Don’t let love interfere with your appetite. It never does with mine.
–Anthony Trollope
Guy
Who is this woman?
There’s something about her that’s vaguely familiar. But I’m sure I would remember those deep blue eyes—the color only heightened by her pinkened cheeks—and her hair. Long, with a slight curl and that color. A deep red that matches her eyebrows.
“Who are—?” I start.
“Uh, is someone in there?” A voice calls out from the entrance.
I twist around. There’s a man in a suit standing in the curved entrance, mostly blocking a row of children behind him who are laughing and chattering and waiting their turn to come into the exhibit.
They must have heard the grunting and panting and coughing. “Just a minute, please. We’ve had uh, a little situation.” I spin back to the redhead.
Her fathomless blue eyes widen, and she tries to fumble her hair back into place while simultaneously pulling up at her top. “Stop that. You make it sound like we’ve been fornicating,” she whispers loudly.
Her choice of words makes my lips tickle and I press them together. “Fornicating?” I say in a normal volume.
“Shhhh!” She flaps one hand in my direction while her other hand fumbles at her dress where she’s attempting to pin a brooch over a giant tear in the fabric.
“Uh, we can hear you.” The man outside says. “There are kids out here, this isn’t the place or time for this kind of behavior.”
“We’re almost done,” I call out, and then lower my voice. “Can I help you?”
She glares at me, lips tightening. “No, you cannot help me cover my bosom.”
“That’s not what I meant. I can fix,” I wave a hand at her head, “your hair.” Did she really say bosom?
Her mouth twists with suspicion. “You can?”
“I have experience with women’s hair.”
Her lips press into a thin line and a small crease appears between her brows.
I don’t mention I watched a ton of YouTube tutorials and learned how to do a variety of styles at the behest of two rambunctious teen girls.
“They’re not naked,” a small voice declares. A little kid in a suit peeks around the corner. I catch a glimpse of overly gelled hair, but still not enough to prevent a few cowlicks, along with raised brows and a clip-on tie. “She looks like she got attacked by a bear! Was it a polar bear?”
“No bears in here,” I call out, then I lift a brow at her hesitation. “You’re welcome to take care of it yourself or we can . . .” I gesture toward the only exit.
Her expression can only be described as mutinous. And about as effective as an angry puppy.
“Turn around.” I motion with a hand.
She takes a deep breath but then turns, posture rigid. “What are you going to do?”
“I was thinking about a mohawk. Sound good?”
“What?” Her voice rises a few octaves, shoulders rising with tension.
“Relax. I know what I’m doing.”
She grumbles but must be aware that she doesn’t have much of a choice unless she wants to rejoin the party looking like a flame-haired, ravaged Medusa.
There are a few bobby pins sticking out in varying directions. I gently release the strands from their clutches and then thread my fingers into the silky gloss of her hair. She smells like vanilla and sugar.
My stomach tightens.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
I attempt to ignore the thoughts and images flickering through my head of this same hair spread over a pillow.
Down, boy.
“Is it our turn yet?” A child yells from outside.
“Almost,” I call back.
Once I can focus, it takes less than a couple of minutes for me to deftly weave her hair into a braid. And still, I can’t help but notice as my ministrations expose the gentle curve of her neck as it winds into her shoulder, a perfect slope of soft skin.
“There. Now you’re all put together and there is no evidence of fornicating.”
She faces me, a hand fluttering over the back of her head. “Did you…braid my hair?”
“Yes. Don’t get excited, it’s only a French braid. No time for something more intricate like a fishtail.”
She frowns. “How do you—?”
“Are you guys done in there yet?”
Her face is beet red, but we exit and I nod at the other patrons and gently steer her down the hall while she covers up the front of her dress.
“Thank you for your assistance. I have to…find the bathroom.” She motions to where she’s holding together her clothes.
I point down the hall. “It’s down there, to the right.”
“Right. Thanks for all your help. I can take it from here. Maybe.” She gives an awkward wave and grimace before walking speedily to the bathroom.
As she disappears, a strange sort of fascination weaves through me. I’m not sure what to make of her. All I know is I want to hear her say more things, like fornication and bosom and getting her clothes caught in someone’s braces. Maybe I should wait here, make sure she’s okay. What if she can’t fix her dress and she needs…something? My tux jacket. That would cover her, and then some.
I wait for a few minutes, but then a few minutes turns into about ten minutes. I wonder if I should ask her if she needs help—what if she got herself in another situation, stuck to the sink or something? —but second-guess myself. What am I doing anyway, stalking someone outside the bathroom? She’s going to think I’m a creep. I am being a creep. Shaking my head, I walk back in the direction of the ballroom but when I arrive, the doors are shut and there’s an attendant standing sentry.
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. The speeches have started so we aren’t letting anyone in for another thirty minutes.”
“No problem.” I step off to the side and stop in front of a charcoal print of an old man, gazing at it blankly.
After a few minutes, the attendant speaks again. “Sorry, speeches have started. We still have about twenty-five minutes until we can let people back in.”
“Oh. Right.”
I turn at the voice, recognizing the low cadence.
She’s fixed her dress. Sort of. She’s stuffed some paper towels into her top. I bite my lip so the smile doesn’t break free.
She faces me.
“I know, it’s terrible,” she says before I can make any comments. “I’m probably just going to leave.” She’s flustered, her eyes touching every object in the general vicinity except for me.
It makes me crave her focus even more.
“It’s not…too bad.” I grimace.
Now her dark blue gaze sweeps to mine and her lip tilts up on one side. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I shrug. “Lying has always seemed pointless.”
“I suppose so.” She crosses her arms over her chest, but it doesn’t completely cover the paper towel sticking up out of the top of her dress.
“When is it ever a good idea to lie?” I ask, mostly just wanting to keep the conversation going. Wanting to hear her talk. There’s a lilt in her voice, and I’m trying to place it.
Her nose wrinkles. “When you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings, maybe?”
“But if they ultimately discover the truth anyway, wouldn’t that be worse?”
“Probably.”
She fidgets with her dress, twitching next to me and clearly uncomfortable.
“Would you like to wear my jacket?”
She immediately shakes her head. “No, thanks.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well.” She glances back at the attendant who’s studiously avoiding watching us. “Maybe.”
I shrug it off and hand it to her.
“Thanks. I’ll make sure you get this back before I leave.”
She pulls it on, the fabric dwarfing her small frame and an odd sense of proprietary gratification sweeps through me.
What is that?
It’s nothing. I clear my throat and glance around, looking for something else to focus on. “No problem. What do you think about this print?” I nod to the charcoal drawing of an old man. It’s all dark colors and rough smudges, highlighting his wrinkles and prominent features. His face is worn and sad.
“He has kind eyes,” she says.
I study her profile in surprise and then turn back to the piece. “I guess you’re right.” I didn’t notice that bit.
“I bet he’s the type of grandpa that tells poop jokes to his grandkids, and he’s retired from some important job like mayor or neurosurgeon. He probably goes to the same coffee shop every morning and they know him by name, but still he hardly ever speaks. When he does it’s to impart something profound, like, ‘What we think, we become’.”
I stare at the portrait and then back at her. “You got all that from this?”
Her smile is brighter than the sconce on the wall. “Didn’t you?”
I step over to the side. “What about this one?”
We walk around the gallery and she makes up stories about each portrait and I don’t think I’ve ever been so entertained, or as intrigued, by anyone in my life—even though she’s jumpy. Even with my jacket on, she fidgets with her dress and is careful to maintain distance between us. A distance that starts to bother me, even though I can’t quite put my finger on why.
“Your boyfriend must be a happy man,” I say at one point. Yes, I’m digging, but I can’t help it.
The comment must surprise her, because she stumbles and nearly runs into a sculpture.
I reach out and clasp her elbow with gentle fingers. “Careful.” Once she’s stable, I still don’t let go. I don’t want to.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she says. She doesn’t step back like I expect since she’s been so skittish around me. We’re standing only a foot apart. The narrow hallway is empty.
Her tongue slips out and wets her bottom lip and it’s like a tractor beam. Magnetic force. She’s staring at my mouth, and her pupils are dilated, and her breathing starts to quicken, setting up an answering pulse in my chest.
“I just want you to be aware,” her voice isn’t much more than a whisper, “that this is all your fault.” She leans in and presses her mouth against mine.
Shock sweeps through me, but sliding along the instant after it is a soothing wave of rightness. Like up until this moment, my body was a jumble of random ingredients that have miraculously settled into the perfect three-course meal.
Her lips are sweeter than spun sugar and with one simple touch, everything inside me ignites in a blaze of desire. It makes no sense. Where did this come from? This isn’t like me. I don’t do this. Not with random women at charity events or anywhere else.
Thoughts fly away when her tongue slips between my lips and she makes a pleasurable little noise in the back of her throat. I slide a hand down her back, gripping her ass and pulling her harder against me.
Her hands are greedy and fumbling. She untucks my shirt from my pants and her fingers play up my back, inciting a wave of tingles and goosebumps in their wake. Maybe it’s because I’ve been without adult companionship for so long, but something about this moment strikes me as significant. Her mouth is both a comforting caress and a brutal ache of insistent longing that needs fulfillment.
Children’s laughter fills the air as the door to the event slams open and she goes stiff in my arms. She wrenches away, her hands disappearing from my skin, and with a whispered word that could have been goodbye, but is really more of an awkward mumble, she disappears.
I would stop her if a swarm of elementary aged children didn’t choose that moment to crowd the hallway between us, and if my heart weren’t pounding out of my chest and I weren’t in a complete haze of lust and confusion about what the hell just happened. When I finally come back to myself, I’m standing in the hall still surrounded by kids, dazed and confused.
My phone beeps and I check the time. I was supposed to check on the kitchen staff before dinner service. Which is happening right now.
I’m late.
I’m never late.
I take a deep breath to compose myself and haul ass to the kitchen. The staff is startled by my sudden appearance, but thankfully they’re trained well enough that after a few barked orders and strange glances, they get back to plating the first course to my exacting specifications.
Once it’s ready to be brought out to the banquet hall, I let the sous chef take over; I take a moment to gather my mind, washing my hands in the giant kitchen sink.
There’s a stainless-steel paper towel dispenser next to the sink, and I reach for it, catching my reflection in the mirrored surface. I have red lipstick all over my mouth.
I press my lips together and wipe it off with a towel. I have to find her. I head out into the event, walking the perimeter, eyeing tables, searching for a flash of red hair, or blue dress.
But she’s gone.
Poof. Like an apparition that slipped through my fingers
No real goodbye. No can I get your number.
I don’t even know her name.
I spot Bethany Connell, the woman from Crawford and Company who hired me. She’s over at a table to the side, sorting through a box of papers.
“Hey.” I stop next to her, getting her attention. “Have you seen a woman with red hair?”
“Who?” She frowns down at the papers—the silent auction bid sheets.
“There was a woman here, earlier, she had red hair. She was wearing a blue dress, do you know who she is? Or where she went?”
Her eyes scan me, a slight frown on her face. “Oh, yes. I do and yes, she left.”
“What’s her name?”
She eyes me again, her head tilting to one side. “That’s uh, Mildred.”
“Mildred?”
“Yep. Don’t know her last name, sorry. I gotta go set up the stuff for the auction items.” She smiles, the movement forced, and then she pats me on the shoulder perfunctorily and disappears into the crowd.
My lips twist. She didn’t look like a Mildred, not that there’s anything wrong with having a name like a grandmother from the 1920s, but….
Like Cinderella, she’s fled the ball and I have no clue who she really is. And she has my tux jacket.