on the other hand, although also beautiful, was etched with fine lines around her incredible eyes, lines that spoke of hard-earned wisdom. Her body was far from perfect, but Clark couldn’t deny the stirrings in his own body when he remembered how her full breasts pushed against her silk blouse or the sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him to their table. When he thought about Cynthia’s body, the word lush came to mind. Why, Clark thought to himself in the dark, couldn’t Dave see that?

“NO, NO, NO,” Cynthia said the following Monday morning. Gwen had just approached her about attending the theatre Saturday. Gwen started to speak, but Cynthia cut her off with a raised index finger. “I said no.”

Gwen placed her two hands on Cynthia’s desk and leaned forward. “Please, Cyn. I really like Clark and I think he likes me. We were on the phone last night for over an hour.”

Cynthia shook her head slowly. “I can see no means about as much to you as it does to my daughter.” She looked at Gwen. She had never been this excited about a man before and Clark Baxter did seem very nice. In fact, Cynthia was a bit envious. She would have liked to have been paired with him over his obnoxious brother, any day. “I think Clark is a true gentleman. Why don’t you see him one on one now? You don’t need me or his pain in the butt brother hanging around.”

Gwen suddenly looked panicked. “No, Cyn, not yet, please. I know he seems wonderful, but I just need to make sure first. Please do this for me.”

Cynthia knew she was beaten. She wanted happiness for Gwen almost as much as she wanted happiness for her daughter, Emma. If Gwen needed her support a little bit longer, she would provide it.

“Okay,” she finally said, “bring on the Baxters, both the good and the evil.” Gwen skipped around the desk and hugged Cynthia tightly.

CYNTHIA QUINN HAD had enough. It seemed to her that Dave Baxter was going out of his way to make everyone miserable. It was obvious that he had been drafted into the evening just as she had been, but at least she had the good graces to make the best of it. The evening should have been delightful; drinks, the theatre and a lovely supper afterward. But Dave was behaving like a spoiled and petulant child forced to visit a great-aunt with twelve cats. And she knew it had to do with her. Dave pointedly ignored her and spent much of the evening so far ogling cocktail waitresses. When he did speak, it was curt and to his brother, with a few sparse words to Gwen. He had not said one word to her all evening.

They were finishing up cocktails and getting ready to leave for the theatre when Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out a vibrating cell phone.

“Sorry, folks, but my boys said they’d call about now. I’ll take this outside.”

“Cyn,” Gwen said after Clark left the table, “would you like to go to the ladies room with me?”

“No, thank you, Gwen. I think I’ll break tradition and stay right here.” Cynthia flashed Dave a big saccharine smile. “Besides, I think it’s time, Brother Dave and I got to know each other better, don’t you, Dave?”

Dave narrowed his eyes at her but said nothing.

Cynthia turned back to Gwen who was now looking like a scared rabbit. Gwen knew very well what that tone meant. Without another word she left the table.

Cynthia turned back to Dave, her fake smile gone. “Now listen up, counselor, my friend Gwen really likes your brother, and I won’t have you ruining what should be a nice evening for the two of them. I don’t want to be here with you anymore than you want to be here with me, but them’s the breaks. We do what we have to for the people we love. So get over yourself and fast. You can go back to being a self-centered and selfish idiot tomorrow.”

“Me, self-centered and selfish? Boy, that’s rich.” Dave tossed back the last of his martini and called to the waitress for another, not bothering to see if Cynthia wanted one. “Why don’t you lose some weight so you can get dates on your own and not have to sponge off your cute friends?”

“What?” Cynthia sputtered. “Sponging off my friends? Is that what you think this is all about?”

Dave turned to face her, his face tight and bitter. “Clark told me how Gwen won’t go on a date without you. If you really are Gwen’s friend, you’ll get a life of your own. Or better yet, stay home and eat bonbons so I can have some fun.”

“Why, you little…,” Cynthia started, but stopped herself. She took several deep breaths in an attempt to keep from knocking his block off. She started to say something more, but stopped when she saw Gwen returning to the table. Instead, she whispered to Dave in a tight, barely controlled voice, “Listen, let’s just get through tonight, okay. I don’t give a rat’s behind what you think of me, but I will not have you spoiling Gwen’s evening or your brother’s. After tonight, you won’t have to see me ever again. Deal?”

“Deal.”

DAVE BAXTER WAS digging through the stacks of files on his desk when Clark poked his head into his office. “Hey, Dave, hope you don’t mind my popping in on you like this.”

Dave beamed at his brother, happy to see him. “Not at all, come on in. What’s up?”

“It’s about Gwen and Cynthia.”

It had been almost three weeks since the theatre evening and Dave had moved into his own apartment in Brentwood shortly after. He’d been so busy with his move and his law practice, he hadn’t talked to his brother about much of anything since that night.

“Gwen and Cynthia? Don’t tell me you’re still putting up with that double dating crap? What are you, in high school?”

Clark Baxter plunked down wearily in a chair across from his brother’s messy desk. “It’s not what you think, Dave. Not at all.”

“What I think is that you need to lose that pathetic best friend and have a real relationship with Gwen. If you don’t, you’re going to be walking down the aisle handcuffed to the both of them.” Dave shivered. “There’s an ugly thought.”

“Dave,” Clark began, leaning forward in his chair, “Gwen doesn’t have Cynthia tag along because she feels sorry for her. Quite the contrary. Cynthia comes along because Gwen is petrified of men and hasn’t been alone with one for years.”

“What?”

“It’s true. Gwen’s ex-husband beat her their entire marriage. Before that, it was her father who abused her. She would only go out with groups of friends until now and now she’ll only go out on dates if Cynthia is with her. Cynthia met Gwen when she was doing volunteer work at a battered women’s shelter. Cynthia hired her, trained her, and gave her a new start in life.”

Dave put down his paperwork and gave his brother his full attention. “I had no idea.”

“Neither did I until after that night at the theatre. Gwen told me everything over the phone the following day. Since then we’ve been out several times, but always with Cynthia. Sometimes Cynthia brings along a date, sometimes she’s solo. I know it makes her uncomfortable either way, but she’s a good sport about it. She truly wants Gwen to start trusting men again.” Clark gave his brother a small smile. “But there has been some progress. I did manage to entice Gwen out for lunch today on her own.”

“And how did that go?”

Clark ran a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing; I don’t know how it went. Gwen was still reluctant to talk about herself or about much of anything. On the phone she’s a different person, very chatty in fact. I really missed Cynthia’s stimulating conversation at lunch today.” He gave a sad chuckle. “I don’t know which woman I’m dating … Cynthia or Gwen.”

For the first time in a long time, the glib lawyer didn’t know what to say. The two brothers sat in silence for awhile, each thinking different thoughts. Clark pondered his confusion about which woman he was falling for, and Dave berated himself for misjudging Cynthia and treating her like crap.

HILDY PARKER, RECEPTIONIST for Quinn Legal Staffing, buzzed her boss with a call. “There’s a David Baxter on the phone for you.”

Cynthia hesitated, thinking Hildy had the name wrong. “You’re sure it’s not Clark Baxter?”

“I’m sure. It’s definitely David Baxter.”

“Tell him I’m in a meeting.”

A moment later Hildy buzzed Cynthia back. “He says he’s an attorney and that it’s urgent.”

Suddenly, Cynthia became worried. Maybe something had happened to Clark. She picked up the call. “Dave? Is something wrong?”

“Hi, Cynthia. Thanks for taking my call, not that I deserve it.”

“Is something wrong?” she repeated. She didn’t have time for idle chit-chat with this fool.

“Yes, something is very wrong. I’ve been a selfish, conceited idiot, just as you called it.”

“Is this admission supposed to shock me somehow?”

“Ouch, I deserved that.” There was a pause then Dave continued. “Cynthia, this is probably the last invitation you want to receive, but I’d like to take you to dinner, as a way of apology.”

“Apology accepted, but dinner is not necessary.” Another evening with Dave Baxter and Cynthia thought she would really own a gun.

“Please say yes. Come on, how often do you hear an attorney beg?”

“Actually, all the time,” she said, laughing slightly. “They beg me to send them qualified help who will put up with their inappropriate and childish behavior.”

They met that night after work at Typhoon, an Asian restaurant overlooking the runway at the Santa Monica Airport. She had suggested it and he had said it was one of his favorites, too.

“Thanks for coming,” Dave told her after their order was taken and the wine served. “I also wanted to talk to you about something.”

For the first time, Dave realized that his brother was right; Cynthia Quinn was attractive, very attractive. She sat across from him in a navy blue silk suit that accentuated her remarkable eyes and golden hair. She held herself almost regally, yet her facial features combined to reflect mischievousness just beneath the surface. Why hadn’t he seen that before?

“I’m all ears,” she said, adjusting the napkin on her lap.

“My brother told me about Gwen’s situation. And about why you are always with her.” He paused to take a drink of wine. “Very good wine, don’t you think? Client recommended it once.”

She looked Dave straight in the eyes and smiled. “You’re stalling.”

He gave a soft nervous laugh. “Guilty.” Being alone with Cynthia was definitely making him uneasy, but not in an unpleasant way.

“Anyway, Cynthia, I’m sorry about accusing you of being a lonely heart on their dates. It was wrong of me to make such an assumption and even more wrong of me to have treated you so shabbily.”

Cynthia raised her wineglass to him. “Apology accepted.” Dave raised his glass and they clinked.

Their appetizer came. Over tuna tartare, Dave shared his concerns with her. “I know my brother cares for Gwen a great deal, but is she capable of having a normal relationship with him?”

“Is that any of our business?” she asked.

“Might be, considering you go on all their dates and he’s my brother. Clark went through a very tough time when Nancy was killed. I don’t want to see him hurt again. Just as you don’t want to see Gwen hurt. But I can assure you my brother is not into brutalizing women in any fashion.”

“I don’t believe he is either. I’ve grown quite fond of him myself and would never encourage Gwen if I thought he could harm her in any way.”

“Back to my original question then. Do you think she is capable of eventually having a normal relationship with Clark, or any man for that matter?”

Cynthia shifted uneasily in the booth and played with her fork. “I’m not a shrink, Dave, so I don’t know. But I would like to think so. Gwen Rodgers is a wonderful woman with so very much to offer the right man.”

“And so are you.” Dave quickly looked around the restaurant in mock shock. “Oops, did I really say that out loud?”

Cynthia blushed deeply.

“Seriously, Cynthia, right now I’d be a whole lot more comfortable for my brother’s sake if it were you he was dating.”

“Don’t say that, Dave. Give Gwen a chance and please don’t interfere. It’s not fair, to Gwen or to Clark.”

Dave studied her over the rim of his wine glass. Cynthia Quinn really was a genuinely sincere and caring person. He was also finding her quite exciting. His eyes focused on her full rosy lips and for a moment he was lost in thoughts of kissing them. Quickly he cleared his throat

“How about fair to you?” he asked. “Are your feelings for my brother strictly platonic?”

Their entrée arrived and Cynthia avoided the question. It was the first time a fried catfish had ever come to her rescue. They ate in companionable silence for awhile before Cynthia spoke up.

“You know that Gwen and Clark had lunch together alone yesterday?”

“Yes, Clark told me. I saw him right after that.”

“That was a big step for Gwen. I was out of the office, so she had to make that decision on her own. She likes Clark a great deal. I encouraged her to do lunch again and soon. I think she’s going to ask him to brunch this weekend, just the two of them. She’ll meet him at a place at the beach.”

The catfish was delicious and Dave mulled things over while he ate. He knew his brother was torn between the two women, and with good reason. He agreed with Cynthia that Gwen and Clark should spend more time together alone, but something inside him wanted Cynthia to spend more time with Clark, too. But was it because he wanted Clark to think seriously about Cynthia or because he wanted to see more of her himself? He thought about asking her out on a real date, but after the way he had treated her, he didn’t think she’d agree.

“I have a plan that I’d like to run past you,” he finally told her.

“I’m all ears.”

“How about you encourage Gwen to spend more time with Clark during the day, meet him for lunches and weekend stuff in public, so he can get to know her better and she’ll become more comfortable. And when he wants to take her out at night, you and I will go along. Just until she’s ready to fly solo, that is.

Cynthia squinted at Dave suspiciously. “Okay, who are you and what did you do with David Baxter? Not that we want him back.”

Dave laughed so hard he choked on a bit of fish and had to wash it down with a big gulp of wine.

FOR THE NEXT few weeks Gwen and Clark had many daytime dates without chaperones. Each time Gwen met Clark in public she reported back to Cynthia that everything was wonderful and amazing. They were really growing attached to each other and Gwen was glowing like a lava lamp. Every Saturday night the four of them went out together and those evenings were filled with fun and laughter. Cynthia felt certain that Gwen was about to enter into a full relationship with Clark at any moment, and was surprised she hadn’t yet.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Gwen asked Cynthia one morning over coffee.

“Not much, just the usual. Why?”

“Clark wants us all to go to a cabin in Big Bear for the weekend. A client is loaning it to him. He says it’s very large and beautiful and right on the lake. Dave’s already said yes.”

“You and Clark are getting quite close. Sure you don’t want to go away alone?”

Gwen blushed. “Actually, part of me wants that very much, but another part of me is still too frightened. We haven’t done anything physical beyond a few deep kisses. Clark has been very patient.”

Frankly, Cynthia thought, Clark’s been a saint. He and Gwen still had not had an evening alone together, and Gwen still was not allowing him to pick her up at her apartment. Sometimes it felt like she and Dave were the couple and Gwen and Clark the chaperones.

“Well, okay, if you really want me to go.”

“It’ll be so much fun.”

The cabin in Big Bear was more like a small rustic mansion. It had five bedrooms, four bathrooms, seven color televisions and DVD players, a state-of-the-art kitchen, two decks and a hot tub. It was off season, so the little mountain town and the lake were quiet. The four of them drove up together in Clark’s car, leaving Los Angeles at noon to beat the Friday night commute traffic. That night before a fire, they ate popcorn and played Scrabble.

Saturday they spent exploring the charming mountain village and doing some light hiking. They had just returned to the cabin from a tasty and satisfying dinner at a pub in town. Cynthia was on the deck overlooking the lake, the sky was clear and the stars looked newly polished. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Dave. He was holding up an afghan.

“Hard to believe those are the same stars we have back in the city,” he said as he approached her. “I thought you might need this.” He placed the afghan over her shoulders. “Gets nippy up here at night.”

“Thanks, Dave, it was getting a bit cold, but I was too stubborn to go inside. I didn’t want to miss a moment of this peacefulness.”

“Did you bring your swimsuit?”

“Huh?”

Dave nodded over at the hot tub steaming away on the deck near them. “Clark turned it on before we left for dinner. It should be warm enough now.”

She laughed. “Alas, I did not bring my suit. It never occurred to me that we’d be living in the lap of luxury for the weekend.”

“It is quite a place, isn’t it? I’ve been up here a few times before. Clark’s client lets him use it almost anytime he wants.”

He pointed to the steaming pool. “But back to the hot tub. No suit is no problem, fair lady. I believe the owner keeps several extras in the bathroom just off the kitchen.”

Cynthia hesitated. “I’m sure the owner doesn’t keep my size swimsuit on hand.”

“Never know until you look. And if he doesn’t, you still don’t need one. You can wrap yourself in one of those oversized towels and I promise I’ll be a good boy and not look when you get into the water.” He crossed his heart with two fingers and held them up Boy Scout style.

“Are Clark and Gwen joining us?”

Dave grinned. “The two love birds have retired with a bottle of wine to the master bedroom.”

“You’re kidding?” Cynthia was genuinely surprised.

Dave shook his head and smiled.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said and turned back to star gazing. Although she was very happy for Gwen, Cynthia was sad for herself. She had grown fond of Clark, but she had fallen for his once arrogant brother. Now, there would be no excuse for the double dates.

Dave stood beside her at the deck railing, his face also turned up toward the stars. “I think everything will be fine now,” he said, but Cynthia thought his voice sounded cheerless.

He turned toward her, his face animated. “Now, about that hot tub.”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia said slowly while looking at the steaming water. She really did want to take a dip; and it wasn’t like she was a prude about nudity. Normally, she was very comfortable about her body and certainly not ashamed of it. But now that she felt more than just friendship for Dave, she was becoming self-conscious. She forced herself to make a decision. “You’re on, Mr. Baxter.”

The owner of the manse did not stock Cynthia’s size swimsuit, but she didn’t mind. She undressed and wrapped her naked body in one of the huge towels she found in the cupboard. She grabbed another for Dave to use and stepped onto the deck.

Dave was already in the water and probably naked, too, since the clothes he was wearing just ten minutes earlier were scattered on the wood deck. She walked up to the side of the tub and made a gesture for him to turn his head. It was now or never, she thought.

Dave had never seen a large naked woman up close. Until now, he had never wanted to, but he wanted to see Cynthia. In the past weeks he had fallen in love with her mind, her sense of humor, her decency and maturity, and her bottomless blue eyes. Now he wanted to love her body as well, but was afraid his old prejudices were ingrained too deeply.

With his head turned, he heard the sound of the water parting as Cynthia entered the tub across from him and began to submerge. He felt the undulating swell of the liquid as her body displaced it and he wanted to grab her right then and there. But just as his brother hadn’t wanted to scare off Gwen, Dave didn’t want to scare off Cynthia. He had gotten off on the wrong foot with her, and now he would have to take it slowly and carefully.

“Okay,” she said finally, “I’m in.”

He turned around and looked at her face. She had the most radiant smile he had ever seen. Beside it, the stars paled. His eyes traveled down the curve of her neck where it joined her plump shoulder and across her front where the water lapped at the tops of her large round breasts. He looked up again at her face and saw that she was blushing. It wasn’t the blush of a fresh maiden, but the blush of a knowing and experienced woman; a woman who was confident in herself and her appeal. He had never seen a blush like it before and he found it devastatingly desirable. His body responded but he held himself in check. Slow and careful, he reminded himself.

WITH HER DAUGHTER away with friends, Cynthia was looking forward to another quiet weekend, only this time it would be at home and not in Big Bear. Two peaceful weekends in a row, how lucky could she get? She had cleaned closets in the morning and gardened in the afternoon. She had just showered and wrapped herself in her favorite old bathrobe, and now was settling down with some hot soup and a good book. Tomorrow would be more of the same. Life was good, she told herself, but in reality she felt empty. Gwen and Clark were on solid ground in their relationship, which meant she would not be seeing Dave anymore. She had missed her chance with him, if she ever had a chance to begin with.

She sighed deeply and opened the new mystery novel she was dying to read. The doorbell rang just as she finished the first chapter. She looked out the peephole and asked who it was.

“It’s Dave, Cynthia. Dave Baxter.”

She pulled the collar of her robe up higher and opened the door. Dave was on her doorstep dressed in a suit and tie and freshly shaved. He looked downright yummy.

“What’s up?” she asked, suddenly conscious of her wet hair and natty robe.

He stepped inside and looked her up and down. “You’re not ready yet?”

“Ready for what? Did I miss something?”

“It’s Saturday night.”

“Yes, so what?”

“We go out every Saturday night?”

“Correction, counselor,” Cynthia said closing the door and beckoning him to follow her into the living room, “we did go out every Saturday night. But Gwen and Clark don’t need us anymore. In fact, I believe they are up at the cabin again this weekend…alone.”

Dave Baxter gently took hold of Cynthia shoulders and spun her around so that she faced him. He planted a firm kiss on her surprised lips.

“They may not need you anymore, Cynthia, but I do.” He kissed her again, this time longer.

When he pulled back Cynthia’s eyes were teary and her face wore the same mature blush it had in the hot tub. She reached up and stroked his face gently then softly kissed him back. Moving her hand to cup the back of his head, she drew him closer for a deeper kiss. This time the kiss seemed endless and their tongues were playful. Cynthia felt Dave’s arms wrap around her. His hands cupped her big bottom through the robe and pulled her to him, body to body, as his mouth crushed her mouth. He moaned lightly.

When the kiss finally ended, Dave whispered in her ear, “Do you really own a gun?”

About the Author

Sue Ann Jaffarian is the author of the award-winning Odelia Grey mystery series which features a plus-size paralegal as an amateur sleuth. In addition to being a novelist, Sue Ann is a legal assistant and a sought-after motivational and humorous speaker. She lives and loves in Los Angeles, California, where she is currently working on Remedial Murder, the third installment in the Odelia Grey mystery series, and God’s Apology, a non-mystery novel. Love Bytes is her first romance fiction.

A CHANGE IN DIRECTION

Nancy Trausch

Dedication

To my entire family. Thanks for the support and love you’ve given me throughout the years. And to my plus-sized sisters in the world. You go, girls.

“OUCH!”

Jade Reynolds jumped at the pain in her shin and dropped her book on the airport floor to massage it away.

“Are you all right?”

Looking up, Jade smiled at the beautiful, young Asian woman who’d been sitting next to her for the last half hour in the small waiting area of the private airport hangar. “Yeah. I’ll live. Thanks.”

“I can’t believe that guy smacked you with his briefcase like that and didn’t even apologize.” The woman settled back into her metal armchair, brought her long, jean-clad legs under her chin and hugged them. “Men can be really rude to women sometimes.”

“I guess.”

“I’m China Davis,” the woman continued. “Third-year prep chef at the Grand Hotel, but hoping for a promotion this season. You can blame my first name on my father. He was determined that I never forget my heritage…like I could with this hair and these eyes. But the guys love the Lucy Liu look, so I guess I shouldn’t whine too much.”

Jade finished massaging the last of the pain from her shin and straightened up. As she did, she allowed herself a moment to envy her lithe neighbor who could move so easily between the arms of the narrow chair when she had been unsure as she sat down whether her ample hips would even fit. “Jade Reynolds. I’m going to help run The Curiosity Cove.”

China laid her cheek on her knee. “Never heard of it. Is it new?”

“Sort of. My friend took over a trinket shop on Main Street and is adding a lot of unique and different items to the mix so it doesn’t look like every other store on Mackinac island.”

“Cool. Maybe if I ever get away from chopping mountains of vegetables, I’ll check it out.”

“Good.” Jade smiled then picked up her book to continue reading and hopefully send a polite do-not-disturb vibe to her chatty neighbor.

“AREN’T YOU THE lucky one today,” Captain Tom Lawson said as he watched the passengers through the office window.

“How so?” Rick asked, also looking at the faces in the waiting room. Some he recognized from past years, some were new; like the full-figured, curvaceous woman with the light pink turtleneck sweater, blue jeans, and long dark blonde hair that fell softly around her face as she held a hardcover book on her lap.

“China.”

Rick slowly turned away from the glass and walked over to the counter. “What about her?”

“She’s on your flight. Didn’t you read your passenger list?”

“I guess I missed that.”

“Man.” Tom ran his fingers through his short silver-gray hair. “How could you miss something as perfect as that? You’ve got to open your eyes, buddy. Life’s pretty boring if you don’t take the time to admire the beautiful women of the world.”

“I admire them,” Rick replied. “Just from afar.”

Tom looked hard at his friend. “You need to get out there again, Rick. Check out the ladies. See if there’s someone who fits into your life. I know Susan wouldn’t want you to spend the next forty-some years of your life alone.”

“Are you saying I should spend them with China Davis?”

“Hell, no. She’s mine. We’re a match made in Heaven. She’s tall. I’m tall…”

Rick laughed as Toby walked into the office through the back door. “If that’s your only requirement for a relationship, it’s no wonder you’re divorced.”

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” The old pilot and mechanic grinned at the two younger men as he wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

“Toby.” Tom turned away from Rick. “How’s my plane this fine afternoon?”

“All ready to go.” Stuffing the grimy rag into the back pocket of his worn coveralls, Toby pulled his clipboard from under his arm and began to fill out his inspection papers. “Your cargo’s loaded, the fuel tanks are full, and the nose is pointed in the right direction. The day is clear, and the winds are calm. You should have no trouble whatsoever flying over and back.”

“Good. I could really use a nap.”

Toby looked up from his board with an air of concern. “But you, Montgomery, you won’t be napping on your late return flight. There’s storms building in Wisconsin, and by the time they get over here, they’re supposed to be severe.”

“When are they going to hit?”

“The weather service says after midnight.”

“Forget what I said about being lucky, Montgomery.” Tom laughed.

Rick ignored Tom’s remark and threw his arm across Toby’s shoulders. “But what do those knees of yours tell you, old wise one?”

“That you need to get back here before midnight.” Toby went back to his forms. “The ache is getting worse by the hour.”

“Then I’ll do my best.”

“Good boy.” The old man signed off on the papers with a flourish. “I haven’t lost a pilot yet, and I don’t plan to start now.”

“IS HE GORGEOUS or what?” China sighed.

“Huh?” Jade looked up from her page and saw her neighbor staring at two good-looking men in bomber jackets and faded jeans walk out of the office. One was very tall, lean, and wore his silver-gray hair cut close to his head. The other was slightly shorter, solid, with a thick head of chestnut-colored hair cut away from his ears and just touching the back of his collar. They silently approached the small group of waiting passengers with the comfortable ease of men used to being in charge.

Stopping in front of the attentive passengers, the taller one scoped out Jade’s stunning seatmate then called his friend’s attention to her with a less than subtle nudge of his shoulder and a nod in her direction.

“Are you talking about him?” Jade asked in a whisper.

“Hell no,” China replied as the taller of the two sent a brilliant smile her way. “Tom Lawson’s a gray-haired gigolo.”

Jade bit back a laugh as the pilot in question assumed a position of authority in front of the small crowd.

“Are we planning on leaving today?” The man who’d smacked Jade’s shin with his briefcase grumbled from his chair at the front of the group. “I hate flying and want to get this over with. I was told the ferries would be running by now.”

“They usually are,” Tom answered. “But Mother Nature controls things around here, not us.”

“Don’t you have ships around here that can break through ice?”

“Not that it will do you any good in the next five minutes, sir.” He then unrolled his papers and cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, fellow island workers. I’m Captain Tom Lawson, for those of you who don’t know me. I’ll be taking the majority of you over to the island today on my big plane. The other six will ride with Captain Rick Montgomery on his little puddle jumper.”

Laughter rose from the room as he began reading off the passenger list.

“I really hope I don’t get on Lawson’s flight,” China whispered and set her chin back on her knees.

Jade didn’t care whose flight she was on, just so she got to Mackinac Island as soon as possible. After planning this new adventure for almost a year, she was ready to get started.

Bending down to slide her book into the front pocket of her backpack, she thought of what she’d left seven hours behind in her small hometown surrounded by Indiana corn fields: her ex-husband, or three-year detour in her life as she liked to call him; the bank teller job and its bland accompanying wardrobe; all the knickknacks and clutter that a woman of thirty-four would have collected in her life. And she realized the only thing she was going to miss, other than her sister Ruby and her family, was her prized ‘68 Mustang convertible. She was free and independent now and looking forward to this new chapter in her life.

She was going to work and live, fulltime, for six months or so, on Michigan’s Mackinac Island - a small, magical place that was like a step back in time. No motorized vehicles were allowed, so people had to get around by walking, riding bikes or in horse-drawn carriages. Every year, thousands of tourists came to the island by plane or ferry, to wander the quiet streets and visit the quaint shops, restaurants, and historical sites. She used to dream about what it would be like to stay there for more than just a couple of hours at a time, and now that dream was coming true.

“Okay, folks,” Tom said after he called the last name on the list and rolled his papers back into a tight tube. “You know which pilot to follow, so let’s head out.” He snapped out a mock salute at Jade’s new acquaintance. “See ya later, China doll.”

The recipient of the salute rolled her amber eyes and turned to Jade. “Thank goodness.” She sighed, dropping her feet to the floor. “We’re going with Rick.”

Jade slowly stood up and moved her attention from China to her pilot, who was busy talking with Captain Lawson while slipping on a pair of black leather gloves.

“His wife died, you know.”

“Whose?” Jade asked.

China slid off her seat and reached for her backpack. “Rick’s. But it’s been two years now, so he’s considered fair game. And I know more than one woman who’d love to be his co-pilot on land, sea, and mattress.”

“Like you?”

“Yeah, even if he is old.”

“Old?” Jade chuckled. “He’s not old.”

“Maybe not to someone your age.”

Jade’s laugh rose in volume, which brought Rick’s eyes and a heart-stopping smile her way. She sent a warm one back in return and picked up the backpack at her feet.

“I heard he’s put his heart on a shelf and is content for it to stay there.” China flipped her long, black, curly hair over her shoulders. “Still, if the right woman comes along, then maybe he’ll be ready to take it back down.”

Jade slung the pack over her shoulders. As she did, her eyes wandered to Captain Montgomery. He was now busy greeting passengers with a smile or a handshake, or both.

“Welcome back, Edward,” she heard him say to a fragile-looking older gentleman as he took a small satchel with care from the man’s gnarled hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I didn’t know if I’d be here this season or not, Ricky. The old ticker just ain’t what it used to be.”

“You’re tougher than I am, Ed.” Rick patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll be coming back here for another sixty-eight seasons, and riding shotgun on Lawson’s plane like you do every year.”

The elderly man straightened and slowly pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket. “You’re dang right I will.” He turned a bright eye on Lawson. “So what are ya waitin’ for? Let’s get that bird in the air!”
Jade grinned at the retreating back of the old fellow as he shuffled at a snail’s pace over to Tom’s side.

“I’m going ahead so I can get a front seat where I can flirt with him,” China stated, bringing her out of her thoughts. “Coming?”

“Yeah.” Jade watched the younger woman scoot through the crowd, then bent down to pick up her two duffle bags. For a second, she entertained the idea of doing a bit of flirting herself with the handsome, brown-haired pilot with the killer smile, then dismissed it. The ink on her divorce papers wasn’t even dry yet, and she didn’t want to get involved with another man for a long time.

“Let me get those for you, Ms. Reynolds.” A deep, warm voice filled the air around her just as two very masculine, black-gloved hands snatched the duffle bags away from her.

Startled, she looked up into the sparkling, light brown eyes of Captain Montgomery, and was once again hit with that kick-in-the-pants smile he’d shot her way earlier. “Thank you,” she replied as she straightened. “And you don’t need to take those for me.”

He went on as if she never spoke. “I see that according to the passenger manifest, you’re not a day-tripper.” He motioned for her to go ahead.

“No.” She started toward the door that led outside. “I’m staying all summer to help run a shop downtown.”

“That should be fun.” As he walked beside her, Jade couldn’t help enjoy the fact that her five-foot-four height came just to the top of his broad shoulder. It made her feel somewhat petite and protected.

Reaching the door, Rick moved ahead and opened it with his right shoulder. “I used to plan on saving my money so I could live there all season instead of just flying in and out.”

Jade almost asked him where he lived, but then decided it was none of her business.

“It’s a beautiful place,” he went on. “Especially once most of the crowds leave for the night.”

“I can’t wait to find that out, Captain,” she said, squinting as the bright afternoon sunshine bouncing off the metal buildings assaulted her eyes. She wished she knew where her sunglasses were. “I used to dream about renting one of those big gingerbread houses that overlooked Lake Michigan and spend all day sitting on the front porch reading.”

“My name’s Rick,” he said as they walked across the crushed-gravel parking lot towards the two planes in the distance. “And it sounds like you’ve been here before.”

“Yeah. But not since I was a teenager.”

He glanced her way. “Which was just a couple of years ago, right?”

“Yeah, right.” Jade laughed, and once again connected with his gaze, this time it was mixed with a mischievous smile.

“Try about twenty.”

“Then we must be about the same age.”

“If you say so.”

It was Rick’s turn to laugh. “I’m thirty-five.”

“Then you’re right, we are.”

Jade’s eyes wandered to the lettering on his ball cap, which read U.S.S. Nimitz C.V.N.-68. So, her friendly pilot was a former Navy jet jockey. Well, she’d have to keep her guard up around him or else her plans to be free and independent might fly out the window. She really didn’t need a repeat of that long ago but still painful experience in high school when she fell for the charming class jock who had strung her along, all the while making fun of her chubby self behind her back with the rest of his cliquish friends.

“Are you cold?” Rick’s concerned voice brought her out of her thoughts.

Jade shook the memory from her mind. “No. Why?”

“You shivered.”

“I did?” She shrugged it off. “It’s just the excitement I guess. I’ve never flown on a plane as little as yours before.”

“You’ll survive.” He chuckled as they reached the others waiting around the tail of the plane. Rick set her bags at his feet. “Go find yourself a seat. We’ll be taking off soon.”

Nodding, Jade handed him her backpack and headed for the drop-down stairway. China was waiting on the bottom step for her.

“Didn’t I tell you he was gorgeous?”

Jade glanced back over her shoulder at the man in question, who was once again talking easily with the other passengers. “Yes,” she replied as China scurried up the stairs ahead of her, “you did.”

China jumped into the vacant seat closest to the pilot’s before Jade had entered the plane. “So, are you now going to fall in line with the rest of us suckers and pine for a man in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses?” she asked.

“I would, if I were interested in getting into a romantic relationship again. But I’m not, so I won’t.”

“Good.” China fastened the seatbelt across her slim waist. “That’s one less gal for me to compete with.”

Jade smiled to herself as she traipsed down the narrow aisle, gripping the top of each high-back, gray, leather seat as she went. She admired China’s persistence and chuckled in amusement at being deemed “competition” by such a gorgeous, willowy woman.

After settling into a window seat over the wing, she fastened her seatbelt and waited for take off. A few moments later, Rick entered the plane, glanced back at his seated passengers through mirrored sunglasses, dropped down into his seat and brought his plane to life. Jade drew in a long breath as the small craft began to move and gathered speed. The runway was a bit bumpier than she’d like, and she grabbed the armrests in a white-knuckled death grip. The nose rose, the tarmac dropped away from her window, and instantly she was a part of the sky. The plane soon leveled off, and Jade relaxed.

Turning her head, she peeked out the window to see the brown of late April below her and the blue-gray icy waters of Lakes Michigan and Huron in the distance. And in the far off western horizon, a bank of thick white clouds billowed into the air. She stared at them for a long time then turned her focus on the massive Mackinac Bridge that they were nearing. The tops of its two towers rose high into the air, while its footings sank deep into the icy Straits of Mackinac, which formed the separation between Lakes Michigan and Huron. The bridge was the connection between Michigan’s lower and upper peninsulas.

Resting her elbow on the tiny, narrow windowsill, Jade lost herself in the view outside.

After about ten minutes, she saw movement in the aisle beside her as China knelt down and folded her arms on the armrest.

“Well, that was a waste,” the younger woman sighed.

Jade couldn’t miss the frown on her new friend’s face. “What was?”

“Flirting with our handsome pilot. He’s too busy trying to fly this thing.”

“Sorry.” Jade took a peek outside as the western edge of Mackinac Island came into view. “Better luck next time.”

China’s frown faded and a mischievous smile crossed her lips. “So, I guess I’ll spend the rest of the trip bothering you.”

And she did, though Jade really didn’t mind. It made the last part of the trip go by quickly. They even continued talking after the plane had come to a smooth landing at the Mackinac Island Airport and all the other passengers had disembarked.

“Well, there you are.” Rick smiled as they finally emerged from the hatch. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you somewhere over the Straits.”

“Oh, we were just gossiping,” Jade replied, feeling happy and light and ready to take the next step in her new adventure.

He bent down to pick up China’s backpack. “About me?”

“Oh, no.” China giggled. “We’d never talk about you.”

“Sure.” Rick handed China her pack with a sarcastic grin.

“Good luck, Jade,” China called as she backed away. “Bye, Rick.”

Jade watched her friend turn and sprint for the red work wagon with the fringed white and yellow canopy over its bench seats. There were already a number of people waiting on it, all heading for their jobs at The Grand Hotel.

“Where are you off to, Ms. Reynolds?” Rick asked as the wagon drove off.

“It’s Jade, and The Curiosity Cove is on the corner of Main Street and the entrance way to one of the ferry lines. I forget which one it is.”

A gust of warm wind came from nowhere and burst across the tarmac, making the plane shake slightly. Rick pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and glanced westward for a second. “That means you’re waiting for the Main Street taxi.”

“Yep,” Jade replied, reaching into her front jeans pocket and fishing out a pink hair scrunchie.

Rick pushed his leather jacket sleeve away from his watch. “It’s not supposed to get here for another ten minutes.”

“That’s okay.” She quickly gathered her wind tossed hair away from her face and tied it into a low ponytail. “I’ll wait.”

Dropping her hands, she stepped away from the plane and looked around at the other passengers waiting for the horse-drawn taxi under the shade of the protruding front roof of the small hangar, which looked like a long, single story house. Moving her eyes, she then saw Tom Lawson’s sleek white plane gleaming in the warm sunshine, and the tall captain standing at the nose talking to someone.

About five hundred feet away, she caught the yellow, white and purple blooms of spring wildflowers peeking out from the nearby trees and grasses. And once again, the warm wind blew past her, playing with her ponytail like a kitten playing with strings of yarn. Happiness poured through her, and she threw her arms out to her sides. “I’m here, Mackinac Island!” she shouted into the wind and began twirling like a skater on ice. “My baggage is stored, my slate is clean, and I’m ready to take you on!”

She spun in tight circles, laughing at the childish, light feeling in her soul until her head began to swim and she slowed to a stop. As her vision steadied, she saw Rick leaning back against his plane, arms folded across his chest, staring at her with an amused smirk on his face.

“What’s so funny?” she asked as she propped her hands on her hips.

“You,” he replied with a pleasant chuckle. “You looked like a pink and blue helicopter.”

“I can’t help it. I’m happy to be here.”

“I can tell.”

Her hands spread out to the air again as she walked towards him. “I finally quit the boring bank teller job that I put up with for ten years. I said ‘see you in six months’ to my loving but much too motherly big sister. And I’m finally out of a loveless three-year marriage to my ex-best friend which was only created because Jeff and I didn’t want to be single anymore.”

“You’re divorced?”

“It’ll be a month next week.”

His chuckle returned. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Jade’s eyes locked onto Rick’s. And though he was still smiling, in the bottomless depths of his light brown eyes she could see a hint of sorrow hiding there. She fought the need to ask him if he was happy.

“Then by all means, spin,” he said, as the sorrow retreated into the shadows at the same time his hand reached out to take her left arm. “You deserve it.”

“Jade Reynolds?”

A deep voice resonated through her, and she turned to see an unkempt, giant-sized man standing behind her.

“Are you Ms. Reynolds?” he repeated.

Rick moved his hand from her arm to just below the back of her neck. “Hey, John.”

“Captain Montgomery.” John nodded, unmoved and somber before returning his attention to Jade. “Ann Spencer sent me to get you. My wagon’s over there.” He jerked his large thumb over his shoulder towards a dirty, green-colored, flatbed wagon with a long box serving as the seat. Two large bay horses were flicking their tails and waiting with great patience for their master to return. “She said that if you took the Main Street taxi, she’d be dead in a sea of boxes and newspapers before you got there. Are these your bags?” He nudged the bags at Rick’s feet with an oversized boot.

Before either one could answer, he seized the luggage and swung them over his shoulder with ease. “Ready to go?”

“In a minute.”

The big man nodded and headed for his wagon, lugging her bags as if they weighed nothing at all. Jade turned back to Rick. “Who’s that?”

“John Sanders. He’s been on this island for years; does odd jobs and errands for everyone. Nice enough guy, but he always makes me think of Lurch from the Addams Family when I see him.”

She grinned at his words. “So you think I’ll be safe with him?”

Moving his eyes from John to her, he scoffed. “Sure. I wouldn’t let you get into his wagon if I didn’t. Just don’t plan on having any long conversations with him.”

“I won’t.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for a very easy, very smooth trip.”

Rick took her hand in a warm, firm grip. “You’re welcome. Now go fly off and conquer this island.”

“I will.” Reluctantly, Jade pulled away. “Goodbye, Rick.”

The heart-stopping smile returned. “Goodbye, Jade.”

She took a couple of steps backwards, holding onto his face with her eyes before turning towards the wagon.

ANN DREW JADE into a tight embrace as John set her bags on the wooden floor of the shop and left. “I’m so glad you’re finally here! I’ve been lost in cardboard and newspapers for two days now, and there’s still more to unpack, let alone everything that has to be set up and dusted…” Her voice faded away as she tucked a loose strand of honey blonde hair that had worked its way free from the pigtail behind her left ear. “I’m beginning to think I made a mistake taking over this shop, Jade”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get it done. You just tell me what to do.” She pushed up the sleeves of her pink turtleneck.

“Ah, fresh optimism, I need it.” Ann chuckled as she picked up Jade’s backpack. “Come on. I’ll show you to your apartment first.”

Jade grabbed her two duffels and followed. “You look good, Ann.”

“You mean for a thirty-three year old, twice-divorced woman, dealing with an early mid-life crisis while taking on a busy resort island trinket shop and hoping to find husband number three to whisk me away to the land of luxury? Thanks.” She led the way around the cash counter and to a door right behind it. “So, how was the trip over?”

“Fine.” Jade waited as Ann opened the door that led upstairs.

“This wind didn’t bother you?”

“It didn’t pick up until after we arrived.”

“Did you meet anyone interesting on the flight?”

Jade decided not to tell Ann about Rick for the moment. “A couple,” she replied.

Ann sighed. “I’ve only met John so far.”

“Well, when we’re all set up, you’ll have time to go visit.”

Ann set the backpack beside the only door on the left-hand side of the dim hallway, turned the knob and pushed. “There’s that fresh optimism again. You’d better bottle it for later when we’re both about to throw up our hands and cry. Now, go change into something you don’t mind getting dirty in, and come back downstairs. We have a lot of work to do.”

THE NIGHT WAS too warm and sticky for the end of April, and the air smelled of rain. Jade had opened the front door an hour ago to cool the place off, and once in a while she caught the tantalizing whiff of daffodils before the breeze shifted, taking away the delightful smell and cool relief with it. Thoughts of those cheerful looking yellow flowers made Jade resolve to talk Ann into letting her set up a couple of window boxes just outside the front door.

Returning her attention to the boxes, she continued to load the contents on a desk sitting near the front window. Ann had taken a spot at the cash counter and was busy tearing down all the empty cartons for recycling. Soft piano music floated out of the sound system, helping to keep both women calm in the face of all the mess. Little by little, every flat surface in the store was being filled with trinkets, books and oddities, while cardboard boxes, newspaper and packing peanuts were tossed on the floor. It looked like a tornado had blown through, but Jade knew that it would look better when the first of the tourists were supposed to arrive in a week.

Sweat beaded her forehead, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand before bringing up a small package with a return address label from the Florida Keys. Opening the carton with a little less energy than she had three hours ago, she found a wooden jewelry box with a strange spiral symbol carved on its top nestled in a bed of newspapers. Carefully, she pulled it from its wrappings, nudged the carton onto the floor with her elbow, and set the box on the desktop. Lifting the lid, she discovered four small velvet pouches tucked inside, each in a different deep, jewel tone color.

She picked up the royal blue pouch and held it in the air. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Ann glanced up from slicing and dicing another carton.

“This.”

“Oh, that. It’s a good luck medallion created from a silver coin found in a shipwreck site in the Florida Keys. I bought it, and the others in that box, over the Internet from some guy down there.”

Jade reached into the small bag and pulled out a medallion hanging from an intricate silver chain. The image of a ship crashing through the waves was embossed on the front, and another odd raised spiral symbol was on the back. She dangled the trinket from its chain and admired how the shop lights brought out the colors of blue and green around the edges. It was almost like she was holding a piece of the sea.

“That one’s meant for safe journeys,” Ann stated, going back to breaking down the boxes. “There’s also one for romance, one for good fortune, and one for healthy children. I figure they’re all hogwash, but what the heck, someone will buy them just because they’re pretty. There should be a card for each one telling their story. I’m not sure how best to display them—maybe punch a small hole in the card and slip the chain…” She dropped the utility knife on the counter and sighed. “Oh, hell. Let’s call it a night. I’ll take this cardboard out back. Drag some of that junk away from the front door and close it, okay?”

“Okay.” With great reluctance Jade dropped the mesmerizing decoration into its pouch and laid it back in its box. She ran her fingers over the velvet one last time, startled when she didn’t feel the metal’s solidness beneath it. Panic set in as she realized that she must have dropped it into the mass of newspaper and boxes she was standing in. Swearing under her breath, she got down on her hands and knees and began to search. But looking for a thin piece of silver in the gray, black, and white heap was like looking for a diamond in a bin of ice.

“Need some help?”

Jade was so surprised to hear Rick’s voice that she almost failed to grasp the missing necklace as her hand ran past it in her desperate search. Her heart jumped as her eyes shot up to focus on the man standing over her. “You scared the daylights out of me, Rick.”

“Sorry. The door was open so I didn’t knock.”

Wrapping her fingers around the charm, she sat back on her legs and stared at him. His hat was gone, there was a bead of sweat at his temple, and she could see signs of fatigue at the corners of his eyes. But that smile of his could still make her heart jump a beat. “What are you doing here?”

He extended his hand to her. “My good deed for the day.”

She accepted his assistance and rose to her feet, the medallion clutched tight in her left hand. “You mean saving me from this mess?”

“That.” He released her and reached back to where he’d thrown his jacket over a shelf. “And this.”

Jade blinked as he pulled a hardcover novel out from beneath it. “My book?”

“I found it in the corner of the cargo hold this evening while I was loading stuff to go back to the mainland.”

“But how did you know it was mine?”

“I saw you reading it this afternoon. It’s a good mystery. I read it myself a few weeks ago and—”

“Don’t spoil the ending for me!” She widened her eyes in mock horror.

Rick chuckled and then leaned against a shelving unit. “So this is The Curiosity Cove?”

“Yep. It looks bad, I know.” Jade dropped the book on top of a box. “But we have a week to put it all together.”

“Well, hello there.” Ann’s sultry voice slipped into their conversation.

Jade was not at all surprised that her friend’s man-radar was leading her right in his direction, and she fought the sudden urge to intercept her before she reached her target. “Hey, Ann. This is Captain Rick Montgomery, the pilot of the plane I came over on. He just brought over the book I left on board.”

“I see.” Ann smiled and held out her long, slender hand to him. “It’s nice to meet you, Captain Montgomery. I’m Ann Spencer, owner of this chaos you’re standing in the middle of.”

“It looks like some interesting chaos,” he replied, taking her hand for just a second.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Jade then caught one of Ann’s signature moves: the crossing of her arms just under her breasts and a long, deep inhale. It was designed to give the man in her sights a nice view of her ample chest. And since the first three buttons of her blue and green plaid flannel shirt were already undone, Jade knew Rick was getting a jaw-dropping view of her cleavage. A quiet sigh escaped Jade’s lips as she peered down at her own middle-sized chest, which was covered by an oversized, cut-up blue and white Indianapolis Colts T-shirt. No competition there. But as she looked back up, she caught a smirk from Rick and suddenly felt foolish for worrying about her breast size.

“Would you like to look around, Rick?” Ann tilted her head at him. “I’m sure I can find something in all this mess that would interest you.”

“I’m sure you could, but I’m flying to the mainland in less than an hour.”

“Why so late?”

“Well, someone has to take passengers and cargo back after hours. Tonight’s my turn. But I don’t mind. It gives me a chance to explore the island after most of the tourists leave for the night.” He tossed a knowing wink at Jade that made her tingle from head to toe. She returned his conspiratorial smile, the warmth of having a shared joke spreading through her like butter on bread fresh from the oven.

“I see.” Ann dropped her arms and stepped beside him. Reaching out for a piece of newspaper on the shelf next to his arm, she brushed it gently. “I haven’t had a chance to do that yet.”

“I’m sure you will.” Rick straightened, grabbed his jacket, and threw it over his shoulder. “And now I need to go. It was nice meeting you, Ann.”

“Can I walk you out?” Jade asked before Ann could volunteer.

“Sure.” He reached out to take her hand.

“Stop back again when you have the chance, Captain.” Ann’s voice was quiet as she let the piece of newspaper fall from her hand and flutter to her feet.

“I will. Goodnight.”

The music from the store faded into the quiet of the night as Jade and Rick stepped onto the wooden boardwalk that ran in front of and along the western side of the store. A line of tall streetlights stood like soldiers along Main Street. Their glow highlighted the strong sway of hanging signs in the growing strength of the wind.

Silently, Jade let Rick maneuver them away from the front doors and toward the ferry docks, which were dimly lit and quiet since the water was still frozen. The indigo sky was void of stars. The air seemed even warmer than it had earlier and the humidity level had risen.

“I think it’s going to rain soon,” Jade stated as she leaned her bare forearms on a narrow railing. Making sure not to drop the medallion, she gazed down at the ice around the dock’s supports.

“It is.” Rick leaned backwards on the railing beside her and glanced westward. “Actually, it’s supposed to storm.” A forceful gust of wind pushed at them, as if to make his point.

She looked away from the ice. “Then isn’t it too dangerous to fly?”

“Not if I take off soon. My cargo’s all loaded, and what few passengers I have should be on their way to the airport right now. I should be safely landed at Gordon’s before the squalls hit.”

“Good.” She pushed herself off the railing and watched his hair flutter in the breeze. Hooking her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans, she drew in a long breath. “I don’t like storms.”

He turned his head to her. “Oh, I don’t mind them, as long as I’m not a few thousand feet off the ground.”

Jade chuckled. Somewhere up the lamp-lit street people walked by, talking and laughing quietly. A second later, the clip-clop of horse hooves mingled with the jingle of a harness. And then there was silence again.

“This is nice.” Rick’s rich voice interrupted the peaceful companionship between them. “Susan and I used to sit in the darkness and listen to the island sounds for hours.”

“Susan?” Jade feigned ignorance.

“My wife. She died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He reached up to run his fingers through his hair and stared across the docks. “She loved the island as much as anyone could. She was an interpreter at Fort Mackinac, and her dream was to sell our condo in Mackinaw City and live here fulltime. It’s really expensive, but I was willing to do anything to make her happy. She was my whole life; my world.” He paused for a second and drew in a deep breath.

There was a long pause as Jade studied at the man in front of her, staring into the distance as if trying to see the past. His last statement rolled around in the warm breeze that continued to pick up in intensity.

Then, in an instant, the mood changed. A smile returned to his face, and he shifted his eyes to her. “But you don’t want to hear all this.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, bringing up her right hand to push away the loose strands of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail and into her eyes. “You listened to me go on about my life this afternoon.”

His grin turned into the same amused smirk that had crossed his face back at the airport. “But that was fun. I liked watching you spin around like a top and shout into the air like a loony person.”

Jade laughed and slapped him on the arm. “Get out of here, Montgomery.”

The medallion suddenly warmed in her grip, and she quickly grabbed his arm. “No. Wait.”

“Make up your mi—”

“Here.” She grabbed Rick’s right hand and dropped it into his palm.

“What is this?” He stared at the piece of silver.

She crossed her arms. “It’s a charm that promises safe journeys. I was looking for it when you saved me from the trash monster. It’s made from a coin found at a Florida Keys shipwreck site. I know it’s probably just silly, but I like it. I’m not sure what the symbol on the back means and—” She stopped herself. “Oh, heck. Like I said, it’s silly.”

Rick closed his hand around the piece. “No. It’s not. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll bring it back the next time I’m in town.”

“No. Keep it. I want you to be safe all the time, not just tonight.”

Slowly, he reached out to touch her cheek. His hand was still wrapped tight around the medallion while his thumb gently caressed the side of her face. “You’re a very special woman, Jade Reynolds.”

Jade allowed herself to enjoy the feel of his touch for a short time before finally, reluctantly, reaching up to take his hand away. “If you don’t get out of here right now and beat the storm, that medallion will really have to prove it works.” Her voice was soft as she squeezed his fist tight.

“I know.” Rick raised their joined hands and kissed the top of hers gently. “I’ll come see you tomorrow. I promise.”

“Please be careful.”

“I will.” He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger then took a step back. “I think I’ll bring Lawson with me. I know he’d love a personal tour of the shop from Ann.”

Jade laughed as China’s comment of Captain Lawson being a “gray-haired gigolo” flashed through her mind. He might just be Ann’s type. “And she’d love giving it to him,” she called after him, giving him a wave before wrapping her arms around herself.

He blew her a kiss, then turned and faded into the darkness of the street. A soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she stood on the lamp-lit dock and let the wind whip around her.

She almost, almost, did her happy spin again.

“WHY DON’T YOU cut it a little closer next time, Montgomery!” Toby tried to shout over the wind as he sat in the driver’s seat of his truck; aiming the headlights at the plane’s stairway. “You knew these storms were heading our way!”

“This one blew up out of nowhere, old man!” Rick hollered back as he stood at the top of the stairs and watched his four passengers race into the oncoming storm and jump into their vehicles. When he saw they were all safely on their way, he ducked into the cockpit to grab his jacket, keys and the medallion that he’d hung from one of the radio knobs.

The wind shook the plane as he glanced out the windshield to see Toby move his huge pickup truck to the nose, jump out, and grab the tow line from the bed. Rushing back outside, Rick leaped from the stairs and landed on the tarmac just as a huge gust blew between the buildings. Through the dust and dirt, he quickly raised and secured the hatch, then threw his stuff into the truck’s passenger seat before heading for the hangar. He groaned into the wind, slid the metal doors open and stepped away as Toby finished hitching the plane to the truck. Dirt, dust and spits of rain beat at him as he shielded his eyes and watched the truck and his plane head his way. The moment they were both inside the large open space, he unhooked the towline.

“I warned you to get back here before midnight,” Toby grunted as he jumped out of the truck and helped Rick push the plane into its parking spot. “But did you listen to me?”

“I did get back here in time! I told you, this storm formed out of nowhere.” But Rick knew a big part of why he’d cut it so close had been a certain beautiful woman he’d found sitting in a pile of newspapers wearing worn-out black jeans and a cut-off T-shirt that showed off her very sexy, full curves. He wasn’t about to admit that to Toby, though. He tossed the rope into the rear of the truck.

“The weather service says this line of storms is getting nastier.” The old man stared at the metal roof as it rippled in the wind.

Rick remembered Jade’s comment about not liking storms, and an overwhelming frustration that he couldn’t go back to the island to see her through this one flooded his heart. But there was nothing he could do except send positive thoughts her way and hope she wouldn’t be too scared.

“Are you going home or staying here?”

“Home.” Rick pulled open the passenger door and yanked out his jacket. “I’m not about to sit around and wait for a tornado to plow through this flimsy airport.”

“It’s weathered fifty years of storms, Montgomery,”

Rick put on the jacket, checked to make sure the medallion was in the pocket, and headed for the hangar doors. “There’s always a first time.” He motioned Toby outside and slid the doors shut as soon as his friend cleared the entry. “Stay safe, old man!”

Toby waved and drove off for the main hangar as Rick ran for his Jeep. Lightning hit a tree at the western edge of the airport, the surprise and its proximity causing him to miss his first attempt at unlocking the door. He couldn’t get to the end of his ten-mile drive home fast enough. The trees would help protect his top-heavy jeep from the wind somewhat, but they would also hide anything that was about to drop out of the sky.

The rain finally came down with a whoosh as he peeled out of the driveway. Rick set the windshield wipers on high as he slowed to thirty-five miles an hour. Turning on the radio, he settled back and tried to listen to the overnight host of his favorite sports talk station. But instead of concentrating on the announcer’s words, his thoughts again traveled to Jade. He smiled at the memory of her spinning in the wind and giggling like a little girl.

And then, a few hours later, finding that the little girl had changed into a woman who had quietly listened to him reminisce about Susan and wanted to keep him safe by giving him a silly medallion. He could still feel the warmth of her hand in his and the softness of her cheek against his thumb and wished that he had kissed her lips instead of her hand. Shifting in his seat, he wondered if he’d actually found a woman worth bringing his heart out of the closet for.

After allowing himself another moment to fantasize about kissing her, he turned his attentions back to driving. There were few vehicles on the road so late and in such weather, most heading in the opposite direction. Still, it was nice to know he wasn’t the only fool out on a night like this. Up ahead of him was a curve he knew was very sharp, so he slowed his Jeep a bit more.

Too bad the SUV sliding across the other lane didn’t do the same.

Rick spun the steering wheel hard to the right then braced for the crash he knew was inevitable.

THE EARLY MORNING sunlight was warmer than the air as Jade stepped out of the shop, wrapped in a purple sweater with a mug of fresh coffee cradled between her hands. Leaning back against one of the porch posts, she gazed at the debris-littered street.

The storms during the night had been bad. Signs were down, awnings ripped, some windows were broken, and everything from tiny twigs to small trees were scattered everywhere. Island maintenance workers and shop owners were busy cleaning up the mess, righting overturned items, and tossing unsalvageable ones into wagons. The Curiosity Cove had a small window broken out on the western side, which soaked a few books, but no other damage. And that was good, since Ann was upset enough as it was.

Staring up into the clear blue sky, she wondered what Rick would have to say when he came by later. The thought of seeing him made her smile. The storms hadn’t been the only thing that had kept her awake most of the night. In fact, she’d been grateful for a distraction from the booming thunder and gusting winds.

“Hi, Jade.”

“Hey, China.” Jade looked away from the sky as the young woman bounded across the street towards her. “How’d the hotel fare?”

“Management has every available employee out looking for what blew off the porch last night, which is just about everything. I decided to take a break and check on you. How’d you survive?”

“We have a broken window and a few inventory casualties, but that’s it. I didn’t think Mackinac Island got storms that bad.”

“We do, but only about once a season.”

“Good. Then we’re done for the year.”

“Let’s hope.” China walked past Jade and peeked into the front windows of the shop. “Are you guys going to be ready next week?”

“Yep.” Jade took a sip of her coffee and returned a wave from a passing wagon driver. “Most of the mess is just newspaper and boxes that need to be thrown away.”

“Good.” She turned away from the windows. “Guess what I heard this morning?”

“What?”

“Rick Montgomery’s in the hospital.”

The mug threatened to slip out of Jade’s hands. “What?”

“I heard it from one of the housekeepers who flew over this morning with Captain Lawson. I guess Rick’s Jeep got smashed between an SUV and a tree last night while driving home during a storm.”

“Is he okay?”

“I hear he has a broken right arm and tons of cuts and bruises. His Jeep’s toast, though. The police say he’s really lucky to be alive.”

Jade raised her eyes to heaven. “Thank God. What hospital is he in?”

“Cheboygan Memorial.”

“Where’s that?”

China smirked. “In Cheboygan.”

“Which is how far away from here?”

“Are you planning on going to see him?”

“I’d like to.”

“Well, the next flight off this island won’t be until after lunch. It’ll take you a couple hours to find a ride and get down to Cheboygan. By that time, he’ll probably be released.”

“Then I’ll call the hospital.”

“Like they’re going to tell some strange woman over the phone how he’s doing?”

“Then I’ll ask for his room.”

“I suppose you could. But if he’s already gone, you could always call him at home.”

Jade stared at her friend. “You have his number?”

China laughed out loud. “Gosh darn, Jade. I thought you weren’t interested in him.”

“We’re friends.”

“My. That was fast. So, when did this little relationship go from just being a passenger and a pilot to friends?”

“Last night.”

“Oh?” China raised an elegant eyebrow. “Were we the co-pilot of his mattress?”

“No.”

After waiting for more information that never came, China sighed. “Okay, I get it. None of my business, right?”

Jade took a sip of her now cold coffee.

“He was too old for me anyway,” China said after a short silence.

The thought of China being hurt by her admission had never crossed her mind until now. She looked at the slightly disappointed frown on the younger woman’s face. “China, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, really.” China shrugged and stared at the street. “Just don’t hurt him, okay?”

“I won’t. And maybe we’re both just looking for a no-strings-attached relationship with lots of hot sex.”

China tilted her head, then shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I doubt that. Well, I guess I’d better get back to hunting for porch chairs and potted plants. And don’t worry about me, okay. There’re lots of men out here for me to drool over who will drool over me.”

Jade knew that was true. China headed down the street, and every man she passed turned to watch her.

“Who was that?” Ann appeared in the shop door.

“China Davis. One of the people I met on yesterday’s flight.”

Jade heard Ann say something else, but didn’t catch the words. She was too busy trying to figure out if this island had a Star Trek-type transporter beam so she could go to Rick’s bedside right now. She wanted to see him, and talk to him and…and take care of him with a desperation she could taste.

“Jade.”

Suddenly, Ann’s voice brought her mind back to the front porch of the shop.

“What did she want?”

Jade drew in a long breath. “She just wanted to see how we survived the storm.” The last thing Jade wanted was to share the news about Rick with Ann. Knowing her friend, she’d beat her to the airport, or the phone. Shifting off the porch pole, she headed into the shop. “I need to make a call.”

The week had flown by with the rush to get the shop ready to open. But in between unpacking, cleaning, and setting up, Jade couldn’t stop thinking about Rick. After finding out that he’d been released when she’d phoned the hospital, she’d waited for a call or visit from him. Neither came. Two mornings later, China had told her that the doctors had grounded him for a month, but otherwise, he was okay. That news had cheered her, but it would’ve been nice to hear it from him and not through a third party. She’d whipped off a note to Rick and had John take it up to the airport that afternoon to give it to Tom Lawson, but now, after a week of silence, she was sure her moment in time with the handsome pilot had come and gone. It was as she’d feared. She’d let herself fall for someone who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, return her affections.

Jade shifted in one of the comfortable, faded, green velour armchairs at the front of the tiny shop and scanned the room. A vast array of treasures lined the shelves and sat on antique dressers and cabinets just waiting for the first customers to come in the morning. With this final triumph, Ann had declared her night was over and had gone up to her apartment to soak in a hot tub. Jade had showered, then slipped into a long black tank top and gray leggings. But instead of going right to bed, she decided to return downstairs, listen to her favorite soft piano music, and spend some time alone.

The front door to the shop was open as it had been most of the week, which allowed the cooling, daffodil-tinged breezes to float inside. Now and then the wind chimes near the door pinged, blending with the music. Jade pushed her damp hair away from her face and stood up. Slowly, she walked to the antique hutch where the remaining three medallions were hanging from cup hooks. Drawing her finger through them, she watched them sway and sparkle in the dim light. Tomorrow, this place would be filled with customers. The Curiosity Cove would be a success, and she could go back home with her head held high. It would also be nice to go home with a handsome pilot by her side, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

She sighed and moved the medallions again. She prayed that maybe someday, some woman would manage to touch Rick Montgomery’s heart in the same way his wife had, and he’d learn to love again. He deserved it…

…And she’d be one lucky woman.

“Hey, beautiful.”

Rick’s voice drifted over the music and tinkling wind chimes behind her. Jade froze in place, trying to decide if she’d just imagined it.

“The place sure looks better than the last time I was here.”

Slowly, she turned and saw him standing just inside the door, wearing a button-down denim shirt and blue jeans. His right arm was cradled in a sling, and there were four bandages on his face.

“Sorry I took so long to get back here.” He raised the sling an inch. “But something came up.”

“I heard. Are you all right?”

“I will be.” He reached into the front left pocket of his jeans and pulled out the medallion. “Thanks to this.”

“You still have that thing?”

“I never leave home without it.”

“But it didn’t work.”

Rick folded his fingers over it. “Who says? Something kept me from meeting my maker that night. Since then, I’ve been out of it on pain killers, sleeping for twenty-two hours a day or hallucinating about giant pink grizzly bears driving SUVs. This was the first night I felt good enough to get out of bed, and the only thing I wanted to do was hop a ride with Lawson to come see you.”

His words died in the air, and he stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jade wrapped her arms around herself.

“I said I’d be back.”

“I know.” She let her voice fade as she glanced at the floor for a second.

Slipping the medallion back into his pocket, he stepped up to her. “Does my reputation precede me?”

“Not your reputation, Rick. Your convictions on relationships.”

“That I’m not looking for one?”

She nodded.

His hand slid under her chin, and he raised her eyes to him. “And you are?”

“Yes.” She rethought her answer. “No.” She thought on it again, sighed, and gave him a weak laugh. “Maybe.”

“Does that mean you want more than a hot and heavy five-times-a-week sexcapade?”

The tightness Jade had been feeling in her chest began to loosen, and the invisible wall she’d been trying to build between them began to crumble. “You mean like seven days a week?”

Rick laughed. “Of course. What warm-blooded male wouldn’t with a woman like you?” He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek. “But what I want, right now, is a beautiful woman, who likes to pretend she’s a pink and blue whirly-gig, to share this warm, May night with, while the lights of the Mackinac Bridge are twinkling in the darkness, the breeze is bringing the heady scents of the flowers and water to your nose, and the stars are thick in the sky.”

He lowered his head, and was a mere breath away from her lips when he stopped. “And I also want to know if that spinning top would let me kiss her?”

“I think so.”

“Good, because that’s all I’ve wanted since I walked away from you last week.”

He brought his mouth down to hers and let his thumb once again caress the full curve of her cheek. Jade’s hands slid around his neck, inviting him to deepen the kiss, which he did by teasing her lips open with the tip of his tongue. She closed her eyes and bit back a quiet moan as he explored her mouth. His hot, calloused hand trailed down her cheek, across her shoulder and moved underneath the straps of her top. She shivered as his fingers traced delicate patterns on her back and shoulders. Lowering her own hands from around his neck, she began to softly massage the small of his back, and gently press forward with her hips.

After a long time, she lifted her lips from his and opened her eyes. The smile that had grabbed her heart so tightly that first time in the airport hangar and many times since was there to greet her. Staring into his eyes, she realized it wasn’t just a corny line from a romance novel, she really could see forever in them.

“What’s going on down here?”

Still held tight in Rick’s left arm, Jade saw Ann coming through the stairway door, wearing nothing but a short white satin chemise. “Hey, Ann,” she grinned, this time feeling safe as her friend approach Rick. “Look who’s back.”

Ann’s reply was cut off as her eyes suddenly shot to the doorway.

“Weren’t you going to take a walk, Montgomery?” Tom Lawson asked as he leaned against the door jam, his eyes fixed on Ann, a pleasant grin on his face.

“Right.” Rick unwrapped his arm from around Jade’s waist and took her hand. “Ann Spencer, Tom Lawson. Tom Lawson, Ann Spencer.” He then pulled Jade to the door. “See ya.”

“Well, what did I tell you?” Rick asked, leaning back against the boardwalk railing that overlooked the rocky shoreline of the now melted lakes and the Mackinaw Bridge in the distance.

“About what?” Jade asked, turning away from watching the lights of the bridge twinkle in the distance. She tried to tame her hair, which was loose and flowing, fluttering around her face in the soft breeze off the water.

“About the bridge, the breeze, the scent and the stars.”

“And about the island being magical after most of the tourists leave for the night?”

“That too.”

She stepped closer to him. “You were right.”

He stared at her for a long moment before reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Then am I also right to think that maybe you and I are rethinking our convictions of being alone and independent?”

“Yes.”

His left hand snaked its way to the back of her head and followed the line of her hair all the way down to the middle of her back. Once there, and with great gentleness, he brought her against his side and held her tight. “So where do we go from here, Jade Reynolds?”

Jade wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. “Forward, Rick Montgomery.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That’s sure a change in direction from where we were going a week ago.”

“I know.” She moved her eyes up to meet his. Her hand rose to caress his cheek for a moment before bringing his face down to meet hers. “I know.”

About the Author

Nancy Trausch lives in the proverbial, quiet Midwestern small-town USA of Bryan, Ohio. Fourteen years ago, she was lucky to find and marry her soul mate, best friend, support system, and the person she affectionately calls her “Handsome Hero Husband”. Together Nancy and Mike brought in the next generation of Trausch’s with Jacob, 10 and Jessica, 5. Their family is rounded out with four cats, Charlie, Cujo, Bud and Peace.

Author Comments

I am a plus-size gal in a five foot three inch body and have been for most of my life. Through the years I have learned to love and take care of myself in whatever body I have at the moment. Oh sure, I’d love to know what it would be like to be a size 8 or even a 12, but if it doesn’t happen in my lifetime, so be it.

Being a part of this anthology is a way for me to celebrate the women of size, since we are always being put down in other branches of the media. We are human, like our thin sisters. We love, bleed, cry and laugh like they do. And we deserve to find love and friendship, too.

I think I was born with a story in my head. And since then, I’ve thought up and written down hundreds of others. But this is the first time I’ve gathered up enough guts to have one published. I hope you enjoyed it.

AN UNFORGETTABLE KISS

Eileen Wilson

Dedication

This story is dedicated to all the lovely Rubenesque women in the world and to all the men who appreciate these curvaceous, bodacious gals; to Bryan C, whose summer camp crush inspired this story; and last but not least, to the hottest, sweetest man I’ve ever kissed—my husband.

“IT’S ANOTHER GLOOMY, cold, rainy day out there, but I’ve got a topic that’s bound to warm you up and put a smile on your face as you make your way home at the start of the weekend.”

Fallon O’Shea brushed her hair out of her face and wrinkled her brow as she listened to the deejay’s cheerful tone. It was disgusting for anyone to be this perky when the weather was so depressing.

Cassie LeBeau, the drive-time air personality for KWAS, had Castleton’s most popular radio show, known especially for its afternoon topics. “And just what do you propose to warm us up with, Cassie?” Fallon asked, laughing when Cassie said, “In keeping with the time-warp theme, let’s take a step back in time and talk about first kisses. I’m sure many of you smooched for the first time during the eighties. Perhaps it was a schoolyard peck given on a dare. Or maybe during a clandestine game of spin the bottle on your sixteenth birthday.”

Fallon arched her eyebrow and replied, “Well, someone just started meddling, and it was my sixteenth birthday, but not during a game of spin the bottle.” She bit her lip and felt a little foolish talking to the radio.

“Soft and sweet, or hot and sexy, I don’t care. Just call me and tell me about it. In the meantime, let’s kick off this time-warp weekend with a favorite love song from that decade—Berlin’s ‘Take My Breath Away.’”

Fallon appreciated the irony of the afternoon’s topic. As she hummed along with Berlin, she thought of an email she’d received earlier that day from an old summer camp buddy, who was also the best friend of Marcus Carson, her first kiss. She felt the corners of her mouth tilt up at the thought of Marcus. Her heart fluttered, and she started to close her eyes to call his features to mind but stopped before she drove off the road.

As Fallon heard the other descriptions of first kisses, she thought about the moment Marcus’ lips had touched hers and could almost feel the sensation of that sweet pressure. She considered calling in and telling her story once she arrived home, but wasn’t sure she wanted to share such a private moment.

Cassie’s chatter became borderline annoying until Fallon heard her mention the next song. “I’m sure this song inspired many first kisses, ‘Tonight, I Celebrate My Love.’”

Fallon gasped and was swept back twenty years to the night of her sixteenth birthday. She paused long enough in her recollections to navigate safely into her driveway. As she turned the car off, she sighed again and whispered, “Oh yeah, I remember that night.”

She looked at her face in the rearview mirror, and as much as she hated to admit it, she wore a sappy smile. She knew then that she wouldn’t share the memory with Cassie’s audience; it was a private moment to be shared with friends.

She walked into the house and plunked her purse down on the desk by the door. Feeling far removed from the innocent she’d been at sixteen, she glided to her bedroom and stripped until she stood in front of the mirror in just her lingerie. Fallon stared at the reflection of her plump body covered in colorful scraps of lace.

She slid her hands down, caressing her soft curves as she watched herself in the mirror. The sensation of skin against skin reminded her of how rarely her ex-husband had touched her. She couldn’t help but wonder what married life with Marcus would have been like. She thought of how he’d caressed her cheek when they’d kissed –- a soft innocent brush that had sent her heart racing.

Fallon had one wish at that moment—for Marcus to see her so scantily dressed. Would he appreciate the sight of her voluptuous figure barely covered in sexy attire? Would he love the feel of the silky material rubbing against his hard masculine body?

She sighed. “I wish I could see you now, Marcus, to see how you’ve grown up. And you could see how I’ve grown out.” She chuckled as she made an extra large hourglass figure shape with her hands. “But that just means there’s oh so much more of me to love. And I look damn good in this lacy stuff!”

She winked at her reflection, stepped away from the mirror and lay back on her bed, giving herself time to unwind from the stress of the workweek. She closed her eyes as the memories flooded her mind.

TOGETHER, FALLON WITH her riotous curls and plump curves and Marcus with his wire-framed glasses and wiry build, were the fat girl and skinny geek that every summer camp had in attendance each year. While many of the other campers ostracized or ridiculed them, there were some that took the time to get to know them. But in seeking out each other’s company, Fallon and Marcus formed a bond of friendship that went beyond the surface.

Marcus’ roommate, Erik Hartwell, one of the more popular boys at camp, took Marcus under his wing, and by the end of the summer, the two boys were best friends.

Until the night of the kiss, Fallon had imagined herself in puppy love with Erik. With the classic handsome features of a young Cary Grant, a lean, fit build, dark brown hair and eyes, he was the object of several girlish crushes and fantasies.

Each Saturday night, a dance was held, starting with awards to the week’s best participant in the different activities. The second Saturday of the eight-week session happened to fall on Fallon’s sixteenth birthday, and she wore the special outfit her mother had sent as a gift.

Dressed in a knee-length denim skirt and an eyelet lace button-up shirt with ribbons French-braided into her hair, Fallon smiled as her name was called for the award as best dancer of the week. In spite of the award and her mother’s gift, she felt a little blue because she wasn’t with her family to celebrate this special rite of passage.

Marcus rushed up to her as soon as the music started, asking for the first dance. “Congratulations, Fallon. You deserve that award. You’re the best partner I’ve had.” He nodded in the direction of the certificate she held in her hands. “Would you like me to put it in my pocket and keep it for you?”

She smiled. “Thank you, Marcus. That’s really sweet of you to offer.” She folded it and placed it in his hand, pausing at the tingle in her fingertips as they brushed his palm.

She stared at him. His lanky build along with slightly mussed hair and wire-frame glasses brought a smile to her face, and she thought he looked nice in his white button-up shirt, black jeans and matching jacket. His eyes were his most striking feature. Even through the lenses of his glasses, there was no missing those piercing, steely blue orbs.

“Marcus?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“You look nice tonight.” She reached up and touched his hair. “It looks like even your hair is trying to cooperate a little.”

Marcus blushed and murmured, “Thank you.”

His cheeks reddened even more as he pulled her into his embrace, and they began swaying slowly in time to “Baby, Come to Me” by James Ingram and Patti Austin. She smiled as she listened to Marcus hum under his breath.

The shivery feeling in her stomach puzzled her. Erik was supposed to be the one she liked, not Marcus. But that night she began to see her friend in a whole new light.

Later, Erik shocked her while they danced, when he began dropping hints that Marcus had a crush on her.

“You know,” Erik began, pulling away from her. “You’re all he talks about.”

“He talks about me?”

“Yeah, every night before we go to sleep he says Fallon did this or Fallon did that. Or he asks, ‘Did you see how beautiful she looked today?’ He’s driving me crazy, and I think you should put him out of his misery.”

He smiled his dazzling smile, but it lost most of its effect on her as the full impact of his words hit.

She peered at him. “What do you mean, ‘put him out of his misery’?”

He whispered in her ear, “You know, kiss him.” He chuckled then pulled back. “That might just make it worse, so I don’t know. All I know for certain is he has it bad for you. The slightest encouragement from you would make his summer unforgettable.”

She frowned. “Are you telling me he has a crush on me?”

“I think it’s more than a simple crush. He’s crazy about you. I can’t believe you can’t see how he feels.”

“I’m sorry, but I …” Her words trailed off as she scanned the room and saw Marcus watching her. The look in his eyes took her breath away – it was obvious he was infatuated with her.

“But you—what?” Erik asked.

She smiled at him. “Never mind.”

After the music ended, he walked her to the edge of the dance floor. “Just think about what I said.” He tilted his head in Marcus’ direction. “He really does have it bad for you.”

Fallon nodded then decided to go outside. The camp assembly hall sat near a lake, and she strolled down to the closest dock and lowered herself onto the rough wooden planks. She could hear the music in the background, but it was quiet enough to allow her time to think about Erik’s words.

She kicked her legs back and forth and stared at the moon’s reflection on the water. She was not used to being the object of a boy’s affection, and it sent a thrill through her to know that someone as nice as Marcus thought she was beautiful. Although her family always supported and encouraged her, she knew that society did not regard her as ideal in appearance. “But then, neither is he,” she whispered.

She smiled as she pictured him pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose or running a hand through his perpetually tousled hair. He might not be a movie star in looks, but he was a prince in actions. She recalled every time he’d opened a door or pulled out a chair for her. He was gallant and sweet.

She shivered as she thought of how deep his gaze seemed to penetrate any time he focused his full attention on her. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he did that often.

She looked down at her hands. “Why me, Marcus?”

She gasped when she heard the object of her thoughts reply, “Why you what?”

Fallon twisted around to find Marcus standing at the edge of the dock, studying her.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” he said and walked toward her. “I saw you leave the dance and wanted to be sure you were okay.”

She stared, struck mute at the sight of him. How had she missed the muscles beginning to form on his arms and chest? Or the slight cleft in his chin and his prominent cheekbones? She shivered again as she returned his intense gaze.

“Are you cold?” he asked, dropping down beside her.

She nodded, knowing she couldn’t tell him the truth. She didn’t understand these strange new feelings, much less how to explain them to him.

“Here.” He slipped off his denim jacket and draped it about her shoulders, then entwined his fingers with hers. “Your hands are cold too.” He folded his hands around hers, lifted them to his face and blew on them, warming them.

Fallon felt a rush of heat low in her body and knew her cheeks must be a bright rosy red. Confused by the suffusion of sensations in her body, she almost shivered again as he continued blowing on her hands. He lifted his eyes, and she gasped at his forceful expression.

“So are you going to answer my question?” he asked, smiling.

She furrowed her brow. “What question?”

“I heard you say ‘why me, Marcus?’ and I replied ‘why you what?’”

“I-I—well, I was just wondering why Erik has this crazy notion that you have a crush on me.” The words came out in a rush, and she felt her cheeks grow even warmer.

“So, he let the cat out of the bag, did he?” He gazed at her. “It’s true, you know. I’ve been falling in love with you from the moment I saw you.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Falling in love with me?” She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe it’s love; a crush I can accept, but love? I think we’re too young to be in love.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you will, but I know how I feel.”

She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “And just what do you know about love?”

He stared at her for a moment. “Maybe not much, but I know that when you walk into the room my world seems brighter, more colorful. I know that every time I see you, it’s like my own personal ray of sunshine begins to beam down on me. I know that every smile of yours that I see makes me happy to be alive. I know that every time we talk, I feel more complete and whole.”

She quivered at the intensity of his words.

He shrugged again and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I don’t know what else to call it but love.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Do you have any ideas what else it could be?”

She swallowed and whispered, “No.” Focusing on her hands in her lap, she vaguely recalled pulling them from his when he’d mentioned the “L word.”

“Then I guess it must be love.” Warm breath grazed her ear, and she lifted her eyes to find his face inches from hers. She took a deep breath, expecting something from him but not sure what.

He pulled away and reached into the pocket of the jacket around her shoulders, his fingers brushing lightly along the edge of the neckline of her blouse. He froze, and she sucked in her breath. “Pardon me,” he murmured then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I know it’s not as nice as the real thing, but I wanted you to have this. For your birthday.”

“You remembered.” She smiled at him, noting the blush that crept over his cheeks. “Thank you.”

He swallowed and replied, “You’re welcome. I hope you like it.” He handed her the paper.

“It’s beautiful, Marcus.” Fallon was touched that he had taken the time to draw a rose for her. His attention to detail was remarkable, and she trailed a fingertip over the petals then clasped the drawing to her chest. “It’s really beautiful. I’ll treasure it always.”

He turned his head away, and they both stared out over the lake. She looked him, then reached over and touched his glasses. “Can you see without these?”

He glanced back at her. “Fairly well. The only reason I’m not wearing my contact lenses is my parents figured I’d lose them here at summer camp, and they’re too expensive to keep replacing.” His lips twitched. “I’ve lost about three pairs already since I first got some a year ago.”

Fallon laughed, then touched the frames again. “Could I see what you look like without your glasses?”

Marcus slipped the glasses from his face. “I like to hear you laugh. It’s such a nice sound.”

He turned, and she gasped at the change in his appearance. “Marcus.”

Everything seemed to slow down as he bent his head nearer, his mouth hovering over hers. With sudden clarity, she heard crickets and other night bugs humming in the background. She heard Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson’s voices pouring out of the assembly hall. She heard waves lapping at the shore and the creak of the dock. She heard his sudden intake of breath as he pressed his lips to hers. She heard the roar of her heart pounding as tingly sensations spread throughout her whole body.

In that moment, she knew she would never forget the pressure of his mouth against hers, the feel of the tip of his tongue licking along the seam of her lips, or the experience of their tongues touching softly. She closed her eyes, swept away by the tide of new emotions flowing through her when he breathed her name against her lips.

Marcus pulled away to gaze into Fallon’s eyes, then placed his hands on her cheeks and covered her lips with his a second time. His thumbs caressed her as he pressed soft kisses against her mouth. She heard sighs and was shocked to realize they were hers. She had never imagined kissing someone could be this intense and moving.

They pulled apart at the sound of a discreet cough behind them, and turned to find Erik standing at the edge of the dock. “You kids better make sure you don’t get caught.” He grinned as they jumped to put distance between their bodies.

Marcus slipped his glasses back on, his hands trembling, then pushed himself up to stand, teetering for a moment to maintain his balance. He extended his hand to Fallon, grasped her hands and pulled her up. She slipped the jacket off her shoulders and passed it to him, then leaned over and hastily grabbed the drawing, folding it and slipping it into her pocket.

Marcus muttered, “Excuse me,” placed a soft kiss into her palm then dashed off the dock, leaving Erik and Fallon to stare after him.

“So, what now?” Erik asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I-I’m so confused. I just don’t know what to do from here.”

He turned to face her. “Look, I know how Marcus feels about you, so why not give it a shot and see how it works out? You have a wonderful friendship, why not let it develop into something more?”

She sighed.

“Come on, let’s go back in,” he said. “I’m sure Marcus will want to have you in his arms again.”

She smacked his arm.

“I mean while you dance.”

They laughed then walked back into the assembly hall.

The rest of the dance and the remaining time at camp passed by in a blur, with the exception of a few stolen kisses for Marcus and Fallon. At the end of the six weeks, they had exchanged addresses and promised to write, and had maintained contact through letters and occasional phone calls.

Time and distance eventually took their toll on the relationship, and the flow of mail lessened until it stopped altogether.

MARCUS SIGHED AND placed his forehead in his hand. The workweek had been stressful and hectic, the final commute home insane. Between the weather and the reckless drivers, he was amazed he’d arrived at his front door in one piece.

To make matters worse, his concentration had been disrupted by the deejay’s discussion of first kisses. In the twenty years since his first one, he had thought often of the beautiful, auburn-haired girl who’d stolen his heart from the day he met her. Fallon O’Shea had been the plump camper at summer camp, the perfect foil to his skinny geek.

Each time she’d glanced his way he’d felt a thrill from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes, and as an adult he understood now what he didn’t know then. His yearning for her had been that of a young boy experiencing the first rush of hormones. Now, he wanted to see the woman and experience the full power of his desire for her.

To add even more fuel to the reminiscing fire, he’d heard the song that had been playing in the background when they’d kissed. He’d nearly driven off the road when “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love” began. As Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson harmonized, he recalled how soft Fallon’s lips had been, how sweet she’d tasted.

In his home office, he walked to the desk and pulled open a drawer. Removing a folded piece of paper, he opened it and smoothed it out on the desktop. He stared at her name typed on the certificate and ran his finger over the letters. Twenty years ago, he’d offered to keep it from getting crumpled while they danced, then had never returned it. He considered it his only link to her and the sweet young love they had shared.

He began massaging the back of his neck. “Damn it, Fallon! Where are you?” At the sound of his front door slamming, he groaned. “And why does he have to pick now, of all times, to come for a visit?”

All Marcus wanted was some time to himself; time to let his mind drift and relive the memory of kissing Fallon. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Erik.

“Marcus? Where are you, buddy?”

He steeled himself, preparing for the whirlwind that was Erik. “In here.”

Erik came through the doorway, smiling as always, and walked over to clasp Marcus’ shoulder. “I have the best idea for tonight.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow.

“Let’s go to a karaoke bar.”

He stared at his best friend. “Are you mad? You want to go to a karaoke bar? You can’t sing, and I don’t want to, so what good reason would we have for going?” He narrowed his eyes. “And just how would you know about any local bars, anyway? You’re only visiting.”

“I saw it as we drove by yesterday. When we got back here, I looked it up online and found out it was a karaoke bar. Come on, how could you not like a place called ‘Dutch Courage’?”

Marcus reached to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose and muttered a curse under his breath. He knew thinking about Fallon contributed to his slipping back into this nervous tic even though he no longer wore glasses, because he had done this several times since hearing Cassie LeBeau discussing first kisses.

“You still have that habit? You haven’t worn them for a while now, have you?” Eric asked.

Marcus grinned. “Yeah, when I get agitated, I still reach for my specks. It’s been at least three years since I wore glasses for any extended period of time, because Amanda hated them, but old habits die hard.”

Erik laughed. “Come on, let’s go to that crazy karaoke bar and make fools of ourselves. It’ll be fun.”

Marcus started to speak, but Erik interrupted him. “Come on, you seem like you could use some cheering up.” He put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Is something eating at you?”

Marcus sighed. “I heard something on the radio today that set the wheels to turning in my head. This deejay had people calling in about their first kiss, and I started thinking about Fallon again. And then they played ‘that song.’” He ran his hand over his eyes.

“I’m not surprised you would think about Fallon. You nearly drove me insane that summer talking about her.”

Marcus leaned back and tossed a wry smile at his friend. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t see anything else that summer other than Fallon. She was beautiful, probably still is. I could kick myself for losing track of her, losing contact with her.” He sighed again.

“She was my life that summer. Everything I’d ever dreamed of, everything I’d ever hoped for in a woman. I can’t believe I found that one true love, my soul mate, at the age of sixteen. I was so damn stupid to let her slip through my fingers. I miss her, and keep finding myself wondering what she’s like now. I want to see her again; I need to see her again.”

He wrinkled his brow and watched Erik press his lips together. “What are you up to? I can almost see the light bulb going on over your head.”

“You need something to take your mind off missing Fallon, and I think karaoke is the answer. I promise I’ll even get up there and make an absolute idiot of myself.” Erik laughed then grinned.

Marcus snorted. “Yeah, I know about your singing ability, or lack thereof. Promise me you won’t get up there, and I’d be more likely to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever gets you out the door, okay?”

FALLON OPENED HER eyes and stared at the ceiling. She regretted losing contact with Marcus. They had drifted apart, graduating from high school then entering college. As they moved through life, the number of letters and calls dwindled before finally dying off as they neared their respective college graduations.

She was glad she’d kept in touch with Erik even after she and Marcus quit writing. More recently, they had started corresponding through email, and Erik would occasionally share news about Marcus. She decided she would ask Erik about him in her next message.

She sighed. The memory of that night had become sweeter over time, enhanced by the intervening years. She sat up and looked over to the framed drawing on her bedroom wall. Two decades was a long time, and in spite of the many changes in her life, she had kept the birthday drawing Marcus had given her. She crossed the room and skimmed her fingers over the glass, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Although she’d carried a torch for Marcus for a long time, she’d made forays into the dating world after college graduation and had married at age twenty-eight. Nothing Dan had done in their brief marriage had ever compared to Marcus’ drawing, and she knew Dan had resented her for keeping the gift.

Four years after saying “I do,” they’d divorced after Fallon found Dan in her bed with another woman. In the three years since her divorce, she had dated a few men, but through the years no one lit the spark in her Marcus had twenty years earlier. She knew deep down that no matter what she said or claimed, the torch for him still burned bright inside her.

She turned on the radio then went to her closet to put together a fun ensemble for the night’s activities. She pulled out a peach-colored peasant blouse and denim skirt. The nearly sheer top clung to her upper curves while the denim hugged her hips, falling around her ankles with a slit that stopped just above her knees. She smiled at the hint of thigh that could be seen with each step. She was proud of her voluptuous, size-22 body and enjoyed showing it off by wearing clingy, form-fitting outfits.

Brushing her hands over the dark blue fabric, she thought again of the kiss from Marcus, remembering the denim skirt she’d worn when their lips had met.

“Enough already. Save that for another day.” She straightened her shoulders, exhaled, skimmed her hands down her body, and fluffed her hair.

She smiled as she thought of how much fun she and her friends had on their bi-weekly night out—stuffing their faces then hitting Dutch Courage, their favorite karaoke bar.

FALLON MET SANDRA, Camille, and Felicia, at Oriental Delight, the Chinese restaurant near her house. Over spring rolls, steamed dumplings, wonton soup, eight-treasure chicken, tangerine beef, and sliced pork with black bean sauce, they laughed and talked. As each course was brought to the table, the women drank a toast to friendship and happiness with their tea.

At the end of the meal, they performed their ritual of cracking open their fortune cookies. As each woman slipped the tiny piece of paper from inside the cookie, she read her fortune aloud.

Sandra read hers first. “‘Your happiness is intertwined with your outlook on life.’” She grinned. “Could this possibly be any more generic?”

Felicia laughed. “Yeah, somewhere there’s a monkey writing these things down, and a machine spitting out the damn chimp’s ‘profound’ thoughts.” She continued, “Okay, here’s mine. ‘Go after what you want: there’s no time like the present.’ Ha! I guess that means I should go for the last spring roll.”

Fallon and the others grinned as they watched her snag the final appetizer.

“My turn, my turn,” Camille said, putting her hand up in the air. “‘There is no wisdom greater than kindness.’”

Fallon lifted her small teacup in toast. “Here, here. I will attest to your kindness in an hour of need.”

Sandra and Felicia raised their cups in acknowledgement of Fallon’s words. Camille smiled and nodded graciously.

Fallon looked at her fortune and gasped then read aloud: “‘Someone from your past has returned to steal your heart.’”

“Well, well, well, it would seem that your fortune certainly bodes well for romance.” Felicia waggled her eyebrows.

Fallon looked down at her fortune then back up at her friends. “This is crazy.”

“What?” Sandra asked.

“First, Cassie and her infamous afternoon drive topics, and now this. Did you hear it today?” Fallon asked. The other women shook their heads. “Today she asked about first kisses.”

“Ah, and that took you back to your sweet sixteen, didn’t it?” Felicia asked.

Fallon nodded. “Of course. After Cassie mentioned her topic, I couldn’t help but think about Marcus and our kiss. Now I’m wondering what he looks like.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And the craziest thing is Cassie played the song, our song. When I heard ‘Tonight, I Celebrate My Love,’ I wondered if I would recognize him if he were to come up to me today. Or for that matter, would he recognize me? Is he still the same sweet guy he was twenty years ago or has he become a total jackass? Erik recently mentioned in an email that Marcus’ marriage ended about as abysmally as mine, so I know he’s single.” Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t help wondering why I lost touch with him and what might have happened if I hadn’t.”

Felicia placed an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Hey girl, we all have those guys that we wish we’d kept. It’s part of being a woman, but none of us can live on what might have been. But since you do have that fortune maybe you shouldn’t completely ignore the past.”

Everyone laughed and toasted the elusive someone from Fallon’s past, while she hoped the person from the fortune would be Marcus. The four friends finished their meal, paid the bill, and caught a cab to the karaoke bar.

The bar was more crowded than usual, but they had no problem getting a decent table. Fallon noticed many men watching them as they moved across the small dance floor to the available table, although the others seemed oblivious to the admiring looks thrown their way. She wasn’t surprised because each woman was eye-catching and beautiful, and she knew they made a stunning picture.

Felicia’s short, cropped blonde hair contrasted with her milk chocolate skin and vibrant green eyes, and she used chokers and flashy earrings to accentuate her features. Even though the woman had a top-heavy build, Fallon knew she always selected clothing to accentuate her cleavage.

Camille was the tallest of the quartet, and Fallon admired how she showed off her height by wearing spiky heels at every opportunity. Camille’s envy-inducing waist-length chestnut hair and almond-shaped eyes the shade of pewter gave her an exotic look. Fallon appreciated how her friend never slumped nor slouched, but carried her larger body with pride and dignity, wearing clothing to flatter her shape.

And then there was Sandra, slender yet curvy in all the right places, but the smallest of the foursome. She had confided in Fallon that sometimes she wished she were larger, but tried to never let that discourage her when she was in the midst of their voluptuous beauty. Fallon thought Sandra was stunning with her classic brunette hair and blue eyes.

Over the din of the crowd in the dimly lit bar, Sandra asked Fallon what had her looking so pensive. Fallon gestured for her friends to draw closer, and the three women leaned toward her. “I’m still thinking about Marcus. I’m sorry, I just can’t help myself.”

Felicia placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Girl, I know it’s hard to forget some of the guys from your past, but we all know they rarely turn out to be as perfect as they are in our memories. Face it, Marcus is probably some deformed, hunch-backed ogre, just waiting to capture a sweet, tender morsel like you.”

Camille furrowed her brow and snorted. “An ogre? Where’d that one come from?”

Felicia shrugged. “You never know. He might have a bushy uni-brow or walk with his knuckles dragging the ground.”

Fallon grinned. “You are too funny. He was handsome in a ‘smart guy’ kind of way. He had these sweet nervous tics of either pushing his glasses up his nose or running his hand through his hair when he got agitated or excited.” She sighed. “It’s probably just wishful thinking on my part, but I’d like to think that he’s still the same. He definitely wasn’t typical as a teen-aged boy. At sixteen, he was telling me I was his personal ray of sunshine and that I completed him.”

She closed her eyes then opened them. “I just wish I’d known then what I know now, because I never would have let him go. I’m not even sure why I lost contact with him anyway.” She snorted a wry laugh. “I feel like such an idiot, and you know how I hate that.”

The other women smiled, and Felicia tilted her head. “You’re beautiful and intelligent, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Marcus thinks about you as much as you think about him.” She winked. “I might have told you not to dwell in the past, but it seems like everything is conspiring to keep you there.”

Fallon gazed at her. “You’re right, enough about the past, no matter how sweet and wonderful it might seem.” She wrinkled her nose and placed a finger in her ear. “Right now, what’s not so sweet and wonderful is that horrible caterwauling.” She inclined her head toward the stage.

Camille, Sandra, and Felicia turned and nodded in agreement at the man butchering Queen’s “We are the Champions.”

Felicia leaned forward and asked, “Could he sound any more like a cat being skinned?”

Her friends giggled, and Camille said, “Well, Felicia, it sounds as if we’re in need of some relief. Time for you to show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Yeah, I probably should.” Felicia grinned. “I just don’t know what to sing tonight. I want something a little different from my usual stuff.”

Fallon snapped her fingers. “I know. How about something upbeat, something to get their toes a-tappin’?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Disco.”

Felicia’s eyes sparkled. “Oooh, I like the sound of that. A little something to make people boogie oogie oogie, and that’s it. I’ll be right back. I’m going to turn in my request.”

Camille leaned over and asked Fallon, “How about you? Are you going to sing tonight?”

“Yes, I’m thinking about singing one that seems to go along with the theme of my first kiss.”

“‘Tonight, I Celebrate My Love’?” Sandra asked.

Fallon nodded.

“That’s a good song.”

Camille agreed, “Yeah, I wish they wrote more songs like that.”

Felicia returned to the table. “All right, Fallon, get up there and make your request. Alan’s expecting you.”

Fallon grinned at the mention of the bar’s deejay. “Do you think he’s ready for me in a nostalgic mood? I’m going to make it easy on him tonight, because I’m pretty certain he’s going to have my song.”

“What song?” Felicia asked.

“‘The song.’”

“Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson?”

Felicia’s smile was infectious, and Fallon returned it. “Yeah.”

“Good choice.”

“I was thinking about dedicating the song to Marcus and the memory of that night.” She wrinkled her nose and scrunched up her face. “Not that he’s going to be here to hear the dedication.”

“It’s still a cool idea,” Felicia replied. Her eyes widened, and she said, “It would be spooky if Marcus happened to be here and heard you dedicate it to him.” She snapped her fingers. “That would definitely count as that fortune coming true. He’s someone from your past, and he already seems to have stolen your heart.”

Fallon raised her eyebrow. “I don’t see a remote possibility of him being here.”

“And why not?”

“Come on, surely Erik would have mentioned it by now if Marcus lived here, wouldn’t he?”

“You never know. Perhaps Erik didn’t think it appropriate considering the history between you and Marcus, especially since Marcus was married. Maybe Erik didn’t want to stir up any trouble,” said Felicia.

“I hadn’t thought of that. But why not mention it now that Marcus is single again?”

“I don’t know, but I’m just saying he could show up here, right?”

“Technically speaking, yes. But even when we met, we lived in separate states.”

“Right, and you moved out here after college. Who’s to say he didn’t move out here too?”

Fallon furrowed her brow. “I don’t know. It would be too coincidental, don’t you think?”

Felicia shrugged. “Maybe. But stranger things have happened. Let’s drink a toast to strange things happening tonight.”

They raised their glasses, and Camille said, “Here’s to truth being stranger than fiction, and to Marcus showing up here tonight.”

The other three women said “Here, here,” then turned to watch the next person on the stage. Fallon excused herself and walked up toward the front of the bar to turn in her karaoke request.

AT A TABLE on the other side of the bar, a man covered his face with his hand and groaned, then peered at his friend from between his splayed fingers. “Erik, tell me again why on earth you wanted to come here. You don’t strike me as the karaoke type.”

“Oh come on, Marcus, what could be more fun than watching a bunch of tipsy people butcher songs and make idiots of themselves?” Erik smiled and sipped his beer. “And you never know, there might be a decent singer in the lot.”

Marcus rolled his eyes and shuddered in revulsion. “Maybe a few, but not enough to make up for this woman. I don’t think she could be any more off-key if she tried.” He inclined his head toward the stage and the woman slaughtering “Black Velvet.”

Erik laughed. “You might be right, but I could probably top her.”

“Please, have mercy on me and everyone here, and don’t.”

“Hey, I seem to recall you had a pretty decent singing voice at one time. Why don’t you get up there and perform something?”

Marcus arched his eyebrow. “And why should I do something like that?”

“Because I deserve to hear something better than this.”

“Ha! You brought us here, so you suffer the consequences.” He lifted his glass in salute and took a large gulp, then glanced around the crowd, pausing for a moment as he stared at a table across the bar with four beautiful women. Leaning over, he strained to see the women clearly and cursed the dim lighting. He wished he could see more than just the flash of red hair, and wondered if his eyes were playing a trick on him.

He jabbed his elbow against Erik’s arm. “Hey, look over there. Doesn’t that redhead seem familiar?”

Erik looked in the direction of Marcus’ gaze. “I’m not sure. I can’t tell much in this place. It’s too dark.”

The two men watched the voluptuous, titian-haired woman walk over to the sign-up area and make a request then return to her table.

“She seems familiar, but I just can’t tell in this lighting,” said Marcus. He closed his eyes and reached for his non-existent glasses. His desire to see Fallon again was making him hallucinate.

Erik clapped him on the back. “She may or may not be familiar, but from what I can see in this light, she’s pretty. Why don’t we go over and see?”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know, Erik. I think it’s just a bad case of wishful thinking on my part. What with the conversation about first kisses this afternoon and seeing a redhead, it’s a case of wishing it was Fallon. And I don’t think I want to go to all this effort only to find out it’s not her.”

“Suit yourself, buddy. Check it out. It looks like one of her friends is taking a turn at the mike.” He rolled his eyes. “I just hope she’s a decent singer at the very least.”

The blonde haired African-American woman left the table and sashayed up to the microphone. At the sound of her smoky, sultry voice filling the bar, Marcus arched his eyebrow and looked at Erik. Erik smiled when she began moving her hips to the music.

“She’s good,” Marcus said.

Erik stared at the woman. “She’s also hot.”

Marcus laughed. “Now I know why you wanted to come here. You’re on the prowl again, and I think I know who your next ‘victim’ will be.”

“Maybe.” Erik grinned. The woman invited the crowd to sing and dance as she shook her body to Taste of Honey’s “Boogie Oogie Oogie.” When she finished, they stood up and cheered.

She returned to her table, and Erik kept his gaze trained across the room. “She’s really good; better than the last singer. I’d like to meet her, and you could meet that redhead.”

“I tell you what, I’ll get us another drink while you head over there.” Marcus stood and lifted his glass to take another sip.

Erik grinned. “I’ll take you up on that offer of a drink, but I’ll wait to go over there.”

Sipping the last of his soda as his gaze returned to the redhead, Marcus grabbed the glasses from the table and headed for the bar. Halfway across the room, he stopped in his tracks and looked around when he heard a somewhat familiar sound.

He muttered, “It can’t be. I’m just imagining things. There’s no way that was Fallon.” He frowned. “It’s an auditory hallucination brought on by Cassie LeBeau and her damn talk about first kisses.”

He resumed his trek through the tables then waited at the bar to place his drink order. He considered mentioning his suspicion to Erik when he returned, but knew it was too incredible to hope that the red-haired woman and someone with a similar laugh meant Fallon was there.

FELICIA RETURNED TO the table and asked her friends, “Well?”

They smiled but didn’t speak.

“What? Do you want us to fall to our knees, bowing and scraping, and saying, ‘We’re not worthy, O great one’?” Fallon teased after a moment, “Do you want us to tell you that you sounded fantastic up there? You know you did, so don’t push your luck, girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I know.” Felicia spread her mouth wide in a cocky grin.

Fallon snorted. “You’re just fishing, and you know it.”

The women elbowed each other and rolled their eyes before turning to face the current singer. The deejay called Fallon’s name four songs later, and she strode up to the microphone. Once onstage, her vision was blinded by the bright spotlight, and she couldn’t see a thing but the lyrics

She cleared her throat and spoke into the mike. “I know a lot of you listen to Cassie LeBeau and probably heard her discussing first kisses this afternoon. She brought back memories of my first kiss, so I’d like to dedicate this song to someone from my past. On my sixteenth birthday, he gave me my first kiss, and this song was playing in the background. I always think of him when I hear it.”

Fallon nodded to the deejay, and the music started. She began to sing, barely glancing at the TV screen in front of her, recalling the lyrics from memory.

Across the bar, Marcus had just picked up the drinks and swung around to stare at the singer. The nagging feeling of familiarity was suddenly—amazingly—clear. The redhead was Fallon, his Fallon. He gripped the glasses to keep them from tumbling to the floor.

Maturity had only added to her beauty—her curves were more lavish, her face had more character, and she was more beautiful than he’d ever imagined she’d be. He watched her, mesmerized by how she sang to everyone in the bar while she seemed to be seeking out one person. Did she know he was there? Was she looking for him?

He glanced away from her for a moment to stare at his friend. He knew from Erik’s expression that Erik had known she would be here, and that was why he had suggested they come tonight.

Erik arched an eyebrow and grinned. Marcus mouthed something, and Erik shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand. Marcus took a deep breath and turned to watch Fallon sing. He remained by the bar, not wanting to miss a moment of her performance.

The song took him back twenty years to the dock. He recalled drawing the rose for her birthday gift, and how touched she’d seemed by his gift. The kiss was both the most exhilarating and most embarrassing moment in his life. Exhilarating because he’d kissed the girl he’d fallen in love with, and embarrassing because his best friend had interrupted the special moment. He remembered the deep joy at finally telling her how much he cared.

As he watched her now, twenty years later, he wondered why they’d lost touch. Why had he let this beautiful woman slip through his fingers? He shook his head as Fallon acknowledged the applause and glanced around the room one more time, as if she were still looking for someone in particular.

He quickly navigated his way to Erik, who leaned over and said, “Are you ready to visit that table now?”

Marcus inclined his head toward Fallon. “You knew, didn’t you? You wanted to come here because you knew she’d be here.”

Erik shrugged. “Maybe.” His smile gave him away. “I’ve kept in contact with Fallon, and she recently mentioned in an email that she and her friends come here regularly for a girls’ night out. I thought maybe it was time to reunite you two kids.”

Marcus stared, wondering why Erik never mentioned the fact that Fallon lived in the same city.

“Erik?”

Erik held up his hands. “Before you get mad, I never told you because you never asked, and while you were married to Amanda, I didn’t think it appropriate. Somehow I got the feeling it would have created more problems.”

Marcus closed his eyes and swallowed. The pain of discovering his wife in the arms of another man had been difficult to cope with, but it hurt more to know that Fallon had been so near while he was going through his personal hell. She had been right under his nose, and he never knew it.

He was willing to admit Erik was right; it would have created problems in his already crumbling marriage. He admitted many of the difficulties stemmed from his constant comparison of Amanda to Fallon.

The memory of his first love had played a role in all his dating relationships. Because no woman seemed to match up to the memory of Fallon, they never remained in his life longer than six months. His marriage to Amanda had been the only exception, and that had ended in disaster.

Marcus opened his eyes and looked across the room at the curvaceous woman who had haunted his dreams and thoughts for twenty years. Without speaking, he stood and walked toward her, not waiting to see if Erik followed.

FALLON WAS LAUGHING at some comment Felicia had made about the current singer when she felt someone beside her. She looked up and gasped at the sight of the man standing next to her table. Even without his glasses, she recognized him immediately. “Marcus?” she whispered.

Felicia, Camille, and Sandra stared at the man gazing at their friend. Fallon slowly stood and reached out to touch his face, her hand trembling as her fingertips skimmed his cheekbone, her thumb grazing the cleft in his chin.

Marcus grasped her hand and brushed her fingertips over his lips, kissing each one. She had trouble breathing as he pressed his mouth against her palm.

“You’re a dream, aren’t you?” she asked in a shaky voice.

He placed his hands around hers. “No, Fallon, I’m very real.”

She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. He was here; the boy who’d kissed her on her sweet sixteen stood before her as a man. The years had honed his boyish features, creating a handsome and interesting face. Only his eyes had stayed the same—intense, watchful, and kind.

Erik broke the silence. “Hello, Fallon.”

Fallon let out a yelp. “Erik, what are you doing here?”

Marcus stepped aside as the two embraced.

Erik pulled away from Fallon and splayed his hands in front of him. “I promised you a surprise if I ever came to your fine city, and here he is.”

Fallon faced Marcus, reaching out to touch his arm. Smiling, she gazed into his eyes. “It’s a wonderful surprise.”

She grinned at her friends. “I guess you’ve figured out this is Marcus, and this tagalong here is Erik. Marcus and Erik, these are my friends Camille, Sandra and Felicia.”

Everyone shook hands, and chairs were added to include the men into the group. Chills danced along Fallon’s spine when Marcus’ shoulder brushed hers, and he leaned over to whisper, “Are you cold?”

They smiled as they remembered their special night. As adults, they understood her shiver had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the physical contact between their bodies.

Fallon started to fight the urge to snuggle closer, then gave into the temptation to curl into the shelter of his arm. Just this slight contact with him thrilled her more than the intimacy she’d shared infrequently with Dan.

Marcus moved his free arm across his body and reached for Fallon’s hand, which sent more tingles of pleasure racing through her veins. A desperate need to be alone with him filled her.

Fallon and Marcus smiled at Erik’s attempts to flirt with Felicia, who seemed intent on ignoring him. Fallon peered at Marcus, her lips grazing his cheek. She pulled back as he turned his head, their lips inches apart.

The tension between them thickened, and everyone seemed to fade away until they were the only two at the table. He gazed at her lips, and she wondered if the touch of his mouth against hers would feel as exhilarating as the first time. She took inhaled then exhaled, her warm breath feathering over his mouth.

“Not yet,” he muttered.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for the right time.”

“The right time for what?”

“The right time to kiss you again. I need to be sure I pick the perfect moment.”

Fallon laughed as a sense of contentment and joy flooded her. “How will you know?”

He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes dropping to her lips once more. “I’m not sure, but I’ll know.”

She caressed his cheek, savoring the feel of his stubble against her fingertips. “I hope it will be soon. It seems like I’ve waited a lifetime to see you again.”

He tilted his head back and laughed. “Yeah, it does. But I’ve never forgotten that night or our kiss.”

She sighed. “Neither have I.”

They were pulled back to the present when someone asked, “What is your friend doing?”

“Oh, no. Marcus, he isn’t,” Fallon whispered.

“Oh, I hope not.” He frowned.

Erik wandered toward the front to the area where people put in requests. Fallon and Marcus both groaned as he signed up to sing. They knew he was tone-deaf and couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

“I’ll find out what he’s up to, although, I think I have an idea it has to do with your friend Felicia.”

“There are easier ways to get her to notice him. Falling over a chair and breaking his leg comes to mind.”

“He told you about that, did he?”

“Yeah, and I’m till wondering how a grown man can’t see a chair tilted on its side in the middle of a well-lit room.”

“It was a sight to see, and he would have had her undivided attention. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll trip on his way back.”

When Erik returned to the table, Marcus nodded toward the bar, then stood and said, “Tell us what you’re drinking, and we’ll go for refills.”

The two men walked to the nearest bar and gave the drink order to the bartender then propped against the counter to facing their table.

Fallon sagged in her chair and exhaled. When Marcus and Erik strode across the room, she compared how their appearances had changed in twenty years, or rather how much Marcus’ appearance had.

In the intervening years, Erik had added only three inches to his height, while Marcus had added at least six. Both men were lean, but Marcus had filled out following his growth spurt, becoming the more muscular of the two. Marcus’ light brown hair and blue-gray eyes contrasted Erik’s dark hair and eyes, and both men’s faces were studies in finely chiseled features.

Camille touched Fallon’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“I guess. I’m just so confused and excited and shocked, and I don’t know what to say or think.”

Felicia grinned. “Well, girl, I’ll say this. Marcus is all that and a bag of chips, no wonder you fell for him.”

Fallon’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “Yeah, he is. His eyes are so incredible, between the color and the intensity of his gaze. I think that will stay with me forever.”

“Yeah, and he’s looking at you even now,” Sandra commented, nodding her head in the direction of the bar. “I think he’s ‘twitterpated’ over you.”

Fallon’s eyes darted back to Marcus, and she found him staring at her. She wanted to kiss him, to see if it would be as explosive and intense as their first experience. She was willing to bet the past would pale in comparison to the present and the future. She wanted a kiss and more, and she wanted it soon.

Fallon turned her head to Felicia and smacked her arm. “But you, you should be ashamed of ignoring Erik like that. The poor sap is obviously trying to catch your eye.”

“I know. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, but tonight should be about you and Marcus. Erik can wait in line to get some of this.”

“You gonna’ give him a chance?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I should warn him about tangling with you, but he’s a big boy and can handle you.”

“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”

They grinned at each other then turned to stare at the men.

MARCUS SAW FALLON gazing at him, and recalled something from many years ago. He leaned over to Erik and said, “I’ll be right back.” He walked to the request booth, then returned to the bar and helped Erik carry the drinks back to the table.

Everyone tried to talk over the noise, but soon realized it was too much effort and fell into whispered conversations. Marcus intertwined his fingers with Fallon’s and held her hand on his lap as they talked.

Up close, he could see the fine lines around her eyes, the only sign of her aging. Her eyes were the same clear hazel, her lips still a soft coral, and her hair that warm, lustrous auburn. She was fuller and rounder than she’d been at sixteen, but he liked the added voluptuousness.

Being honest with himself, he regretted never having a more physical relationship with her. The kisses they’d shared had been wonderful, but as a randy teenage boy with raging hormones, he’d wanted to go around all the bases with her. Over the years, he’d had numerous dreams of making love to her. Waking from these dreams had frustrated him no end, because there was no Fallon to embrace.

“Out of all the karaoke bars in town, you had to pick this one. I just can’t believe you’re here,” she said.

“I think it’s safe to say luck had nothing to do with it.” Marcus glanced in Erik’s direction. “I think a certain someone was playing matchmaker.”

“Sort of like twenty years ago?”

“Yeah, sort of like that.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“What?” He couldn’t stop himself and brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek.

“You know that drawing you gave me?”

He nodded.

“I still have it. I framed it and have it hanging in my bedroom.”

His heartbeat stopped for a split second. “I don’t know what to say.”

“No one has ever given me something so special, nor has anyone touched my heart the way you did.”

He responded by kissing her forehead. They fell into a comfortable silence.

A little later, Marcus leaned over and said, “I have a confession of my own, Fallon.”

“What?”

“You’re not the only one with a twenty-year old memento.”

She tilted her head to one side. “What do you mean?”

He looked at his hands then stared into her eyes. “I still have your best dancer certificate. After we lost touch, it was the only link I had to you.”

She sighed. “I’m here now.”

“I know, and you have no idea how that makes me feel.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “If it’s anything like what I feel, then I do.”

Their intimate conversation was interrupted by the announcement of Erik’s name, and they joined the others in cheering and hooting as he took the stage. Erik hammed it up when he got to the mike, saying “I’m sending this out to one lovely lady, and she knows who she is.”

Felicia covered her face with her hands at his words, and her friends laughed. Everyone at the table groaned when Erik began singing “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling” horribly off-key but with too much gusto to be ignored.

Marcus bit back a grin as he rubbed his hand over his face. He gazed at Fallon. Her body shook with repressed laughter. He looked at the other women and felt certain that one or all of them were going to explode at any moment.

Erik was one of the worst singers Marcus had ever heard, and Marcus knew his friend knew it. But he seemed to be having a great time, being the center of attention. He bowed at the end of his song and grinned, then strode to the table. With that wretched example of ‘singing,’ Marcus knew Erik now had Felicia’s attention.

He sat down next to Felicia and asked, “Well?”

Felicia rolled her eyes. “Oh honey, don’t ever give up your day job. Because you’ll never make any money as a singer, unless they pay you to shut up.”

Felicia’s comment seemed to release the pressure, and everyone at the table exploded with laughter.

“Oh, come on now, I wasn’t all that bad, was I?”

Felicia arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Erik, honey, bad does not even begin to describe that caterwauling.”

“So have pity on me and give me singing lessons,” he replied. He winked at Felicia and grinned.

“Man, the lengths you’ll go to get a woman to notice you. All I can say is you’re brave for getting up there with that voice,” said Marcus.

Erik placed his hand on his chest. “You wound me, buddy. Such harsh words cut me deeply, my friend.”

Fallon grinned. “Felicia owes you dinner for valor in the service of duty, but you owe her a dozen roses for having to listen.”

Felicia’s eyes widened at the words, and she stared at Fallon then glanced back at Erik.

He shrugged. “Sounds fine by me. So, when do I get dinner?”

Felicia put her hands on her hips. “When I get my roses.”

Marcus’ name was called, and everyone at the table fell silent. Fallon turned to stare at him. He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and walked up to the mike.

“Earlier, a woman came up here and dedicated a song to the memory of her first kiss. All I can say is she was right. That kiss was unforgettable.”

AS THE MUSIC started, Fallon had a sudden recollection of dancing with Marcus to this song on that memorable night twenty years earlier.

“Fallon, baby, come to me.” Marcus gestured for her to join him, but she couldn’t move.

He began singing, and she felt as if he were looking directly at her. She knew he couldn’t see her with the bright lights, but felt he focused only on her.

Erik leaned over and whispered, “Go on, put him out of his misery.”

Fallon recalled the night twenty years earlier when he’d uttered the same words.

“Go up there and sing with him,” Erik prodded.

She walked up the stairs to the stage. Marcus held out his hand as he sang. A microphone was shoved into her hand, and she lifted it toward her lips looking to the screen for her cue to sing.

With hands clasped together and voices joined in harmony, Fallon and Marcus reunited. At the end of the song, he pulled her into his embrace and lowered his head to kiss her.

His lips pressed to hers then opened as his tongue slid out to tease her lips. She opened her mouth, and their tongues touched tentatively at first then with more urgency as the kiss deepened. What they’d shared twenty years earlier was a kiss between a boy and a girl, but this was between a man and a woman.

But just as it had been twenty years earlier, their kiss was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Marcus and Fallon pulled apart and realized everyone in the bar was clapping and hooting at their performance. Erik was standing at the edge of the stage with a smirk on his face.

“I don’t think there’s any way to keep you kids from getting caught this time,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Marcus led Fallon off the stage and back to the table. Once seated, he locked gazes with Erik. “Maybe this time I don’t mind being caught.”

Lifting Fallon’s hand to his mouth, he touched his lips to the back. “And this time, I don’t intend to run away.”

Fallon smiled at Marcus and squeezed his hand. “I let you get away before, but I won’t make the same mistake again.” She sealed her promise by pressing her mouth to his. “Consider that promise sealed with a kiss, an unforgettable kiss.”

About the Author

Eileen Wilson moves in the corporate world by day, but creates worlds of her own by night. A Jacqueline of all trades, she’s worked in a variety of jobs including general news reporter, sales administrator, administrative secretary, and customer care specialist. Eileen is a proud, card-carrying member of the “Big Girl Club,” and it is a great honor to have her first published story, “An Unforgettable Kiss,” included in this special anthology. She likes the idea of creating heroines that her BBW sisters can relate to. A Knoxville native, she currently lives in Cincinnati with her husband, the sexiest Welshman alive, and her two cats.

PASSION UNMASKED

A Round Robin Experience from the Writers at BBW Romance Writing

With Story and Contributions by

Eileen Wilson

Nancy Trausch

Judi McCoy

Jennifer Harrington

Heather Donovan

Pat Ballard

Judy Bagshaw

Elizabeth Angus

Rida Allen

FRANCESCA D’AMORE SWEPT a sweaty tangle of tawny hair out of her eyes and hobbled down the crowded Boston street in annoyance. A few people she passed did a double take at the lady in the sweeping blood-red gown 300 years out of date, but most just accepted her as one of the lucky guests attending this year’s Colonial Ball. As she once again wrenched her ankle in a pointed, high-heeled shoe, Franny decided she didn’t feel so lucky. Each step underscored her certainty that there was a special corner of the Devil’s domain set aside just for forcing naughty plush women into tiny corsets and tight footwear.

It was only with Aunt Judy’s exerted effort lacing the corset that Fran’s size-22 waist had been cinched to an uncomfortable size 18. A deep breath was not an option. Then, as if to add insult to injury, a wayward strand of her hair again escaped from her upswept coiffure and flittered down over her face. She puffed it off her nose and prayed the rest of the multitude of ringlets wouldn’t follow suit. The two hours of hard labor to get her to look the part of an original Bostonian was slowly melting away in the early July heat.

She chided herself for not calling a taxi like Judy had suggested, but instead choosing to walk the few blocks to show off her splendor to the world at large. Now she would be stuck in the ladies room for an hour putting everything back in place before she could face the rest of the guests.

“All this for a man.” But, what a man. She shook her head, but stopped when she felt yet another ringlet give way.

Just thinking of the handsome Jake McCabe gave her a sudden thrill, the same feeling she had when she first saw his tall form striding through the hallowed halls of Winters, Quinn, and Schmidt. A tremor had started in her knees, fast making its way up her spine to lodge in her chest. Her current thoughts set off that chain reaction all over again.

He was such a gentleman; always opening doors when her arms were full and even when they weren’t. When she arrived late to work, which was more often than she liked to admit, he held the elevator for her. And whenever they saw each other, he always greeted her with a smile and a few pleasant words about the weather or some other safe topic. All in all, he made a nice big brother.

But that wasn’t what she wanted. She already had a big brother living in Montana. What she wanted was the dashing hero of her dreams to ride in and save her from a lonely single life. She wanted friendship, love, and romance. And she wanted it from Jake. Tonight, with a little luck and a lot of courage, she hoped to get her wish. She blew the errant ringlet out of her face again and crossed her fingers for luck.

She stopped for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk and glanced up at the clock tower of the nearby Methodist church. It was ten after eight. She sighed. Late again. The ball had started at seven-thirty, and she knew everyone from the office was probably already there. Oh well, she would just have to make the best of her tardy entrance. She caught the flicker of a bright star hanging just to the left of the tower, and allowed herself a moment to enjoy its sparkle, like a diamond nestled in an endless swath of indigo velvet.

“Star light, star bright…” A vision of smoldering green eyes, black hair, and soft sensual lips floated before her. “…you know what I wish tonight.”

The star seemed to wink in response, and Franny smiled then continued on toward the hotel, her confidence level strangely boosted.

The Fairlawn’s stately limestone façade and arched doorway, framed by a scarlet awning and matching carpet, beckoned to her. Willing her heart to stop its fluttering dance, Francesca started up the wide steps and was greeted by a regal white-haired doorman, dressed in red velvet and white lace with small silver-rimmed eyeglasses perched on his beaky nose. She caught an appreciative glance at her daring cleavage. There may be snow on the roof, she thought, and grinned.

“Good evening, miss.” He smiled in return and gripped the lapels of his coat. “Welcome to the Fairlawn, Boston’s oldest and most majestic hotel, and proud host to this year’s Colonial Ball. May I see your invitation, please?”

Fran gave a slight nod in reply and began to root around in her small red satin purse for the invitation Mr. Winters had given her a month ago. After what seemed like forever, she brought out a rumpled buff-colored square of parchment.

He adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose and scrutinized the invitation. “Excellent, Miss D’Amore.” His white-gloved hand pressed the paper back into hers. “The Grand Ballroom is just to your direct left inside, at the end of the hall. You’ll find the ladies room to the right, before that. Enjoy your evening.” He grabbed the brass door handle with his left hand, pulled it open, and ushered her inside with a magnificent sweep of his right arm.

Fran made a quick reconnaissance of the space of the door, compared it to the extension of her dress, and turned sideways. She noticed that the doorman’s grin was now a bit wider as she sidled through the doorway. She lowered her eyes and felt the warmth on her cheeks again.

The lobby was a huge, airy space lit by the dancing light of dazzling crystal chandeliers. The beams were reflected back by white marble floors and columns polished to a high sheen. Gilt edging seemed to cover everything, even the coffered ceiling with its mural of a lovely azure blue sky filled with clouds as fluffy as a lamb dancing across it. For an instant, she’d entered some provincial estate in eighteenth century France.

A bobby pin slipped out of place, and she felt her hair shift, bringing her back to the mission at hand. She set out in search of the ladies room.

She ducked inside and was engulfed in animated chatter and a rainbow of gowns. The excited women were the very height of Colonial elegance with their curled and teased hair piled high, and dazzling jewels on their necks, wrists, fingers, and ears. Most had taken off their masks, and some were cooling themselves with ornate fans.

Fran spotted an empty chair in front of a mirror and made a beeline for it. She passed by a woman in jet black velvet threaded through with pin stripes of silver, who was talking to another in a satin gown of tangerine stripes alternating with yellow ones, so bright and colorful it put Fran in mind of spring daffodils.

Behind the empty chair sat an older, regal woman fanning herself. On another settee reposed a woman who wore a stunning mask of peacock feathers with a dress that matched the iridescent colors perfectly. But instead of having a white wig, hers was a startling shade of lilac topped by more of the peacock’s rich plumage.

The woman caught Fran’s stare and nodded. Fran smiled shyly in return.

“What a beautiful gown,” Lady Peacock said. Her voice was soft, feminine, and very aristocratic. For a moment, Franny wondered if this woman really had stepped out of the past.

Fran put a hand on the chair back as she stopped beside it. “Thank you,” she replied.

“It appears to have been made for you.”

“My aunt is a seamstress for the Boston theater crowd.”

“She did a marvelous job. It’s nice to see a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown, and not a sad and ill-fitted rented old thing.” Peacock lady cast a disdainful glance at the other ladies in the room.

“Thank you,” Fran said again.

The woman assessed Francesca’s gown once more, and smiled her approval. “You are beautiful, you know.” She stood up and held her mask over her face. “You’ll turn many heads out there.”

“Perhaps.” Fran gave an uncertain laugh, just as another ringlet slipped out of place. She sat down at the mirror and flinched at the way her corset cut into her.

“You will.” The woman dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And I’m sure the right one will be among them.”

Fran took her eyes off the reflection of the stranger and focused on her once tall crown of hair that was now a lopsided blob. She fingered the loose tendril tickling at her nose. “I hope so.”

But there was no response. She checked the reflections behind her and discovered that Lady Peacock was no longer there; the woman was no longer anywhere. Fran scanned the room, but seeing no sign of the kind gentlewoman, she shrugged and returned to her primping.

After ten minutes, she knew beyond a doubt that without Aunt Judy’s extra hands, her hair was not going to return to the glittering pile of tawny-gold ringlets that it had been before she’d left her apartment. Drumming her fingertips on the vanity top, she debated on what to do. A motion in the mirror caught her attention, and she saw the jet black and daffodil ball guests pass through the door as another giggling gaggle of women pushed their way in. Fran groaned to herself as she recognized the newcomers as the “I can’t eat that” crowd of single ladies from work. Every Friday, Mr. Winters would bring in luscious bakery treats for the staff, but these girls just stood around, patted their barely-there bellies and exclaimed stupid catchphrases like, “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.” But somehow, it was always Franny’s hips they looked at when they said this.

At the helm of the group was Tiffany Webber, the permanently “temporary” receptionist. Tiff the Temp spent most of the day gossiping about everyone and everything, and telling anyone unlucky enough to get caught by her that what she really wanted was to be a model or an actress. She’d only taken the job at Winters, Quinn, and Schmidt to cover the cost of her new “assets,” which she’d put on daddy’s credit card, wink-wink.

Fran shook her head at the sight behind her. Tiff’s new additions were dangerously close to falling out of the white peasant top she’d chosen to wear with her Colonial serving girl costume. Leave it to Tiffany to forgo the standard elegant gown for something more alluring, yet utterly common.

The gigglers huddled on the nearest velvet settee, heads together, and whispered amongst themselves. They were so intent on their gossiping that they seemed oblivious to Fran’s presence. She went back to the issue of her hair, and finally decided that if Tiff could go against the norm, so could she. She began to pull out the half-box of bobby pins she and Aunt Judy had painstakingly used to keep the mass of waves in place and dropped them into her evening bag.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Tiff’s sultry voice burned into Franny’s ear. “He could sail me around anytime.”

Fran figured she was talking about Jake, unless she’d set her sights on some other man tonight.

“I thought Fran was supposed to be here.” That was Jane, from accounting. Nice enough on her own, but such a mouse in the face of Tiff’s cattiness.

“She probably couldn’t find a dress that would fit over her fat gut.” Tiffany giggled.

Fran’s breath whooshed out of her, as though the thoughtless receptionist had punched her in said stomach.

“And so she decided to stay home and drown her sorrows in a gallon of chocolate ice cream.”

The women laughed, and for an instant Fran felt like she had ballooned 12 dress sizes. But she inhaled deeply, went to that “safe place” inside, the one where her high school counselor had forever tried to usher Fran and her classmates if, in the face of peer pressure, they felt like taking a hit from a joint. She tried to shake off the stinging hurt and continued to pull pins. She congratulated her reflection for not giving away the emotions roiling inside her.

“Besides, Fran probably realized that since it’s a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, she couldn’t afford second helpings.” Another round of guffaws followed.

Fran slammed her eyes shut and willed herself to envision her safe haven—Grandma’s garden on a perfect, still summer’s day. She was too old to let those brainless women make her feel like a hapless, helpless high school freshman lost among the most popular seniors.

The memory of Jake’s first day at her office flooded her mind. These same women that were making fun of her now had done it then too. They’d been grouped together in the break room, talking the usual “girl talk” about him being single, each one vowing to be the girl who caught him. Tiffany had declared that they didn’t have to worry about competition from Fatty Franny. “After all, what man would want a girl like that?”

Fran was frozen in the doorway, unable to move forward and face them down or to retreat to somewhere else. The childish conversation died when the unkind crowd saw her standing there, then they’d turned their backs and busied themselves with analyzing the doughnuts near the coffee mugs.

“Buy you a cup?” A gentle, masculine voice had said, just as two strong hands gripped her shoulders from behind.

Fran glanced back and connected with the kindest, greenest eyes she’d ever seen. She’d nodded and let him propel her towards the coffee pot, his hands still on her shoulders, the warmth of them radiating through her shirt, making her feel safe, and something else.

The other women in the room had swooped in on him like a flock of harpies, trying to wedge their way into his line of vision. But Jake just made mundane conversation with them as he filled two mugs, handed one to Fran, winked, and then let himself be swallowed up by his entourage of admirers.

After that, Fran hadn’t cared that she had been suddenly left alone. With his support, she’d been able to walk into the room with her head held high.

Since that day, she’d never been sure if his heroics had been because he liked her, or if it was just the thoughtful gesture toward a woman who’d been teased and embarrassed by her co-workers.

Hopefully tonight, she’d get the chance to find out the answer.

The last of her curls cascaded down past her shoulders and over the back of the chair. With a shaky hand she pulled up the sides, pinned the sections together behind her head with the gold barrette she’d used in the other style, and pulled a few strands down around her cheeks.

She stuffed the last of the bobby pins into her purse then pulled out the mask Aunt Judy had made for her. It was gold satin on the front and soft jersey cotton on the back, so it would be comfortable to wear. She positioned it over her eyes, tied the gilt ribbons behind her head and fluffed her hair.

She stood up, drew in as deep a breath as possible in her corset, and headed for the ball.

Fran pulled the mangled invitation from her purse, careful not to bring out a shower of bobby pins with it, and handed it to the blue-velvet-clad usher at the ballroom door. He nodded and motioned for her to follow him to the company table. As she glided into the room, the feeling of her mask against her face made her feel bold and ready to accomplish her mission.

And there he was.

Jake McCabe dressed as a proper Colonial navy captain, right down to the fake sword on his hip and knee-high black boots. Though masked like the others, Fran had no trouble recognizing the body she’d fantasized about for the last few months, which now lounged at the table, relaxed and casual, the pose of an un-self-conscious man. His legs were stretched out to the side, a champagne flute dangled from his right hand and rested against his muscular thigh. Fran’s trepidation turned into excitement when he did a double take at her arrival.

“Good evening, miss.” He eased himself out of the small chair and stretched to his full height. “Will you be gracing us with your company?”

“Why, yes, captain.” She joined in his game.

He reached around her shoulder and plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Buy you a cup?” He grinned and handed her the delicate goblet.

She blinked at the echo of the familiar words and accepted his offering with a smile. “Thank you.”

She took a tiny sip; half wishing she could toss it back instead to bolster her nerves. She glanced around the room. “It’s quite a party, isn’t it?” She gave herself a mental smack in the head. Wittier, Fran. You gotta do better than this!

“I suppose.” He set his half-empty glass on the table. “Though I’d rather be leading my crew and ship through the waves, drinking rum, and singing stupid sea chanteys as befits a sailor of my ilk.”

Jake’s mentor Jack Malone slapped the table and guffawed. “You mean like you did last May on that moonlight dinner cruise around the harbor, when you lost the first, second and third courses?” He gave a pronounced sniff of the air around Jake. “In fact, it smells like you’ve already tapped into a keg of rum before arriving here tonight!” He grinned at his supposed wit.

Jake returned the smile and tilted his head. “That’s just my Bay Rum aftershave, and thanks so much for reminding me about last May in front of all these lovely ladies.”

“Ooooh, I like it!” Tiffany sang as she grabbed his arm. Some of Fran’s enjoyment evaporated. “I think it smells great on you!” She nestled against him. “My, captain, isn’t that music wonderful?”

“Yes it is.” He patted her hand and scanned the room, his handsome profile hidden behind his mask. He turned to Franny. “Would you excuse us a moment?”

“Of, course.” Fran wasn’t sure he’d heard her reply, as small as her voice had become. She watched the attractive couple glide across the room and had to mentally nail her shoes to the carpet, so as to not give Tiff the Temp the satisfaction of seeing her slink away in defeat.

She took an unladylike gulp of champagne, sloshing some when her glass froze at her lip. Jake had stopped in front of a gangly Minuteman soldier. He slipped from Tiff’s grasp, made a deep bow to her, and handed her off to the exultant scarecrow of a man. It was all Fran could do to keep from running out to meet Jake, but she kept those mental nails in place, just in case she was reading the situation wrong.

“Now.” He drew up before her. “Where was I?”

“I suspect you were going to ask me to dance, captain.” She pursed her lips in playful thought.

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” He took the glass from her fingers, set it on the table, and took her hands. “I was.”

Two waltzes and many laughs later, Jake and Fran walked arm in arm back to the table. He pulled out a chair, and she settled herself into it.

“Captain.” Tiffany had appeared again and was patting the back of the chair beside her.

“Thank you, miss, but I already have my place.” He made himself comfortable beside Fran.

The green light to go flashed in Fran’s mind at his declaration. She threw back her shoulders, which pushed her breasts out to nice effect, and prepared to employ every seductive move she’d ever read in a romance novel.

As the six courses came and went, she was the most earnest of listeners as he spoke with the people around them, caressed his sleeve with her finger, and between the main course and the dessert, laid her hand on his thigh. He’d instantly retaliated by taking her fingers and squeezing them tight.

When the dessert of ice cream and strawberries arrived, Fran was feeling quite bold. She speared one of the smallest berries from her pewter plate and offered it to him. He licked his lips and gently grasped the berry in his teeth, making low moaning noises of delight at the flavor of the fruit.

“Why, Franny,” Tiffany laughed as Fran pulled the fork from Jake’s lips. “You shouldn’t be offering him the strawberry. You should be offering him the ice cream since that’s much more fattening.”

Leave it to Tiffany to ruin her meal.

But this time, instead of being rewarded for her remark with giggles from the other women, the table went silent. Jake reached out and brought Fran’s shaking hand to his lips. He stared at her with a warmth that made her feel like she’d just been wrapped up in a soft, cozy blanket on a cold night.

“Thank you for the sweets, my dear,” he whispered into her glove. “I’ll repay you later.”

Tiffany’s eyes widened at the silence around her, and the exchange of the two people across the table. “For goodness sakes,” she exclaimed. “I was just trying to give her some diet tips.”

Tiffany swung her arms out to her sides and connected with a tray of dirty dishes the waiter beside her was holding. The whole mess came crashing down into her lap. The women gasped, the men stood up, and Tiffany burst into tears and ran from the room.

The others around the table watched her race away then slowly continued their conversations as if nothing had happened.

Fran almost felt sorry for Tiffany, and the way the tables had turned on her.

Almost.

The strains of another waltz began as the guests finished eating. Jake shoved back his chair and took Fran’s hand. “Shall we work off our meal, my dear?”

“Another diet tip?” she asked.

“Never. You’re beautiful as you are.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles.

He took her in his arms, and they whirled around the ballroom as if they’d been dancing together for years instead of hours. She was lost in his eyes when they locked onto hers. She melted into his strong arms, wanting nothing more than to lay her head on his chest. Jake smiled, a warm gleam in his green eyes. She smiled back, and lowered her gaze. He tightened his right arm around her back and pulled her closer to him.

When the music ended, they were standing on the garden patio with only a few other couples.

“You look perfect tonight, Fran,” he whispered. “Just the way I always thought a Colonial lady of means should look. But—”

“But what?”

He grinned. “Those poor Colonial men must have had a devil of a job to imagine just what assets their ladies held secret under all that fabric.”

She laughed. “Leaves more to the imagination that way.”

“Which is why us modern gentlemen let you ladies get into cars, and go in through doors before us. That way we get to enjoy the view our forefathers were denied.”

“Like when we go up the steps?”

“Mmmm, curvy legs and well-padded derrieres are among my favorite views.”

“Well.” Fran took a deep breath and ignored the complaint from her corset. “Maybe sometime I’ll let you get a better look at them.”

Suddenly, his face turned serious, and he led her into the shadows of a lilac bush. “Does that mean I can ask you out?”

Fireworks exploded in her head, but she kept her cool. “Sure. But I never thought you were interested in me for anything more than just a friend.”

“The thoughts I have of you go way beyond friendship.”

“Oh,” was all Fran could think to say.

He brushed a gentle finger against the satin of her mask. Fran quivered as it glided slow and sure, with devastating effect on her insides, from her cheek, down her neck and came to rest against her breasts. Her chest rose and fell with increased speed as her heartbeat began to race.

He pressed his lips against the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat, and then continued his onslaught by trailing kisses down it to her bosom.

Her eyes drifted shut, and her hands grabbed his arms for support as the velvet edge of his tongue replaced his soft lips and flicked in and out of the shadowy cleft between her breasts.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Jake said, then released a ragged sigh against her neck.

His warm breath against her throat sent a thrill through Fran. His hand cupped her breast, and his thumb caressed the satin that encased it, sending shivers of longing throughout her body.

“I’ve wanted you to do it too,” she whispered, letting her hand travel over his chest. “And more.”

His eyes twinkled. “So I’m not overstepping my bounds here, friend?”

She shook her head, lifted up on her toes, and pressed her lips against his. “Hardly, friend.” Fran drew back and grinned encouragement at him.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her. “Do you know,” he said, breathing into her ear, “that I have a wicked time concentrating when you’re anywhere near me? When I hear your voice or get a whiff of your perfume, I start daydreaming about the two of us being alone on a beach somewhere ”

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Hmmmm. I picture us stuck in a cabin in the woods, snowed in and unable to leave for a month, and we’re cuddled up on a sofa in front of a warm fire, surrounded by soft, slow music,” she replied.

Jake cocked his head at the coincidental timing as the fluid melody of a soft waltz wafted through the patio doors. Releasing his hold on her, he bowed and took her hand.

“Another dance, milady?”

He danced her back into the ballroom and toward their table. And this time, her head was resting on his chest. She listened to his heart beating under her ear and couldn’t believe that her wish for the night had come true.

“It’s midnight,” a voice boomed from the corner, near the band. “Masks off.”

They stopped in front of the company table as everyone in the room who’d worn a mask began to remove theirs. Fran reached back to untie hers, but Jake beat her to it. He pulled at the ribbon and let the golden mask fall to the marble floor.

“Oh,” he said, acting as if he were surprised to see who was behind the disguise. “It’s you, Fran.”

He then pushed his mask up without letting his eyes leave hers.

“Jake,” she gasped, reaching up to touch his cheek. “I never would’ve guessed that was you under there.”

Laughter filled the room as the others enjoyed the unmasking. Jake chuckled too, then bent down and planted a gentle kiss on her lips.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, straightening. “I have a couple people I need to schmooze with before I can spend the rest of the evening catering to your every whim.”

“Okay.” Fran squeezed his hand. “I’ll wait.”

He winked, bowed, and walked away.

Tiffany was slouched low in her chair with a napkin covering a portion of the huge stain on her lap, sulking like a petulant preschooler as she watched Fran resume her seat. Her other officemates were staring as well. Fran decided she couldn’t care less, and gave Tiffany the sweetest smile she had in her arsenal. Tiffany returned it with a hostile glare that proved all too well what the score was, and that she knew she’d lost this battle.

“HAVE I TOLD you that you look beautiful tonight?” Jake asked as he crept up behind her a little while later. “And that I am the luckiest man in the room?”

“No,” she lied. “You haven’t.”

“Then,” he said as he took her arm and helped her to her feet, “let me say, you look beautiful tonight, and I’m the luckiest man in the room.”

“I didn’t do so bad myself, Captain McCabe,” she added.

“I hope you don’t mind if we move this negotiation of a McCabe-D’Amore merger to somewhere a bit more private?”

“Not at all. I only live two blocks from here.”

“How convenient.” He tucked her arm into the crook of his, nodded at Winters and company, and walked her out of the ballroom.

The doorman was busy at the sidewalk, waiting beside a black-cloaked woman for the black limo to pull to a stop. Jake held the door open for her, and Fran slid sideways into the warm night. As they stepped off the granite stairs onto the sidewalk, the woman turned and Fran saw that it was Lady Peacock.

“Hello again.” The woman smiled as they stopped in front of her. Her eyes traveled from her face to his. “Is this the one?”

“Yes,” Fran replied as she took Jake’s hand.

“You look good together.” The corner of her elegant mouth tipped up in an amused smile. “Would you like a ride to your next adventure?”

“No, thank you,” Fran replied. “We’ll walk.”

“Very well. Goodnight, my dear.” The woman slipped into the back seat of the car, and allowed the doorman to settle her voluminous skirts before closing the door.

“Who was that?” Jake watched the limo disappear into the flood of traffic in front of the hotel.

“Just a friend.” She nudged him in the direction of her apartment, and looked up at the church tower to check the time. Fran saw that the star was still in place and still twinkling at her as it had been hours ago.

“Make a wish, Fran,” he whispered. “It might just come true.”

“I don’t need to.” She snuggled up beside him. “It already has.”

About the BBW Romance Writing Group

Our supportive group is made up of members from a wide variety of backgrounds and work in many different subgenres of fiction, but we are banded together with one goal in mind: to put quality stories about capable and lovable big beautiful people in the hands of readers who are tired of only seeing Madison Avenue’s slender “ideal” heroes and heroines depicted in novels.

We are more than just authors, we are champions for change!

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Table of Contents

Love At Large

Foreword

With Many Thanks

Contents

The Illustrated Woman

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

A Work of Art

Dirty Laundry

Love Bytes

A Change in Direction

An Unforgettable Kiss

Passion Unmasked

Table of Contents

Love At Large

Foreword

With Many Thanks

Contents

The Illustrated Woman

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

A Work of Art

Dirty Laundry

Love Bytes

A Change in Direction

An Unforgettable Kiss

Passion Unmasked