Chapter Nine

Dead dog tired, I questioned whether my BFF was Jenny or not because I found myself dragged to the rehearsal studio for another tango session after Wedding Wonderland closed for the day. The grand-opening event seemed never-ending, and my feet hurt more than possible, making dancing lessons unappealing. A good meal would have relieved my fatigue—if I had found time to eat something other than the petit fours we passed out at Wedding Wonderland.

Regretfully, I eyed the front entry as I walked the concrete path to the studio. Only two more lessons to go. Praise the Lord.

I stepped inside tentatively, noting the nearly dim lighting. I settled my gaze on Ms. Yolanda, garbed in another from her crazy caftan collection. I bet she crammed her closet with one in every color.

Stuart and Tracey stood by the chairs lining one wall, having a heated discussion. Expressive arms flew everywhere. Fingers stabbed near the eyes. Very unlike my sister to be animated, and I’d never seen Stuart flail his arms. Mainly, he personified quirky tics and bad clothing choices.

Something had turned South in paradise. After a few minutes, Stuart’s expression changed from his usual puppy dog self to one of drawn eyebrows and a downturned mouth.

My sister repeatedly pressed a tissue to the corners of her eyes, her mouth scrunched in a frown.

Were they discussing what happened at the shop with slime butt? And does Stuart know about Tracey's past marriage?

Tracey’s gaze traveled past her fiancé and settled on me. I lifted one shoulder and raised my palms.

She shook her head.

Fine. Tracey didn’t need my help, and I lacked anything to offer except to corroborate her story of the “close encounter of the lizard ex” kind.

I didn’t want to be pulled into their hullabaloo. No way because today, I’d had enough. If their chat grew lively again, I would station myself on the opposite side of the room and prepare for a Great Escape. I pressed my back into the wall, and when I determined no one paid any attention, I inched my way to the farthest corner.

I stopped when I spied Mr. Migh-tee Fine Allan leaning against the wall opposite me. He studied Stuart and Tracey like paradise between them faded with the setting sun, and, if true, wondering if he would be off the hook as best man.

Allan dragged his index finger along the curve of his jaw.

I couldn't focus on anything except his luscious mouth, which made mine water with memories of his soul-deep kisses.

With nothing else to do or no one to talk with, I limply tossed my hands, crossed the room, and inserted myself in a space next to his right side. Instantly, a snap and crackle ignited just by my body being in the proximity of him. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes to control my feelings, so hoping they weren’t transparent. Now was not the time for anything “us.”

Allan said, without looking my way, “Something’s different.”

“Oh?”

“Stuart and Tracey aren’t happy.”

“Wow. You must have special powers to determine that.”

He cut me his squinty eye look. “I do. Special cop powers.”

Even the stupid lopsided tilt to his eyes was hot.

“What happened?” he asked.

I shook my head and shrugged. “I know nothing.”

“Wrong answer. You share everything with Tracey.”

Not everything everything. “Perhaps, not a Cadillac kind of day at Wedding Wonderland.”

“Not surprised. Trouble follows you at your so-called jobs.”

“Stop being judgmental. I didn’t do anything”—I took in his “not believing you” look—“well, okay, not much.”

Allan shifted and sighed. “I can’t wait to hear.”

I crossed my arms, bumping my backside against the mirrored wall. “Today, we experienced a teeny tiny kerfuffle between Jonson Leggett number three and Tracey.”

“Kerfuffle? My, Grandma, what big words you know.”

“Thank you. I’m sure my eighth-grade English teacher appreciates you noticing.”

“Smart aleck.”

“Just a teensy-weensy disagreement.”

“With Jonson? The blowhard? Hardly.” Allan snorted. “He graduated with my class in high school. Didn’t have many friends. An ass-wipe back then.”

He slanted his head and locked on me the “tell me everything” look. “Rumor says he’s getting married.”

Allan’s expression made me uneasy. I squirmed. “Yup. To poor, little rich girl Barbie Fenster of the lumberyard family. But maybe not after today.”

“The suspense is killing me.”

“Leave it alone, Allan. The drama—awful. Just awful.” I shook my head. “Look at Stuart. When is he ever so animated? Aren’t accountants supposed to be rather…contained?”

“A huge misconception amplified by television portraying accountants as nerds. Back to the original subject—what if I’m called on to be a supportive best man?”

“You know how all couples have their moments?”

Allan dipped his chin. “Enlighten me. What moments?”

“This is one of them.”

He squinched a look. “And you’re an expert on couples—how?”

Allan always ruffled my proverbial feathers. “I’ve been part of a couple before.”

“So tell me, exactly how long ago did you date college boy?”

I flexed my fingers to ball my fist to sock his bicep. He was saved when Ms. Yolanda stepped to the center of the room, and the plastic coin trim on her caftan, which she most likely bought vast yards of, clicked.

She clapped. Undoubtedly, Ms. Yolanda stored more tango torture tricks in her sleeves.

The students formed a circle around her—a little too eagerly, in my opinion.

Allan dropped a groan before he pushed off to join the group.

I surrendered and stood by his side.

She lifted her hands. “Class, let’s practice what we’ve learned so far. Find your partner.”

No one dared to move.

“Come on,” Ms. Yolanda said, with summoning hands. “Or I’ll add fifteen more minutes to the set.”

Instantly, the group scattered like a bug bomb tossed on an intrusion of roaches.

Rotating to face Allan, I set my hand in his. His attention locked on me. A tingling increased to a burning flame through my palm and up to my neck. I sensed my head going hot, and undoubtedly, my face turned the color in the fire-engine red category. I managed to place my other hand on his shoulder.

“Closer.” He curled his fingers around mine.

My heart beat hard. My breath caught.

“I won’t bite.”

I shuffled my feet. “All talk. No action.”

“Well, maybe just a nibble.”

However, the twinkle in his eye and the one playing with his smile betrayed his “almost” pledge. Maybe one tiny love bite would be okay. I snorted. “So you say.”

I half shut my eyes and shifted into the intimacy range—becoming all too aware of his bigger body, remembering the last time we were naked, remembering how extraordinary he felt on top of mine. Good. Really, really good—

Snap out of it, Hattie.

After the rest of the students assembled, Ms. Yolanda clapped. “Anda one, anda two…”

Allan guided us in one direction, paused, posed. I skimmed my right leg in a half circle while Allan sharply swept my left arm in an arc over our heads. My gaze connected with his. Challenge, lust, and all man were discernible. In an odd way, something inside me switched to…excitably scared. The back of his hand slipped along the side of my arm to just above my wrist.

With each stroke, goose bumps pimpled my skin.

Ms. Yolanda aimed her remote at the music system. Notes faded away. “Class. A moment, please.”

Quickly, I released my hold with Allan. But I couldn’t tear away my gaze. So intently, I stared at him, and he stared at me, I sensed something like our souls merging.

“We’re leaving.” He grabbed my hand, my handbag, my coat, and dragged me to the door.

I felt my friends’ stares bore into my spine as they watched him rush me to his truck. When I glanced back, all of their mouths shaped an “O” like a perfect donut—except for Jenny’s.

Her mouth quirked upward as her fingers fluttered bon voyage.

Outside the studio, I found myself stumbling and bumbling across the parking lot to the 4-Runner.

Allan pounced a button on his key fob and jerked wide the passenger door. He shoved me inside with my handbag and coat dumped at my feet.

I didn’t like the rough stuff he exhibited, and when he opened his door and slid inside, I said, “Now, wait a minute, Buster—”

He pointed his finger at my face. “Shut up.”

“Shut up?” He raised his voice and told me to shut up? I couldn’t believe he spoke to ME like that.

The engine cranked on, and he shifted the SUV into gear. He concentrated on exiting the parking lot and turning onto Boston Avenue.

I crossed my arms. My mother never allowed us to use the phrase “shut up.” She said those words were akin to cursing. I bet a shiny quarter Mrs. Wellborn didn’t permit the use of those two little words at their home either.

“You cannot tell me to shut up. Not now. Not ever. Pull over, Allan. Now. I’d rather walk than ride with you.”

“Even in the cold?”

“Even in the cold.” I would thaw…someday.

“No.” He slid a sideways look my way. “Relax. Nothing bad will happen. Sorry about the rough stuff.”

So you say. I arranged my coat over my legs. “When the Mothers Always Know Network gets wind of our encounter—which they will because they always do—and convenes tomorrow at Super Saver grocery store over vegetables—maybe cauliflower’ll be out of stock—you’ll be in deep doo-doo for saying shut up. Trust me; I’ll make sure you are.”

Allan glanced my way for a nanosecond then refocused on the road. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You manhandled me and said a naughty word.”

“Manhandled? Funny.” He chuckled. “And yes, I might have naughty ideas.”

Despite his snatch-and-grab routine, nothing would happen. Mr. On-His-Way-to-Sainthood wouldn’t violate me. But I didn’t like the approach he used right now.

I stared at the passing scenery. Nothing great. This time of year, nighttime crept in early, right about drive time. The leaves had fallen off the trees, leaving bare black limbs piercing the sky. The grass’s texture resembled straw. The days grew cooler and cooler. Soon, the holiday season would be upon us.

I shifted a “from under my lashes” look his way. “Nothing has happened between us.”

Even in the truck’s dark cab lit by the dashboard lights, an attractive glint glowed in his eyes.

“Aw, there’s hope.”

In his dreams. Well, maybe in mine, too, without all the rough stuff.

Allan turned into the shopping center, which housed Mama’s & Papa’s Italian Bistro. He slotted his car, killed the engine, and cracked his door. “Come on.”

My mouth watered just by staring at the restaurant storefront. His idea involved food. Better yet, Italian food. A most excellent plan, and I could almost forgive him for the near kidnapping.

Out of the blue, my tummy gurgled. I laid a palm over my abdomen, hoping he hadn’t heard the noise while I pretended nothing transpired. Feeling pleased, I opened the truck's door and stepped out, tossing the coat around my shoulders.

His hand extended behind him in my direction. “Come, Hattie. Please, have dinner with me.”

Hunger overruled anger. I folded my hand with his. We walked to our favorite Italian restaurant. He held wide the glass entry door and let me pass through first. My senses were overpowered by the most fabulous scents ever—spicy garlic, sweet tomato, yeasty bread, and sharp onions.

I loved Mama’s & Papa’s Italian Bistro, a place my parents frequented with Tracey and me since elementary school. The same Tuscan prints decorated the golden faux-finished walls. The same Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra tunes oozed from the sound system.

I breathed in deeply then looked at Allan, overwhelmed in gratitude. “Nirvana.”

He crinkled his eyes. “Forgiven?”

Not sure which time I should forgive him for—when he’d eaten dinner here with Blonde Bimbo and broke my heart or for dragging me tonight. “I’m starving. So, you’re forgiven. By the way, did I say thanks for rescuing me from tango lessons?”

“My pleasure.” He touched the tip of my nose.

“This is way more fun.”

The hostess led us to a booth.

He waved to the table. “Would you sit next to me?”

Oh God, the intimacy—thigh to thigh, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder. I didn’t know if I could handle the closeness. “S-Sure.”

After we wiggled into place on the banquette and the menus were passed around, I verified my favorite entrée and smiled. I closed the menu. “Lasagna.”

The waitress’ pencil hovered over her pad. “Comes with a dinner salad.”

“Perfect. With house dressing on the side.”

Allan returned his menu. “Same. And two glasses of Pinot Grigio? Okay for you?”

“Yes.” I ducked my chin. How well he knows me. After she left, a lull descended between us.

He tapped the red-checked cloth. “Want to talk about Stuart and Tracey now?”

The waitress placed filled wine glasses on the table, a breadboard with a small hot loaf, and a container of whipped butter.

Allan lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

I touched my rim to his. “Cheers.” I took a few swallows, letting the full-bodied citrus taste roll over my tongue. I set my glass on top of four red-and-white squares.

He set a buttered slice on my bread plate.

“Thank you.” I chewed contemplatively. “Jonson and Barbie visited the store today. He demanded the ten percent discount Wedding Wonderland offered to new customers. He pitched a royal fit after I told him his purchase didn’t qualify because they bought her dress and stuff earlier before the Grand Opening promotion. Then Tracey came in, not noticing him at first. But when they did see each other, ordnance exploded—the kind like an atomic bomb, all stink and smoke, mushrooming skyward with toxic vitriol.

“Maybe I didn’t use my best behavior, especially when he lit into his fiancée. But then, Barbie didn’t act so nice either. She had the gall to call Tracey ugly.”

“Let me guess. You said something not-so-nice in return.” He sipped his wine.

“You bet your sweet tushy—”

“My tushy is sweet? Cool.”

I put a second slice on my plate, adding a dollop of whipped butter on the side. “No one talks to my baby sister like Barbie did.” I chewed three, maybe four, bites.

“Hattie?” He tapped the tabletop with his finger. “Tell all.”

“Fine.” I set my butter knife on the plate and wiped my hands on the napkin. “But I say justifiable. I told Ms. Smarty Pants Barbie, Tracey was Jonson’s No. 2 wife because nobody—and I mean nobody—messes with my sister, especially him.” I took my fork and punctuated the air like I stabbed Jonson Leggett the Third in his heart.

Allan nearly choked on his drink. He set his glass on the table, swiped his mouth with his lap cloth, and coughed. “S-Second ex-wife?”

I nodded and bit into the bread.

“I’m missing something. Are you saying Jonson was married before Tracey?”

“Duh, didn’t you read the papers? Didn’t your mother tell you?”

“Okay, sometimes, I skip the paper when I’m super busy and”—his brow narrowed—“don’t you dare repeat this. I can tune out my mom.”

“No way.” Shocking it was.

“If you ever say a word, I’ll deny everything.” He grinned.

Why did Allan have to smile in such a sexy lazy way? He was way too suggestive. I cleared my throat.

“What did Barbie do?”

“At first, she looked sad, her face all droopy like she would cry. Then, as if smacked with a divine revelation, she leaped all over Jonson like fleas on a homeless mongrel. She had no idea he was married two times before and wanted to know why he implied otherwise. My take—he lied.”

His left brow lifted. “Jonson, my friend—not—lied by omission.”

“Big time. A big fat whopper.” I slid my wineglass along a row of checks. “Maybe he’s a borderline sociopath.”

“Hmm. Most people disclose their marriage background when they begin dating.”

“Guess Jonson wanted to avoid anything which could impinge his reputation and prevent him from dipping into the Fenster family wallet.”

“Surely, someone said something before now.”

“You’d think.”

Allan recrossed his legs. “He has a charming way as narcissists do. Anyway, she's better off knowing before the wedding instead of later when he divorces her.”

“How do you know he'll divorce her?”

He made a “huh” face and shrugged. “He's got a pattern. He’s a serial divorcer—”

“Serial divorcer—what a funny word.”

“It fits.”

“Miss A., my boss, would agree with you. We discussed the sanctity of marriage.” I frowned. “She looked unbelievably…appalled when I told her about Jonson’s prior vows. She has hard and fast opinions about the sanctity of marriage.”

“Speaking of”—he put a slice of bread on his plate—“what are your beliefs on, uh, marriage?”

My face grew hot. I had a hard time looking at Allan. I stared into the depths of my wineglass. “At first, looks attract two people to each other. They like what they see and feel, and lust comes into the picture.”

“Kinda like us.”

I rolled my eyes. “But to stay together, two people must have values they respect and a willingness to compromise and work together. But most of all, no lying. Ever.”

The waitress set the garden salad in front of us. Not very imaginative, but fresh, not bagged, assorted lettuce, a few curls of carrots, a token tomato slice, and garnished with one black olive. After a liberal dose of ground black pepper and light zing of salad dressing, but no extra cheese, I picked up my fork and took a bite, relishing the zesty tang.

Allan stabbed his tomato. “Very wise assessment.”

“Some people say commonalities, too. Like us—”

He raised one brow. “As far as I know, no us.”

His serious eye-look wasn’t working on me. I pointed my lettuce-loaded fork his way. “Just for an example, say we’re together. We both like movies.”

He speared his fork in the mixed greens, giving it a go-over before eating. “I tolerated your romantic comedies.”

I rolled my eyes a second time. “One time. One time we watched something I preferred. I don’t savor the blood-and-guts police dramas you favor. Sarcasm in case you were wondering.”

Allan set his utensil on his plate and wrapped his fingers on the glass’ stem. “I think we were teenagers when we watched one cop show. If I recollect correctly, your mother called, and you hid the remote.”

I giggled. “My plan all along. No channel surfing.”

“It worked.”

Our lasagna arrived. Setting my hands on either side of my plate, I stared at the hot yumminess, ignoring our marriage conversation for the important stuff—eating. I inhaled all the tomatoey, garlicky goodness and dived in. No talking, just appreciating.

I saved half a portion for dinner the following night, because everyone knew pasta tasted better the next day and because I needed tummy room for dessert.

Allan and I negotiated and shared a good-sized wedge of chocolate cherry cake with a fudge-y frosting.

I polished off the last swallow of the white wine with a shoulder lift. “Mmm. I feel better. No hostilities toward you.”

“Then, my job’s done.” He set his empty glass next to the dirty dishes. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“I’m shocked. You ate like a horse.”

“Ooh, a compliment from the sainted one.”

“Cut that out. You know I’m not ‘saintly’ anything.”

“Your mom and my mom think so.”

Allan frowned and switched to drinking water.

I should quit harassing him. “Thank you for saving me from Ms. Yolanda.” I folded my napkin. “You didn’t have to be so rough.”

“You know, I’m sick of how every time we do those stupid dance lessons, everyone stares. I’ve never seen so many eyeballs, except fake ones in the Halloween punch.”

“Please.” I snorted. “You know why.”

He canted his head.

“Allan, you’re no dimwit.”

His foot grazed my ankle.

I jiggled. “What—”

He did it again only harder.

“Hey, stop.” I narrowed my eyes into viper slits. “What’s going on?”

“Just trying to get your attention.” He bounced his brow. “So, who’s the dimwit now?”

Right. He’s playing Mr. Non-Nonchalant. I drank some water, then folded my napkin. “It’s possible, you’re trying too hard, bud. You had me at ravenous.”

Standing, he tossed money on the table. “We’re wasting time, sweetheart.”

Oh boy. A twinkle in the eye plus footsie under the table equaled romp in a bed. I asked coyly, “Where to?”

“How ’bout your place? It’s…closer.”

My favorite plan. A small, secretive smile shaped my lips. I looped my handbag over my arm.

Like a perfect gentleman, he aided me in scooting from the banquette, then covered my shoulders with my coat.

As I found my way to the front door, his hand glided across my lower spine and rested, sending my heart into palpitations. Girly giggly bubbles burst inside me. Now? Now? Now?

Outside, an old-fashioned streetlamp lighted our way to his truck. At the passenger side, I paused only a moment, and in the small space of time, I moved within his arms and brushed a light peck across his jaw, sensing stubble rough my lips. I liked what he offered and wanted—desired—craved more.

After his arms wrapped around me, he tilted his head. “Try messing with me again, young lady, and I won’t be responsible.”

Mighty pleasing invitation.

He asked, “So straight to your place or your car first?”

Oh boy, his idea sounded better and better. I stepped in his truck.

He rounded the front end and climbed in, too.

“Would you mind”—I gave him a sideways smile—“if we picked up my car first? Otherwise, we might get silly texts from friends.”

He chuckled. “No problem.”

I grinned back. After starting the car, he reversed out the lot, shifted into gear, and drove back to Ms. Yolanda’s. Not long later, he slotted his 4-Runner next to my Jeep in the studio’s parking lot.

Someone took pity on Jenny and gave her a ride home because I didn’t see her standing on the curb, tapping her foot in an “about to blow my top” manner. Before I exited, my gaze met his.

His hand covered mine and squeezed.

Whatever magic dancing in his eyes had me bending his way and kissing him. He cradled my body against his chest, his hand cupping the back of my head before drifting along the column of my neck and to my shoulder. He pulled me tighter. Our long, luscious, and lovely kiss promised everything—everything a man and woman wanted from each other.

Him. Only him.

And sex. Like, sex without Allan’s phone interrupting.

Our kiss deepened with intensity and responded with meaning and depth to sear my heart.

Allan threaded his hands through my hair.

I tipped back my head, and small moans escaped my throat. Swirls occupied my brain. My girl parts thrummed.

“I can’t believe,” he said, his breathing heavy, “I let you talk me…into dropping you off…first.”

His fingers toyed with a hair strand at my temple and followed the length to the ends. God, his touch brought incredible intimacy.

I extricated myself from his arms. The corners of my mouth quirked, even though he most likely couldn’t see my expression in the low lights. I exited the truck and walked to the Jeep’s passenger door, where I powered open the locks. “Won’t be long. I promise. I'll be right behind you.”

Something white lodged under my windshield wiper blade caught my eye. I tugged and unfolded the paper: Told you so.

Jenny. I laughed and flapped the missive at Allan. Inside my car, I turned the engine over, adjusting the temperature knob. With longing and anticipation in my heart, I looked his way only to see him slap his phone to his ear.

Holy crap. A sinking bottomed in my belly. So not good.

A nanosecond later, he mouthed, “Sorry.”

Duty. His goddamn duty called. In a flash, everything—every emotion, every sensation, every feeling—circled down the drain to pool in my feet. I pounded the steering wheel. No. No. NO!

Disgust, coupled with disappointment, filled my throat. I wanted to curse like a sailor and, certainly, ram his truck with mine. But not really. I wouldn't want to injure my Jeep baby.

He shifted his vehicle into Drive. He barely looked at me as he drove away.

Nobody would be surprised. When work summoned, Allan was Johnny-on-the-spot.

And I was Josephine-in-the-dump.

Damn. I flopped against my seat and fanned my face. Would sex with Allan ever happen?

I shifted my car into gear and pointed her home. “Sorry,” he’d said.

A kernel of gloom and doom rooted in my belly. Yes, indeedy, I was sorry. He was sorry. The whole universe was sorry. Are we ill-fated romantically?