At exactly 5 a.m. the next morning, the fairy phone sang out. This time, with the chirp-chirp-chirp of high-pitched voices rhapsodizing about working and whistling. Isadora shot up straight, got twisted in her sleeping bag, and nearly rolled off the sofa before she managed to wrap her fingers around the much-too-chipper sounding piece of modern technology. Her air-dried and finger-combed still-gnarled hair covered her face like a fur-lined burka as she jerked the phone up to her ear and croaked, “Hello? Fairy?”
“Dora dear, so good of you to pick up.”
She blinked rapidly a few times and took a deep breath in an effort to wake up her brain. “What do you want from me? I’ll do anything you ask—just give me my life back. Please.”
“Ah, but that’s just it, dear. It’s not what I want, it’s what you need.”
Isadora leapt to her feet. “What I need is to GO HOME. What I need is to have your blasted CURSE LIFTED.”
“We-e-e-ll, as to the former, I do have a proposition for you—actually, it’s more of a choice, really. But, as for the latter, well, my dear, it’s all up to you at this point.”
“But that’s just it—I don’t know what it is that I must do!”
“I’m sure in time you will figure it out.” Isadora heard what sounded like fingernails tapping on plastic and then the fairy said, “Now, let us talk about the choice I’m giving you. I’ve decided to return you to your mother’s house, but the curse will be in full force, and you will still be banished from her affections.”
“And the alternative?”
“I make that drama with the video last evening go away. Your mother’s reputation will no longer be tarnished by it. But in order for this to take place you must stay put and do the work that Sam has hired you to do.”
“But—but that’s not a choice at all!”
“Why, yes dear, it is.”
Isadora stewed and steamed. But not for long. “Fine. Twinkle your nose or something and get me back to my house.”
“Certainly—if you’re sure? Ab-ra”—Isadora ground her teeth and yanked on a big chunk of her hair—“ca—”
“NO! Wait! AHHH! ALL RIGHT! I’ll stay.”
* * *
Too angry and discouraged by the fairy’s dirty rotten deal to slide back into that blissful oblivion she’d managed to find only a few hours ago, but fuzz-brained and weary just the same, Isadora decided that a good dose of her favorite legal stimulant was the first order of business.
The galley kitchen of Sam’s not-so-new and not-so-luxury houseboat had a coffee maker—also not-so-new and not-so-luxury. But if it worked—and more importantly, if Isadora could figure out how to use it—she’d kiss the avocado green hem of its harvest gold embroidered cover every morning for the rest of her curse-filled existence.
After fifteen frustration-filled minutes, she located the can of coffee. Store brand?? Egads. And—blech! It probably tasted like turpentine mixed with antiseptic mouthwash strained through a dirty diaper. She thrust it back toward the shelf and then stopped short. Caffeine. Must have caffeine.
She walked it over to the vintage brown and aged-yellow white maker. Okay, now what?
* * *
Sam wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the woman he’d left half-dressed in his living room the night before. Once she’d showered and put on one of his work shirts to sleep in, she’d settled on the couch next to the chair he occupied and silently finger combed her flame-colored tangles into submission—a thing he then began to imagine doing to her. Finger combing her. All over. It had taken every bit of willpower he could muster not to give her the nine inches she’d stipulated. And then some.
But somehow he’d managed it.
His own shower—the one he’d taken after fleeing to his bedroom—had been cold, painful and brief.
Nothing like the dreams that had followed.
Okay, guy, get a grip. Be cool. He swung the door to his bedroom wide and walked toward the kitchen with purpose. He’d have to pass the couch where she slept, but he’d keep his eyes directed straight ahead. It was the only option. Otherwise—well, there was a high probability that things would go a different way. A way that might just let on how much she still mattered to him. How much she still affected him. How much he still wanted her. A power over him he had no intention of giving her again. Ever.
No matter how satisfying it would be in the short run.
* * *
Isadora sat at the wrought iron table on the deck of the houseboat avidly perusing the “Advance Uncorrected Proof” of a book she’d found lying on top of the desk in the living room entitled, Harvard Gigolo, A Memoir by Anonymous and drinking her coffee.
The bitter brew went down smoother now that she’d added several spoonfuls of sugar and some milk. The grounds stuck in her throat each time, but she was getting used to it. Actually, she was pretty proud of herself. She’d made her very first pot of coffee—all by herself! Yes, it was a menial task that she was pleased to have a servant perform—or Delilah—whichever was most conveniently positioned at the time of her need.
But still. The fact that she’d managed to figure it out—even if it was with the help of her BlackBerry and YouTube—was still an accomplishment. Wasn’t it?
In any case, she supposed it behooved her to learn all such tedious tasks now that she was on her own—for the time being at least—and working for her room and board.
She shook her head and read the title of the next chapter: “The Frigid Oilman’s Wife.”
“WHAT IN THE HELL!”
Isadora jumped so high, the coffee spilled all over the page she was reading. The mug clattered on the table as she dumped it down and then she waved the book in the air in a guilty attempt to fling the coffee off the sopping paper.
The sliding glass door behind her swished open. “What did you do in there—wage war? There’s a river of coffee on the floor, an open container of milk in the sink and coffee grounds and sugar granules stuck to everything.”
Isadora shrugged.
“You didn’t re-seal the loaf of bread, either. And there are globs of grape jam on the counter next to it.”
Isadora altered her shrug a fraction this time by first lifting a brow and then tilting her head to the side.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Well, clean it up.” He turned and strode off then, leaving her to stare at his receding backside.
Jerk! He could do it himself if he was so worried about the mess. Except. Cleaning was part of the deal. Besides, who knew what else the fairy would do to her if she reneged?
She glanced at the book. Bummer. She was just getting to the good bit.
* * *
A half-hour later, Isadora energetically pumped hand soap onto her sixth long swath of paper towels—it’d taken her a few tries, but she’d finally figured out that wetting them down with water first made them work better—as she mentally went down the list of every Harvard guy she knew. Who was ‘Anonymous’? Oooh. Maybe it was Ronnie Gould. He’d always been a wicked one. Plus, he and Sam had been roommates.
“What happened to my bound galley?” Sam said from behind her and then slammed the book she’d been reading down on the counter next to her.
Isadora shrugged. It was clear what had happened to it, so even if she could have given him an answer, she wouldn’t have.
“Coffee. Coffee’s what happened to it. I can’t give this to a reviewer now.” The hand that he’d splayed on the book’s top fisted. “Look, it’s clear I need to set a few ground rules if you’re going to work for me. Number one being, leave everything on my desk alone. Understood?”
She nodded. Sure she would, after she’d read about the frigid oilman’s wife—who, she was pretty sure—was none other than Mrs. Blain Johnson. Besides, it was his fault she spilt the coffee.
“Number two, I like things clean and tidy. Keep them that way.”
She narrowed her eyes, but nodded. What else could she do?
“Number three, put some more clothes on.” He thrust a pair of faded men’s pajama bottoms at her. “I’ll go by your house and get some of your things. Unless—do you want to go with me? Maybe try to make amends with your mother?”
No. Not a good idea. Isadora shook her head.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. Those smoky green eyes of his swept over her face and down her neck, stopping just above the deep vee of her shirt’s neckline. Isadora felt heat unfurl, beginning in her belly and moving like wild fire through her veins.
“What’s with all the silence, Isadora? Cat got your tongue?”
No, a fairy stole it. She shrugged.
He grinned. There was wickedness in that grin.
In a flash of pure insight, Isadora realized who’d authored the book: Sam! Sam was ‘Anonymous’! Her heart pounded in her chest and her gaze darted to the galley. But—was it after they met, or before? Like magnets to steel, her gaze riveted to his groin.
She moistened her lips.
Sam unfolded his arms and grasped the counter behind him. He shifted his weight to the other foot and cleared his throat. “Izzy?”
Her eyes flew back to his. Oh shit. Take me home. “Make me come.”
* * *