Back in the city, I worked my ass off, spending ten hours a day in the office, focusing my attention on work to keep my mind from wandering to what was waiting for me just a train ride away. But I had work, and work I did.
The T&T campaign was coming along marvelously, sharp and witty and exactly how I had envisioned it. Dan had made a few suggestions about how to beef up the coverage a bit, including some witty copy that would play really well on the radio ads the client had agreed to purchase.
The best part of the week? My friend Clara was in town, working on a hotel remodel in the Flatiron District. She traveled all over helping to rebrand hotels, specializing in historic hotels that were on the verge of going under. Sometimes it was as simple as bringing in a new manager, changing out some staff, or brightening up the rooms, but sometimes it was a complete overhaul. That was the case with the Winchester, a pre-WWI hotel that had hosted presidents and kings, movie stars and countless starlets. It had fallen on hard times, and in a last-ditch effort the family that owned it had hired Clara’s firm to try and rebrand it for the new batch of stars and starlets.
“You should see the dining room—heaven! It’s still got the original windows, hidden behind miles and miles of awful draperies, but the windows are still there.” Clara was sipping her sparkling water, hands flashing about as she talked a mile a minute. Clara moved almost constantly, her sleek runner’s frame seeming almost incapable of keeping still. Running ten miles a day four days a week (on the fifth day she’d push herself to fifteen if she had a race coming up), she competed in marathons and triathlons around the globe. She traveled a lot, was always on the move, although her schedule had been slowing down of late, as she took more projects that seemed to be based in the United States than abroad as was her norm.
Which was fine with me, because it meant I got to see her more often. And now that we had Roxie firmly ensconced in upstate New York, we were even all planning a weekend get-together just as soon as we could pin Clara down. Which was proving almost impossible.
“Mom and I used to have lunch in the tearoom at the Winchester when I was a kid,” I reminisced, thinking back to the wintry Saturdays we’d spend together. “I’d always order the French onion soup, which used to come in these fantastic earthenware crocks, all bubbly and cheesy. I’d always burn the hell out of my tongue because I couldn’t wait, but it was soooo worth it.”
“Shit, Natalie, if I had a nickel for every story I’ve heard like that, I’d have a lot of nickels! They still have those bowls; I found a bunch of them in a storage room. Trying new things is good, but when you have something you’re known for, like the onion soup? You never take it off the menu.”
“So will the new Winchester Hotel have onion soup again?” I asked.
“Hell yes,” she answered, raising a glass in salute. “When the tearoom reopens for the Christmas season.”
“My favorite time of year.” I sighed, thinking of the department store window displays and crowds, tourists and natives alike. “Do you know where you’ll be this holiday?”
“Not sure yet; there’s a hotel in Colorado we’ve been in talks with. Over a hundred years old, same family for generations, but really struggling. If we get it, I’m asking to go there.”
“You know you’re always invited to our house; my parents put on a killer holiday party.”
“Mm-hmm, I know,” she said, her eyes moving around the restaurant, not quite lighting on anything in particular. She never liked talking about family, or holidays. I only knew the little bit I did know from the few times she’d been pickled enough to talk about it. From what Roxie and I had been able to figure, her childhood hadn’t been a happy one. Never knowing her father, she’d been removed from her mother’s home early for reasons she didn’t talk about, and she’d bounced from one foster family to the next. What was amazing about Clara is having that kind of start in life could have broken her, but instead she’d struck out on her own as soon as she turned eighteen.
She’d won a scholarship to the Culinary Institute both Roxie and I attended freshman year, and like me, she realized quickly it wasn’t her cup of tea. But she stuck it out until the end of the year, and then applied for financial aid at a traditional four-year school in Boston.
The three of us had kept in touch through the years, and it was nice having us all on the East Coast again. I invited her year after year to holiday parties with my family, but she always politely declined.
“You know I appreciate the invitation, right?” she asked now, her voice quiet.
“You know I’ll always ask, right?” I answered with a question of my own.
She smiled. “One day I’ll say yes.”
“Perfect!” I said, patting her hand and changing the subject. “So, this guy I’ve been fucking—”
The waiter who’d discreetly been trying to peek down my dress all lunch dropped his tray of drinks.
Clara just held her head in her hands and laughed.
I walked back to work after lunch, with kisses and hugs from Clara and a promise to come over for dinner next week sometime when she was back in town. I’d picked a restaurant only a few blocks away from the office, and I took the long way back so I could walk a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to work yet. I was restless, I could feel it in my bones.
Oscar had been slowly driving me mad this week with his texts. His first came in Sunday night, before I’d even gotten to bed. Once again, I’d caught the last train home from Poughkeepsie, and was just turning the key in my front door when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Standing in the entryway, I read his text and his words made me flush scarlet almost instantly.
My bed still smells like you.
The next bubble was even better.
I still smell like you.
But the last bubble was my favorite.
Get your great comma big ass back up here, Pinup.
I did love a guy who didn’t need a thigh gap.
The texts continued all week, some flirty, some dirty, all designed to drive me crazy. We talked each night around nine, him going to bed so much earlier than I did since the cock crowed before dawn. Thank goodness that on weekends, he had some of the local 4-H kids come around to take care of the animals, affording him a rare Saturday or Sunday morning sleep-in.
Sleep-ins that I’d gotten to take advantage of the last few weekends. But I couldn’t possibly go up again this weekend; there was no reason to. I had what I needed to get started on the Bailey Falls campaign, and my mother would put out an APB for me if I ditched brunch again. Still, when he started telling me all about the Halloween harvest festival that was going on that weekend . . .
“I can’t, I just can’t! I’ve spent the last few weekends up there as it is, my city needs me! I can’t disappear again,” I teased, lying on my bed with my feet propped up on the headboard Thursday night, listening as Oscar made a case for why it was imperative that I get my great comma big ass back up there this weekend.
“I’ve even got people covering my stall at the farmers’ market this weekend. That’s how big this festival is,” he replied, his voice extra low and sexy tonight. Maybe it was just that it’d been four days since I’d had a hit of Oscar, and my body was literally craving it.
“You’re not going to be in the city Saturday?” I asked, disappointed. I’d planned on stopping by, going through our normal “Brie” conversation, pretending I didn’t know him at all but just still had a crush, but making sure to wear something extremely low-cut to torture him with.
“Nope, I’ll be at Maxwell Farms Friday night helping them get set up, and will probably spend all Saturday there. Leo’s setting up a corn maze.”
There was a new club opening in Gramercy that I’d been invited to, two dinners with friends I hadn’t seen for a few weeks, and a fund-raiser for a friend of my mother’s on a yacht on the Hudson. All places at which I’d planned on making an appearance.
But nowhere on my island was there a corn maze.
As I turned onto Forty-eighth Street I saw a subway poster advertising Grand Central as the weekend getaway hub.
No, universe! No, no, no! No weekend getaways. No taking the train. No going back to Bailey Falls for the weekend just for a corn maze.
But it wouldn’t be just for the corn maze . . . there’d be dick involved.
I packed an overnight bag that evening, and this time instead of asking Roxie to pick me up at the Poughkeepsie station, I asked Oscar. He agreed instantly, and then spent ten minutes describing exactly what he planned to do to me in his truck on our way into town. To be fair, some of them couldn’t realistically be done while driving, but it didn’t really matter . . .
Friday evening, I walked off the train platform and headed for the parking lot, knowing Oscar would be waiting there for me. But instead, he surprised me by actually sitting inside the station, in the beautiful old lobby. For a second, I had an overwhelming urge to drop my bag and go running across the lobby, throwing myself into his arms, and letting him spin me silly while laying a big wet kiss on me. I walked quickly toward him, fighting the urge.
He met me halfway, walking rather quickly himself, and did indeed spin me around while giving me the biggest kiss of my life. The only deviation from the Disney version in my head was that one of his hands was splayed across my ass.
“Wow,” was all I could manage when he finally set me down.
“Was that too much?” he asked, the grin on his face unstoppable.
“Hell, I’m too much,” I replied, my grin matching his. “That was just right.”
He scooped up my bag and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, guiding me out to the parking lot.
“So, I’ve been thinking about all those things you wanted to do to me on the way home, and I think I figured out a way you can do them and not get arrested—or both of us splattered across the road.”
“Natalie, listen, I—”
“There’s that old turnoff, right by the old state highway? Roxie said it used to be one of the roads up to Bryant Mountain House, but it isn’t used anymore. So I was thinking we should go use it.”
“We can definitely do that, but not—”
I hurried toward his truck, eager for the weekend to start. “Come on, let’s go. If I sit next to you, I can slip my hand inside your jeans and lean down to— What the hell?”
Missy was sitting inside Oscar’s truck.
“Hi, Natalie.” She waved. I waved back, looking at Oscar with questions all over my face.
“Her car broke down,” he said as he stowed my bag in the back of the truck. Opening the passenger door for me, he had the decency to blush slightly. Considering what I’d been saying as we walked up, and knowing full well she must have heard my indecent proposal, a slight blush shouldn’t be enough. And did he look amused?
“My car broke down,” Missy echoed like a parrot. She patted the seat next to her. She’d slid into the middle seat, positioning herself between Oscar and me.
That would make road head a bit harder . . .
I grabbed hold of the door and stepped up gingerly. I was wearing new four-inch Bionda Castana fringed leopard booties, and while walking a mile over cobblestones wouldn’t give me pause, climbing in and out of trucks wasn’t what the designer had in mind. A large, steady hand landed on my behind, supporting me—and also engaging in a little grab-ass where prying Girl Scout eyes couldn’t see.
Whatever.
“Hello, Missy,” I chirped. I settled myself in the passenger side, feeling enormous next to the tiny ex-wife who was riding next to my guy.
Was he my guy? The proposed road head said yes. Maybe?
Oscar climbed in at that moment, and the two of us positively dwarfed Missy.
“So, are we giving you a lift somewhere?” I asked her.
Score one for me, with my specifically chosen use of the word we.
“Oh yes, when Oscar came to help, he suggested we come pick you up on our way to the auto shop. He arranged to have my car towed there for me.”
Score two for the Girl Scout for managing to not only use we to her advantage, but slip in an our for good measure.
“Well, Oscar’s good like that, isn’t he? He’d never leave a woman stranded on the side of the road.” I smiled through my teeth, to make sure she knew I had them.
She showed me her own toothy smile. “He’s sweet, looking after me the way he does.”
“Hopefully you’ll bake him some more muffins.” I smiled back just as sweetly. “I loved the last batch—they were great for breakfast.”
We drove across town toward the shop where Missy’s car had been towed, tension thick inside the cab. I wasn’t mad; what kind of a guy would he be if he left her stranded on the side of the road?
On the other hand, what kind of ex-wife was she, calling only Oscar when she had honey-do’s to be done? She’d had her chance; it was my turn to have my honey done.
On the third hand (work with me), I was hardly in a position to be thinking about Oscar in any way but a fun weekend thing. This wasn’t my territory, there was no reason to be pissy.
On the fourth hand, if no one was at fault here and it was just three people who didn’t truly bear anyone any ill will, then this was just silliness and I could be the bigger person.
“So, Natalie, I was planning on making another batch of pumpkin muffins this weekend, but if you’re here, maybe I should whip up my low-fat bran cookies instead. Lots of fiber, not so much sugar, better for us girls when we’re watching our figures.”
And with my fifth hand, I’d slap the shit out of—
“Natalie doesn’t need to watch her figure.” Oscar sounded amused, but his voice held a note of warning. My grin was so wide it could have pulled in neighboring planets.
Now tell her not to bake you any more muffins! No more muffins!
“You know I like those blueberry ones you make, with the maple drizzle?” he asked, and Missy beamed triumphantly.
I stared out the window. Who cares? She can only bake him muffins. You get to watch him eat them naked.
While I might not be his future, I was his present, and she was his past. Once she shut the hell up about blueberries and climbed out of this truck, I’d be the one fucking his brains out.
My grin was back.
At the garage, Oscar went inside with Missy to make sure everything was sorted out. A new battery was being installed, so once he knew she’d be on her way, Oscar said good-bye and returned to the truck.
I said nothing when he climbed in. And I said nothing when he pulled out, heading down the road. The silence pressed in on both of us, begging to be noticed.
Finally, he looked my way. “You okay over there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He chewed on that a moment. “Is that a loaded mm-hmm? Like when a woman says mm-hmm, but it means the opposite of mm-hmm?”
“Mm-hmm,” I answered, letting my eyebrows do the rest of the talking.
“Look, I’m sorry I surprised you like that. That isn’t how I planned to start this weekend. But she was stranded—what was I supposed to do?”
“You did the right thing, of course,” I said, turning to face him. “But do you always have to be the one she calls? Doesn’t she have someone else to fix her water heater or take her to get her car fixed?”
“Why wouldn’t she call me?” he asked, looking genuinely curious. Oh, bless his heart.
“I’m just saying that not all exes are on such good terms.”
“It would be better if we were nasty with each other?” he asked, and I had to shake my head. Damn him and his common sense sometimes.
“Of course not. It’s actually refreshing to see two people who used to be married still be good friends,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I just wonder if that’s all she wants—friendship.”
“Missy? And me? Oh no, she doesn’t want that any more than I do. And I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. Oh, bless his heart twice.
He turned off the main road, heading underneath the archway for Maxwell Farms.
I looked at him, then looked back at the sign. “What are we doing here?”
“Remember, I told you, I’m helping Leo get ready for the Halloween festival tomorrow.”
Dammit, I had forgotten. All those thoughts of potential road head, then commonsense ex-wives, and I plum forgot.
I looked at the fine mist of rain sprinkling down, then looked at my four-inch booties. Dammit. I really need to start packing more—ugh—practical shoes.
Turned out that most of the work we’d be doing was in the barn, which was great for me and my booties.
Roxie was there, and she gave a surprised shriek when she saw me. “What are you doing here? Did I know you were coming? I’ve been baking damned pumpkin pies for three days for this festival, so it’s quite possible I forgot you were coming. Yes, Polly?”
Leo’s daughter was tugging at her shirttail, holding up a mason jar.
“Oh crap. I mean, not crap! Ugh, that’s three, isn’t it?” Roxie asked.
Polly laughed delightedly. “Yeah—twice just now, and the one about the pumpkin pies.” She held out the mason jar while Roxie rummaged in her jeans pockets.
“I’ve got fifty cents, that’s it. Natalie, you got a quarter?”
“I think so. What’s this for?” I asked, digging through my purse. I handed over a quarter, then looked at her expectantly.
Polly said, “I started a bad-word jar, because Roxie is so bad about not saying bad words. I’ve got almost fifteen dollars already!”
“That’s all? I’m surprised it’s not more,” I said, watching as Roxie dropped the money into the jar.
“Fifteen dollars just this week!” Polly told me.
“That makes more sense,” I agreed, digging back into my purse. “Here you go—here’s a dollar in advance, for the next four.”
“Awesome! That’ll take us through the rest of tonight, I bet!” Watching Polly tease Roxie was pretty great, and I could tell by observing the two of them it was enjoyed by both. “But Oscar never has to give me money for the bad-word jar.”
“Nope,” Oscar said with a stoic look on his face. “Unlike these ladies, I’m a gentleman.”
I snorted. “A gentleman who talks about my ass every chance he gets.”
Oscar’s eyes danced as he held his laughter in check, especially when I started to hear a jingle jangle from the pipsqueak.
“Ante up, Natalie,” Polly said, shaking the mason jar.
“Ante up? Where does she hear this stuff?” I asked Roxie.
“My mother is teaching her poker.”
“Take it out of my dollar, tiny person. Okay?” I said, and she nodded before rushing off. “I just got hustled by a seven-year-old.”
Leo came out of the crowd and snuck his arms around Roxie’s waist, and I pointed a finger at him. “Your daughter just took almost two bucks from us.”
“You must have been swearing,” he replied, planting a kiss on Roxie’s neck. “Can I borrow this big guy a minute?”
“Borrow whoever you want, but I need you back in the big house in twenty minutes to move your mother’s chairs into storage. She’ll kill me if anything gets on them.” Roxie squealed as he kissed her a little more.
“But wait—back to this right here,” she said, pointing at Oscar and me. “When did you get here? You weren’t planning on coming up, were you?”
“I wasn’t, no,” I said, feeling the color coming into my cheeks.
“I’m gonna go help Leo, let you two hens squawk a bit,” Oscar said, seeming to hesitate for a split second, then leaning in to plant a quick kiss on my forehead before walking away with Leo.
Feeling my skin tingle where his lips had just been, I smiled, watching the two of them head into the barn, Oscar punching Leo on the shoulder as he clearly teased him about what just happened.
I could feel eyes on me, and I turned to Roxie, whose grin was even wider than her eyes.
“So . . . ?” she asked, and I could feel my blush deepen.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “So?”
She studied me carefully, watched as I got redder and redder. “I never thought I would see the day—”
“Shut up.”
“—that Natalie Grayson, hater of all things country—”
“Shut. Up.”
“—would fall in love with a country boy.”
Fall in love? Whoa.
“Shut. Up. Now,” I said, heading toward where all the action seemed to be, setting up the stalls for the next day.
“Seriously, Natalie, come back here! Hey!” Roxie yelled as I walked faster. Not easy; with each step I was sinking farther and farther into the wet grass on the way to the barn. She caught up to me fast. “I was just teasing.”
“I know, I know,” I said with a heavy sigh. I turned back toward her, basically pivoting on my left heel, which was stuck thoroughly in the mud. “I just— I don’t really know what this is yet. So let’s not go making a big deal, okay?”
“It’s a big enough deal that you’re up here every damn weekend all of a sudden. I’d say you’re pretty smitten.”
“That’s a good word for it,” I said, watching the scene below. The big stone barn, people everywhere laughing and chatting like they’d known each other for years, pockets of kids running here and there, and in the middle of it all, trying to hold at least six pumpkins in his arms at once, was the guy I was smitten with.
Smitten. Kitten. Mitten. Why did all those words remind me of something warm, and cozy, and safe?
And as I watched Oscar helping out, noticing his quiet strength, his way of staying inside the group but on the edge, I knew I was smitten for sure. Anything more than that, I just didn’t know.
Frankly, anything more than that scared the shit out of me. I always got out of things way before smitten kittens started up.
“When did you know?” I asked Roxie, who was watching the same scene focused on the guy running the show. “I mean, that you . . .”
“Loved Leo?” she asked, her face going soft. “I started falling for him when he first brought me walnuts.” She bit her lip for a moment while she thought. “But I knew I was in love with him when I saw him with his daughter for the first time.”
“How did you know?”
“That it was love?”
I nodded my head.
“Because it scared me to death. And that was new for me.”
Roxie had a lot of the same thoughts about love as I did, although hers stemmed not from a Thomas but from a Trudy. After spending her childhood watching her mother jump from guy to guy to guy, always falling in love and then crashing hard when the inevitable breakup occurred, she’d grown up determined never to fall in love.
That is, until Leo. Then all bets were off.
I watched as Oscar stacked pumpkins around the jack-o’-lantern-carving booth, his body so big, yet moving so gracefully. He set another bunch down, then searched the crowd, looking for . . . me?
Our eyes locked across the yard, and even from this distance I could see the sweetness in his gaze. And the heat.
Smitten. Mm-hmm.