I SAT IN MY OFFICE, gazing out the window. I had a list of things to do in front of me—and it wasn’t a small list either. I needed to run by the Nicholson house. The renovation was almost complete. The bedroom and bathroom were finished, and just a few details remained. I needed to get some new sample books from the design center. I had a meeting with a new client Mimi had referred to me, and on top of all that, I had a folder full of invoices to go through.
But still, I gazed out the window. I might have had Simon on the brain. And for good reason. Between the pipe explosions, the head banging, and the constant texting all day Sunday asking for more zucchini bread, my brain simply could not expunge him. And then last night, he brought out the big guns: he Glenn Miller-ed me. He even knocked on the wall to make sure I was listening.
I put my head down on the desk and banged it a few times to see if it helped. It had seemed to help Simon…
That night I went straight to yoga after work and was climbing the stairs to my apartment when I heard a door open from above.
“Caroline?” he called down to me.
I grinned and continued up the stairs. “Yes, Simon?” I called up.
“You’re home late.”
“What, are you watching my door now?” I laughed, rounding the last landing and staring up at him. He was hanging over the railing, hair in his face.
“Yep. I’m here for the bread. Zucchini me, woman!”
“You’re insane. You know this, right?” I climbed the last stair and stood in front of him.
“I’ve been told. You smell nice,” he said, leaning in.
“Did you just sniff me?” I asked incredulously as I opened the door.
“Mmm-hmm, very nice. Just get back from a workout?” he asked, walking in behind me and closing the door.
“Yoga, why?”
“You smell great when you’re all worked up,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me like the devil.
“Seriously, you pick women up with lines like that?” I turned away from him to take off my jacket and squeeze my thighs together maniacally.
“It’s not a line. You do smell great,” I heard him say, and I closed my eyes to block out the Simon Voodoo currently making Lower Caroline curl in on herself.
Clive came bounding out of the bedroom when he heard my voice and stopped short when he saw Simon. Unfortunately, he had little traction on the hardwood floor and skidded rather ungracefully under the dining room table. Trying to regain his dignity, he executed a difficult four-foot leap from a standing position onto the bookshelf and waved me over with his paw. He wanted me to come to him—typical male.
I dropped my gym bag and sauntered over. “Hi, sweet boy. How was your day? Hmm? Did you play? Did you get a good nap? Hmm?” I scratched behind his ear, and he purred loudly. He gave me his dreamy cat eyes and then turned his gaze to Simon. I swear he cat-smirked at him.
“Zucchini bread, huh? You want some more, I take it?” I asked, throwing my jacket on the back of a chair.
“I know you have more. Simon says gimme it,” he deadpanned, making his finger into a gun.
“You’re oddly into your baked goods, aren’t you? Support group for that?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to locate the last loaf. I might have been saving it for him.
“Yes, I’m in BA. Bakers Anonymous. We meet over at the bakery on Pine,” he replied, sitting down on the stool at the kitchen counter.
“Good group?”
“Pretty good. There’s a better one over on Market, but I can’t go to that one anymore,” he said sadly, shaking his head.
“Get kicked out?” I asked, leaning on the counter in front of him.
“I did, actually,” he said, and then curled his finger to get me to lean in closer.
“I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.
I giggled and gave his cheek a light pinch. “Fondling buns,” I snorted as he pushed my hand away.
“Just fork over the bread, see, and no one gets hurt,” he warned.
I waved my hands in surrender and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard over his head. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he nodded.
I handed him a bottle of Merlot and the opener, then grabbed a bunch of grapes from the colander in the fridge. He poured, we clinked, and without another word, I started making us dinner.
The rest of the evening happened naturally, without me even realizing it. One minute we were discussing the new wine glasses I’d purchased from Williams Sonoma, and thirty minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table with pasta in front of us. I was still wearing my workout clothes, and Simon was in jeans and a T-shirt and his stocking feet. He’d taken off his Stanford sweatshirt before draining the pasta, something I didn’t even have to ask him to do. He’d simply wandered into the kitchen behind me, and had it drained and back in the pot just as I finished the sauce.
We’d talked about the city, his work, my work, and the upcoming trip to Tahoe, and now we headed over to the couch with coffee.
I leaned back against the pillows with my legs curled underneath me. Simon was telling me about a trip he’d taken to Vietnam a few years before.
“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen—the mountain villages, the gorgeous beaches, the food! Oh, Caroline, the food.” He sighed, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. I smiled and tried not to notice the butterflies when he said my name that way: with the word Oh right in front of it…Oh me, oh my.
“Sounds wonderful, but I hate Vietnamese food. Can’t stand it. Can I bring peanut butter?”
“I know this guy—makes the best noodles ever, right on a houseboat in the middle of Ha Long Bay. One slurp and you’ll throw your peanut butter right over the side.”
“God, I wish I could travel like you do. Do you ever get sick of it?” I asked.
“Hmmm, yes and no. It’s always great to come home. I love San Francisco. But if I’m home too long I get the itch to get back out on the road. And no comments about the itch—I’m starting to get to know your mind there, Nightie Girl.” He patted my arm affectionately.
I tried to feign offense, but the truth was I had been about to make a joke. I noticed he still had his hand on my arm, absentmindedly tracing tiny circles with his fingertips. Had it really been so long since I’d let a man touch me that fingertip circles sent me into a mental tizzy? Or was it that this man was doing it? Oh, God, the fingertips. Either way, it was doing things to me. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine O waving at me—still far away, but not as far as she’d been before.
I glanced at Simon and saw that he was watching his hand, as if curious about his fingers on my skin. I breathed in quickly, and my intake of breath drew his eyes to mine. We watched each other. Lower Caroline was, of course, responding, but now Heart began to beat a little wildly as well.
Then Clive jumped up on the back of the couch, put his bum right in Simon’s face, and killed that real quick. We both laughed, and Simon moved away from me as I explained to Clive that it was not polite to do that to company. Clive seemed oddly pleased with himself, though, so I knew he was up to something.
“Wow, it’s almost ten! I’ve taken up your entire evening. I hope you didn’t have plans,” Simon said, standing and stretching. As he stretched, his T-shirt came up, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from licking the bit of skin showing above his jeans.
“Well, I did have a rather exciting night of watching Food Network planned, so damn you, Simon!” I shook my fist in his face as I stood up next to him.
“And you even made me dinner, which was great, by the way,” he said, searching for his sweatshirt.
“No problem. It was nice to cook for someone other than myself. It’s what I do for any guy who shows up demanding bread.” I finally handed him the loaf I’d left out for him.
He grinned as he grabbed his sweatshirt off the floor next to the couch. “Well, next time, let me cook for you. I make a fantastic—huh, that’s weird,” he interrupted himself, grimacing.
“What’s weird?” I asked, watching as he unfolded his sweatshirt.
“This feels damp. Actually, it’s more than damp, it’s…wet?” he asked, looking at me, confused. I looked from the sweatshirt to Clive, who sat innocently on the back of the couch.
“Oh no,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face. “Clive, you little shit!” I glared at him.
He jumped off the couch and darted quickly between my legs, headed for the bedroom. He’d learned I couldn’t reach him behind the dresser, and that’s where he hid when he’d done a bad, bad thing. He hadn’t done this in a long time.
“Simon, you might want to leave that here. I’ll wash it, dry clean it—whatever. I am so, so sorry,” I apologized, horrifically embarrassed.
“Oh, did he? Oh man, he did, didn’t he?” His face wrinkled as I took the sweatshirt from him.
“Yes, yes, he did. I’m so sorry, Simon. He has this thing about marking his territory. When any guy leaves clothes on the floor—oh, God—he eventually pees on them. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’m so—”
“Caroline, it’s okay. I mean, it’s gross, but it’s okay. I’ve had worse things happen to me. It’s all good, I promise.” He started to put his hand on my shoulder, but seemed to think better of it, probably when he realized the last thing he’d touched.
“I’m so sorry, I—” I began again as he started for the door.
“Stop it. If you say sorry one more time I’m gonna go find something of yours and pee on it, I swear.”
“Okay, that’s just gross.” I finally laughed. “But we had such a nice night, and it ended in pee!” I wailed, opening the door for him.
“It was a nice night, even with the pee. There’ll be others. Don’t worry, Nightie Girl.” He winked and crossed the hall.
“Play me something good tonight, huh?” I asked, watching him go.
“You got it. Sleep tight,” he said, and we closed the doors at the same time.
I leaned back against the door, hugging the sweatshirt in my arms. I’m sure I had the goofiest grin on my face, as I remembered the feeling of his fingertips. And then I remembered I was hugging a pee-stained sweatshirt.
“Clive, you asshole!” I yelled and ran for my bedroom.
Fingers, hands, warm skin pressed against mine in an effort to get closer. I felt his warm breath, his voice like wet sex in my ear. “Mmm, Caroline, how can you feel this good?”
I moaned and rolled over, twisting legs with legs and arms with arms, pushing my tongue into his waiting mouth. I sucked on his bottom lip, tasting mint and heat and the promise of what was to come when he pushed into my body for the first time. I moaned as he groaned, and in a flash I was pinned beneath him.
Lips moved from my mouth to my neck, licking and sucking and finding the spot—that spot underneath my jaw that made my insides explode and my eyes cross. A dark laugh against my collarbone, and I knew I was done for.
I rolled on top of him, feeling the loss of his weight but the gain of my legs on either side of him, feeling him twitch and throb exactly where I needed him to be. He pushed my hair from my face, gazing up at me with those eyes—the eyes that could make me forget my name but scream his own.
“Simon!” I cried, feeling his hands grab my hips and push me against him.
I sat straight up in bed, my heart racing as the last dreamy images left my brain. I thought I heard a low chuckle from other side of the wall, where the strains of Miles Davis came through.
I lay back down, skin tingling as I tried to find a cool spot on my pillow. I thought about what was on the other side of that wall, inches away. I was in trouble.
Later that morning I sat at my desk getting ready to meet a new client—one who’d specifically requested to work with me. Still a new designer, much of my work came from referrals, and whoever had referred this guy to me I owed big time. All new interiors for some fancy apartment—it was practically a gut remodel, a dream project. Whenever I prepped for a new client I pulled pictures from other projects I’d designed and had sketchbooks ready, but today I did it with particular intensity. If I let my mind wander for a second, Brain immediately returned to the dream I’d had last night. I blushed every time I thought of what I’d let Dream Simon do to me, and what Dream Caroline had done to him as well…
Dream Caroline and Dream Simon were some naughty kids.
“Ahem,” I heard from behind me. I turned to find Ashley in the doorway. “Caroline, Mr. Brown is here.”
“Excellent, I’ll be right out.” I nodded, standing and smoothing my skirt. My hands pressed my cheeks, hoping they were not too red.
“And he is cute, cute, cute!” she murmured as she walked beside me down the hall.
“Oh, really? Must be my lucky day.” I laughed, rounding the corner to greet him.
He certainly was cute, and I would know. He was my ex-boyfriend.
“Oh, my God! What are the chances?” Jillian exclaimed at lunch, two hours later.
“Well, considering my entire life now seems ruled by odd coincidences, I figure it’s right on track.” I broke off a piece of flatbread and chewed determinedly.
“But I mean, come on! What are the chances, really?” she wondered again, pouring us another glass of Pellegrino.
“Oh, there’s nothing chance about this. This guy doesn’t leave things to chance. He knew exactly what he was doing when he approached you at that benefit last month.”
“No,” she breathed.
“Yep. He told me. He saw me, and when he found out I worked for you? Bam! He needs an interior designer.” I smiled, thinking of how he’d always arranged things exactly the way he wanted them. Well, almost everything.
“Don’t worry, Caroline. I’ll move him over to another designer, or I’ll even take him myself. You don’t have to work with him,” she said, patting my hand.
“Oh, hell no! I already told him yes. I’m totally doing this.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. No problem. It wasn’t that we had a bad breakup. In fact, as far as breakups go, it was mild. He didn’t want to accept the fact that I was leaving him, but eventually he came around. He didn’t think I had the balls to do it, and boy, was he surprised.” I played with my napkin.
I’d dated James most of my senior year at Berkeley. He was already in law school, steadily moving through it on his way to a future of perfection. My goodness, he was beautiful—strong and handsome, and very charming. We met at the library one night, had coffee a few times, and it grew into a solid relationship.
The sex? Unreal.
He was my first serious boyfriend, and I knew he wanted to marry me at some point. He had very specific ideas about what he wanted from his life, and that definitely included me as his wife. And he was everything I’d ever thought I wanted in a husband. Engagement was inevitable. But then I began to notice things, small at first, but over time they revealed the big picture. We went where he wanted to for dinner. I never got to pick. I overheard him telling someone that he figured my “decorating” phase wouldn’t last long, but it’d be nice to have a wife who could make a pretty home. The sex was still great, but I was irritated with him more and more, and I stopped going along to get along.
When I began to realize he was no longer what I wanted for my future, things got a little strained. We fought constantly, and when I decided to end the relationship, he tried to convince me I was making the wrong choice. I knew better, and he finally accepted that I was really done—and not just pitching a “feminine fit,” as he liked to call them. We didn’t keep in contact, but he’d been a major part of my life for a long time, and I cherished the memories we had together. I cherished what he’d taught me about myself.
Just because we didn’t work out as a couple didn’t mean we couldn’t work together, right?
“You sure about this? You really want to work with him?” Jillian asked one more time, but I could tell she was ready to let it go.
I thought about it again, replaying the flash of memory I’d had when I saw him standing in the lobby. Sandy blond hair, piercing eyes, charming smile: I’d been hit with a wave of nostalgia and grinned as he crossed to me.
“Hey there, stranger,” he’d said, offering me his hand.
“James!” I gasped, but recovered quickly. “You look great!” We hugged—to gawking Ashley’s surprise.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I told Jillian. “It’ll be good for me. Call it a growth experience. Plus, I don’t want to give up the commission. We’ll see what happens tonight.”
At that she looked up from her menu. “Tonight?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? We’re going for drinks to get caught up.”
I stood in front of the mirror, fluffing my hair and checking my teeth for wayward lipstick. The rest of the workday had gone quickly, and I now found myself at home getting ready for tonight. We’d agreed to just drinks, very casual, although I was leaving the option open for dinner. But skinny jeans, black turtleneck, and cropped gray leather jacket was as fancy as I was gonna get.
The time I’d spent this morning with James at the office was pleasant, and when he’d asked me to go for drinks to catch up, I agreed instantly. I was anxious to learn what he’d been up to, as well as make sure we’d be able to work together. He’d been a huge part of my life at one time, and the idea of being able to work with someone I’d once been so close to felt good to me. It felt mature. Closure? Not sure what to call it, but it seemed like the natural thing to do.
He was picking me up at seven, and I planned to meet him outside. Parking on my street was ridiculous. A glance at the clock told me it was time to get going, so I gave a quick kiss goodbye to Clive, who’d been on his best behavior since the pee incident, and let myself into the hallway.
And straight into Simon, who was in front of my door.
“Okay, you are officially my stalker! There’s no more zucchini bread, mister. I hope you made that loaf last because there is no more for you,” I warned, pressing him back from my front door with my pointer finger.
“I know, I know. I’m actually here on official business.” He laughed, throwing up his arms in defeat.
“Walk with me?” I asked, nodding toward the stairs.
“I’m headed out as well. Going to rent a movie,” he explained as we started down.
“People still rent movies?” I joked, rounding the corner.
“Yes, people still rent movies. Just for that you’re gonna have to watch whatever I pick out,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.
“Tonight?”
“Sure, why not. I was coming over to see if you wanted to hang out. I owe you for dinner from the other night, and I got an urge to watch something spooky…” He launched into The Twilight Zone theme.
I couldn’t help but laugh at his claw hands and crossed eyes. “Last time someone asked me to rent a movie it was code for ‘let’s make out on the couch.’ Am I safe with you?”
“Please! We’ve got that truce, remember? I am all about the truce. So, tonight?”
“I wish I could, but I have plans tonight. Tomorrow night?” We rounded the last stair and entered the entryway.
“Tomorrow I can do. Come on over after work. But I get to pick the movie, and I’m making you dinner. Least I can do for my little cockblocker.” He smirked, and I punched him in the arm.
“Please stop calling me that. Otherwise I won’t bring dessert,” I said, lowering my voice and batting my eyelashes like a fool.
“Dessert?” he asked, holding the door open as I walked out into the night.
“Mmm-hmm. I picked up some apples yesterday while I was out, and I’ve been craving pie all week. How does that sound?” I asked, scanning the street for James.
“Apple pie? Homemade apple pie? Christ, woman, are you trying to kill me? Mmm…” He smacked his lips and looked at me hungrily.
“Why, sir, you look like you’ve seen something you’d like to eat,” I offered in my best Scarlett.
“You show up with apple pie tomorrow night, and I may not let you leave,” he breathed, his cheeks rosy and his messy hair blowing in the cool air.
“That would be terrible,” I whispered. Wow. “Okay, so, go get your movie,” I said, playfully shoving the six feet of hot in front of me. Remember the harem! I shouted inside my head.
“Caroline?” a concerned voice came from behind me, and I turned to see James walking toward us.
“Hey, James,” I called out, stepping away from Simon with a giggle.
“You ready to go?” he asked, looking at Simon carefully. Simon straightened to his full height and looked back, just as carefully.
“Yep, ready to go. Simon, this is James. James, Simon.” They leaned in to shake hands, and I could see that they both exerted a little extra force, neither seeming to want to be the one to let go first. I rolled my eyes. Yes, boys. You can both write your names in the snow. The question is, who would make bigger letters?
“Nice to meet you, James. It was James, right? I’m Simon. Simon Parker.”
“That’s correct. James. James Brown.”
I saw the beginnings of a laugh on Simon’s face.
“Okay, James, we should get going. Simon, I’ll talk to you later,” I interrupted, ending the handshake of the century.
James turned toward where his car was double-parked, and Simon looked at me.
“Brown? James Brown?” he mouthed, and I squelched my own laugh.
“Shush,” I mouthed back, smiling at James when he turned back to me.
“Nice to meet you, Simon. See you around,” James called, steering me to the car with his hand on the small of my back. I didn’t think twice about it, as that’s how we always used to walk together, but Simon’s eyes widened a little at the sight.
Hmm…
James opened the door for me, then headed around to his side. Simon was still standing in front of our building when we drove away. I rubbed my hands together in front of the heater and grinned at James as he steered through the traffic.
“So, where are we headed?”
We made ourselves comfortable in the swanky bar he’d selected. It seemed very James: chic and sophisticated, and laced with hidden sexuality. The deep red leather banquettes, thinly cushioned and cool, ensconced us as we settled in and began the process of getting to know each other after so many years apart.
As we waited for a server to come by, I studied his face. He still looked the same: closely cropped sandy blond hair, intense eyes, and a lean frame folded in on itself like a cat’s. Age had only improved his good looks, and his carefully torn jeans and black cashmere sweater clung to a body I could see was in great shape. James had been a rock climber, relentless in his pursuit of the sport. He viewed each boulder, each mountain as an obstacle to overcome, something to be conquered.
I’d gone climbing with him a few times toward the end of our relationship, even though I grew up skittish about heights. But watching him climb, seeing the sinewy muscles stretch and manipulate his body into positions that seemed unnatural, was a heady experience, and I’d pounced on him those evenings in the tent like a woman possessed.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, interrupting my musings.
“I was thinking about how much you used to climb. Is that something you still do?”
“It is, but I don’t get as much free time as I used to. They keep me pretty busy at the firm. I try and get out to Big Basin as often as I can,” he added, smiling as our waitress approached.
“What can I get you two?” she asked, placing napkins in front of us. “She’ll have a dry vodka martini, three olives, and for me bring three fingers of Macallan,” he answered. The waitress nodded and left to fill our order.
I studied him as he sat back, then turned his gaze to me.
“Oh, Caroline, I’m sorry. Is that still your drink?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “As it happens, yes. But what if I didn’t want that tonight?” I answered primly.
“My mistake. Of course, what did you want to drink?” He waved the waitress back over.
“I’ll have a dry vodka martini with three olives, please,” I told her with a wink.
She looked confused.
James laughed loudly, and she walked away, shaking her head.
“Touché, Caroline. Touché,” he said, studying me again.
“So, tell me what you’ve been up to the last few years.” I put my elbows on the table and chin in hands.
“Hmm, how to encapsulate years in a few sentences? Finished law school, signed on with the firm here in the city, and worked like a dog for two years. I’ve been able to ease up a bit, only around sixty-five hours a week now, and it’s nice seeing daylight again, I admit.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “And of course working as much as I do leaves me very little time for a social life, so it was just blind luck that I saw you at the benefit last month,” he finished, leaning forward on his elbows as well. Jillian attended many social events around town, and I accompanied her on occasion. Good for business. I should’ve known I’d eventually run into James at one of those shindigs.
“So you saw me, but you didn’t come talk to me. And now here you are, weeks later, asking me to work on your condo. Why is that, exactly?” I accepted my drink as it arrived and took a long pull.
“I wanted to talk to you, believe me. But I couldn’t. So much time had passed. Then I realized you worked for Jillian, who a friend had recommended to me, and I thought, ‘how perfect.’” He inclined his glass toward mine for a clink.
I paused for a moment, then clinked him. “So you’re serious about working with me? This isn’t some kind of ploy to get me into bed, is it?”
He looked at me evenly. “Still direct as ever, I see. But no, this is professional. I didn’t like the way we left things, admittedly, but I accepted your decision. And now here we are. I needed a decorator. You are a decorator. Works out well, don’t you think?”
“Designer,” I said quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Designer,” I said, louder this time. “I’m an interior designer, not a decorator. There’s a difference, Mr. Attorney Man.” I took another sip.
“Of course, of course,” he replied, signaling for the waitress.
Surprised, I looked down to find my glass empty.
“Care for another?” he asked, and I nodded.
As we small talked for the next hour, we also began to discuss what he needed in his new home. Jillian had been right. He was pretty much asking me to design his entire place, from area rugs to lighting fixtures and everything in between. It would be a huge commission, and he’d even agreed to let me photograph it for a local design magazine Jillian had been wanting me to submit to. James came from a wealthy family—the Browns of Philadelphia, don’t you know—and I knew they must be footing the bill for most of this. Young lawyers didn’t make enough to afford the kind of place he had, let alone in one of the most expensive cities in America. But trust funds live on, and he had a large one. One of the perks of dating him in college had been that we could actually afford real dates, not just cheap takeout all the time. I’d enjoyed that aspect of being with him. Not gonna lie.
And I would enjoy that aspect of this project. A basically unlimited budget? I couldn’t wait to get started.
In the end, it was a nice evening. As with all old flames, there was a feeling of knowing, a nostalgia you can only share with someone who has known you intimately—especially at that age when you’re still forming. It was great to see him again. James has a very strong personality, intense and confident, and I was reminded why I’d been attracted to him in the first place. We laughed and told stories about things we’d done as a couple, and I was relieved to find that his charm remained. We could get along quite well in a social setting. There was none of the awkwardness that could have accompanied this.
As the evening wound down and he drove me home, he got around to the question I knew he’d been dying to ask. He pulled the car to a stop in front of my building and turned to me.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asked quietly.
“No, I’m not. And that’s hardly a question a client would ask me,” I teased and looked toward my building. I could see Clive sitting in the front window in his usual post, and I smiled. It was nice to have someone waiting for me. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing next door to see if there was a light on in Simon’s apartment, and I also couldn’t stop my tummy from doing a little flippity-flop when I saw his shadow on the wall and the blue light of his television.
“Well, as your client, I’ll refrain from asking those kinds of questions in the future, Ms. Reynolds,” He chuckled.
I turned back to face him. “It’s okay, James. We passed designer/client relationship a long time ago.” I felt triumphant as I saw a blush carve a chink in his careful façade.
“I think this is gonna be fun.” He winked, and it was my turn to laugh.
“Okay, you can call me tomorrow at the office, and we’ll get started. I’m gonna fleece you blind, buddy, Get ready to work that credit card,” I taunted as I stepped out of the car.
“Oh hell, I’m counting on it.” He winked and waved goodbye.
He waited until I was inside, so I tossed another wave his way as the door closed. I was glad to see I could handle myself with him. Upstairs, as I turned the key in my lock I thought I heard something. I looked over my shoulder, and there was nothing there. Clive called to me from inside, so I smiled and stepped in, scooping him up and whispering softly in his ear as he gave me a tiny cat hug with his big paws around my neck.
The next evening I was rolling out the pie crust when the text came in from Simon.
Come on over whenever. I’ll start dinner once you’re here.
I’m still working on the pie, but I’ll be over soon.
Need any help?
How are you with peeling apples?
The next thing I heard was a knock on the door. I walked over, hands covered in flour, and elbowed the door open. “Well, hello there,” I said, holding the door open with my foot.
“Looks like the end of Scarface in here,” he observed, reaching out to touch my nose and show me the flour on the end.
“I tend to lose control when there’s pie crust involved,” I said as he shut the door.
“Duly noted. That’s good information for me to have,” he responded, swatting at my hand as I tried to slap him.
He took a good long look at me then, blue eyes dropping from my face and traveling across my body. “Hmm, you weren’t kidding about the apron, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hang in here without trying a little grab-ass.”
“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said, You should see my scones…
“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.
I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at ease he seemed in my kitchen.
I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rolling pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rolling pin suggestively.
“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.
“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.
He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his voice low.
“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.
“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.
“I’m gonna roll this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each time and the forward action pushed my girls together.
“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.
“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I still need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.
His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the colander filled with apples in the sink.
“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.
“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.
“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.
“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.
“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rolling pin, which I squeezed mightily.
“I thought so.”
“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless Pâte Brisée.
“Only fair. So how do I rate?”
“Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”
“Bounce. I lost my Downy ball,” he confessed.
I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.
“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.
“Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.
“Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.
Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’ll get started. You can be my assistant.”
He looked around for a dishtowel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very strong and very specifically placed hands on my ass.
“Um, hi?” I said, freezing in place.
“Hi,” he answered cheerfully, not releasing his hands.
“Explain yourself, please,” I ordered, trying not to notice how my heart was trying to leave my body by way of my mouth.
“You told me to find something to clean my hands with,” he stuttered, trying hard not to laugh as he gave each cheek a little squeeze.
“And you took that to mean my ass?” I laughed back and turned to face him, removing his hands with my own.
“What can I say? I take liberties with my neighbors,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth now between my lips and my eyes.
“We have a pie to make, mister. I’ll thank you to remember your manners. No one touches my ass without an invitation.” I giggled, still holding his hands. I felt his thumb trace little circles on the inside of my palm, and my head got swimmy. This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” I instructed.
He smirked and turned away, which gave me the opportunity to mutter, “Oh my Jesus Lord,” to no one in particular before meeting him back at the apple bowl.
“Okay, you do what I tell you, got it?” I said, sprinkling sugar into the bowl.
“Got it.”
I started tossing the apples with my hands and Simon followed my instructions to the letter. When I asked for more sugar, he sugared. When I asked for more cinnamon, he complied. When I asked him to squeeze the lemon, he lemoned so well I had trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth and off his throat.
I tossed and tasted, and when they were finally right, I lifted a wedge to his mouth. “Open up,” I said, and he leaned in.
I placed an apple on his tongue, and he snapped his mouth shut before I had to chance to remove my fingers. He let his lips close around two, and I slowly withdrew them, feeling his tongue wrap around them delicately and deliberately.
“Delicious,” he said softly.
“Gah,” I answered, eyes crossing a little at the sex on two legs displayed in front of me.
He chewed. “Sweet. Sweet, Caroline.”
“Gah,” I managed again. Brain knew this was bad, Heart was beating out of our chest.
“Good for you?” he asked, that knowing smile treading dangerously close to smirk territory.
“Good for me,” I answered, on fire after the fingerlatio. Truce schmuce, harem schmarem. Who cared if there was no actual O? I needed to be in contact with this man in the very worst way.
My sexual wall had been hit, and as I prepared to rip the clothes from his body, throw him to the ground, and ride him amid a pile of apples and cinnamon with only a rolling pin to guide us, my phone rang.
Thank you, Jesus.
I looked at the blue-eyed devil and launched myself across the room, away from the brain-scrambling voodoo. I saw his face as I ran, and he looked a little disappointed.
“Girl, what are you up to tonight?” Mimi screeched into the phone. I held it away from my ear before the bleeding started. Mimi had three sound levels: Normal Loud, Excited Loud, and Drunky Loud. She was leaving Excited and on her way to Drunky.
“I’m getting ready to have dinner. Where are you?” I asked, nodding at Simon who had started pouring the apples into the pie dish.
“I’m out for drinks with Sophia. What are you doing?” she screamed.
“I just told you, getting ready to have dinner!” I laughed.
Simon came out into the living room with the pie in his hands. “Should I put this in the oven?” he asked.
“Hang on, Mimi. Not yet, I still need to brush it with a little cream,” I told him, and he ducked back into the kitchen.
“Caroline Reynolds, that was a man! Who was that? Who are you having dinner with? And what are you brushing with cream?” she fired at me, her voice growing even louder.
“Settle down. My goodness, you’re loud! I’m having dinner with Simon, and we’re making an apple pie,” I explained, which she immediately screamed out to Sophia.
“Shit,” I muttered as I heard the phone yanked away from Mimi.
“Reynolds, what are you doing? Are you baking pies with your neighbor? Are you naked?” Sophia yelled, taking her turn to grill me.
“Okay, no, and you all need to seriously settle down. Hanging up now,” I yelled over her yelling at me. I could hear Mimi squealing nasty things about pies and cream. Sophia was in the middle of threatening me not to hang up on her, when I did just that.
I sighed and went to find Simon, with his hands full of pie. I snorted in spite of myself.
“Oh, my God, that’s so good,” I whimpered, closing my eyes and losing myself to the sensations.
“I knew you’d like it, but I had no idea you’d enjoy it this much,” he whispered, staring at me with rapt attention.
“Stop talking, you’re going to ruin it for me,” I moaned, stretching and feeling myself respond to everything he was giving me.
“Did you want another one?” he offered, raising up on his elbows.
“If I have another, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Go ahead, be a bad girl—you deserve it. I know you want it, Caroline,” he teased, leaning closer.
“Okay,” I managed, opening up to him once again. I closed my eyes and heard him fumbling about before putting it in. Sighing as I felt it, I closed my lips around what he offered.
“I’ve never seen a woman who could take so much in one sitting,” he marveled, watching me come undone once more.
“Yes, well, you’ve never met a woman who likes meatballs as much as me,” I moaned around another mouthful, feeling stuffed beyond belief but not wanting the meal to end.
Simon had just cooked me quite possibly the most perfect meal ever, hitting every single taste bud that needed to be hit. He’d learned how to make the most amazing meatballs from a woman in Naples, and he’d sworn they’d be the best I’d ever had. After no less than seven jokes about balls and mouths, I had to agree they were the best balls I had ever had in my mouth.
God, he gave great meatball.
I then proceeded to eat almost a pound of pasta myself, as well as all of my meatballs, plus half of his. I insisted he eat the last one, but he refused and brought the perfection that was his meatball to my willing mouth.
Simon was a great host, insisting that I sit, drink wine, and watch rather than help. He entertained me with stories about his travels as he got everything ready, and while the food was simple, it was good. “Nonni made me promise if she showed me how to make her polpette I would only serve them with her special sauce. If I dared serve these with a jar of Prego, she would cross the ocean to break her wooden spoon against my backside.”
“She made you call her Nonni?” I laughed, leaning back in my chair and unbuttoning the top button on my jeans. I had no shame. I’d eaten an obscene amount.
“You know what Nonni means?” he asked, surprised.
“I had an Italian great-grandmother. She insisted everyone call her Nonni.” I laughed again when his eyes went to my hands massaging my stomach.
“You gonna be okay there?” He raised his eyebrows as he got up to clear.
“Yep, just need to breathe a little.” I groaned, pulling myself up from the table.
“No, no, you don’t have to help,” he said, rushing to my side and grabbing my plate.
“Oh, no, I wasn’t. I was gonna drop this off and pass out on that couch right there,” I said, nodding toward the living room.
“You go relax. Anyone who just had that many balls in their mouth deserves a rest,” he teased, and I flicked his ear.
“I said no more ball jokes! You’ve had your fun, now let me go die in peace.” I shuffled into the living room. I really had made quite a little piggy of myself, but it was seriously good. I reclined and popped open another button on my jeans, relaxing into the cushions and replaying some of the finer points of the evening.
Watching Simon cook was, in a word, hot. He was really at home in a kitchen, his earlier fussing about with the pie aside. Even his salad—simple greens dressed lightly with lemon and olive oil, salt, pepper, and good Parmesan—was easy and perfect.
“Pink Himalayan salt, thank you very much,” he’d said proudly, producing a bag from his pantry. He’d brought it back from one of his many trips and had me taste a little before sprinkling it on the salad. Could have been pretentious, but it fit Simon. The many facets of this guy were astounding. My earliest assumptions about him were proving to be completely wrong. As assumptions tend to be…
I could hear him tending to the dishes, and as much as I probably should have gone to help him, I simply couldn’t remove myself from the couch. I snuggled on my side and looked around his living room again, my eyes drawn back to the tiny bottles of sand from all over the world. I marveled at how traveled he was, and how he seemed to enjoy it still. I gazed at the pictures of the woman in Bora Bora—her dark, beautiful skin and the smooth planes of her body—and thought about how different the three of the women in his harem were. Oops, make that two now that Katie/Spanx was with her new man.
Suddenly I could smell the apple pie and heard the oven door clank shut. I’d put it in his oven as soon as we came over so it would be ready after dinner.
“Don’t you dare try to serve me pie now. I am stuffed, I tell you, stuffed!” I yelled.
“Quiet, it’s just cooling,” he scolded, coming around the corner from the kitchen. “You’re gonna have to scooch over, sister. It’s movie time,” he instructed, pushing me with his big toe as I struggled to sit up straight.
“What is it that we’re watching?”
“The Exorcist,” he whispered, turning off the light on the end table and leaving the room quite dark.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I screeched, leaning over him to turn it back on.
“Don’t be a wuss. You’re watching it,” he hissed, turning it back off.
“I’m not a wuss, but there is stupid and not stupid, and stupid is watching a movie like The Exorcist with the lights off! That’s just asking for trouble!” I hissed back, turning it back on.
It was starting to look like a disco in here…
“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. Lights off, but—” he shushed me with is finger as he saw me begin to interrupt “—if you get too scared, lights go back on. Deal?”
I was still leaning across him on my way to turn the light back on again when I noticed how close I was to his face. And how I was angled across him like a girl waiting to get a spanking. And I knew he was capable of delivering one…
“Fine,” I huffed as the opening credits came on. I returned to a normal, seated position.
He smiled triumphantly and gave me a thumbs up.
“If you show me that thumb one more time I’ll bite it off,” I growled, pulling an afghan off the back of the couch and curling it protectively around me. One minute into the movie, and I was already spooked.
I was tense from that moment on, and any idea I might have had about girls being ridiculous around guys when they watched scary movies went by the wayside when Regan peed herself at the dinner party.
By the time the priest came for a little visit, I was practically sitting on Simon’s lap, my right hand had a death grip on his thigh, and I was viewing the movie through the holes in the afghan, which I had draped entirely over my head.
“I actually, literally, hate you for making me watch this movie,” I whispered in his ear, which was right in my face as I refused to leave any space between us. I’d even accompanied him to the bathroom earlier when we took a break. He insisted I stay out in the hallway, but I stood just outside the door, eyes glancing around furtively, still with the afghan over my head.
“Do you want me to stop? I don’t want you to have nightmares,” he whispered back, his eyes on the screen.
“Just no banging on the walls for a few nights, please. I won’t be able to take it,” I said, looking at him through one of my eyeholes.
“Have you heard any banging lately?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he did every time he looked at me with the ridiculous afghan on my head.
“No, I haven’t actually. Why is that?” I asked.
He took a breath. “Well, I—” he started, and then the most maniacal scary noises started coming from the TV, and we both jumped.
“Okay, maybe this movie is a little scary. You wanna sit closer?” he asked, pressing pause on the remote.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I cried, launching myself fully into his lap and settling between his thighs. “Do you want some afghan?” I offered, and he laughed.
“No, I can take it like a man. You stay under there, though,” he teased.
I narrowed my eyes at him through the eyeholes and poked one finger through the weave. “Guess which finger this is,” I said, waving it at him.
“Shhh, movie,” he answered, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back against his chest.
He was warm and strong and powerful, but absolutely no match for terror that was The Exorcist. What had we been talking about? Now I couldn’t think about any walls banging except the one Regan was currently banging the shit out of and spraying down with pea soup. We watched the rest of that damn movie wound around each other like pretzels, and he finally succumbed to the false security that an afghan eyehole can provide.
Click. Click. Click.
What the hell was that?
Click. Click. Click.
Oh no.
I lay paralyzed in my bed, every light in my entire apartment blazing.
Click. Click. Click.
I pulled the covers up higher, covering my face up to my eyes, which kept a constant vigil around the bedroom. Brain knew we were safe and secure, but also kept replaying scenes from that terrible, terrible movie, making it impossible to shut off for the night and go to sleep. Nerves had everything on lockdown, blazing a trail of fiery adrenaline throughout my body. I hated Simon with every fiber of my being in that moment. I also wished he was here.
Click. Click. Click.
What was that?
Click. Click.
Nothing.
Then Clive leaped on the bed, and I screamed bloody murder. Clive puffed out his tail and hissed at me, wondering why the hell Mommy was screaming at him, I’m sure. The click-click-click was his goddamned kitty hangnail.
My phone vibrated an instant later, shaking the entire nightstand and eliciting another scream from me. It was Simon.
“What the hell is wrong? Why are you screaming? Are you okay?” he yelled when I answered, and I could hear him through the phone and through the wall.
“Get your ass over here right now, you motherfucking scary movie pusher,” I seethed and hung up. I pounded on the wall and ran out to unlock the door. In much the same way I’d run up the last few steps of the basement stairs when I was a kid, I hightailed it back into my room, jumping the last few feet and landing in the center of my bed. I wrapped the covers around me and peered out, waiting. He knocked, and I heard the door push open.
“Caroline?” he called.
“Back here,” I yelled. Sad that I’d been reduced to this, but I was glad to see him.
“I brought the pie,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “And this,” he added, producing the afghan from behind his back.
“Thanks.” I smiled at him from behind my pillow shield.
A few minutes later we were settled on my bed, each balancing a plate and a glass of milk. We’d been too full, then too terrified to eat pie earlier. Clive and his phantom hangnail retired to the other room after rolling his eyes at Simon and swishing his tail.
“How old are you?” I asked, cutting into my pie.
“Twenty-eight. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. We are twenty-eight and twenty-six years old and terrified of a movie,” I mused, poking in a bite. The pie was good.
“I wouldn’t say I’m terrified,” he countered. “Spooked? Yes. But I only came over to stop you from screaming.”
“And to taste my pie,” I added, winking.
“Shut it, you,” he warned, and then he went ahead and tasted my pie.
“Jesus, that’s good,” he breathed, eyes closed as he chewed.
“I know. What is it about apples and homemade pie crust? Is there anything better?”
“If we were eating this naked, then it would be better,” He grinned, opening one eye.
“No one is getting naked here, buddy. Just eat your pie.” I pointed at his plate with my fork.
We chewed.
“I feel better,” I added a few minutes later, drinking my milk.
“Me too. Not too spooked anymore.”
He smiled as I took his plate and set it on the nightstand. I sighed contentedly and lay back against my pillows, sated and less scared.
“So, I gotta ask…James Brown? I mean, James Brown?” He laughed, and I kicked him as he lay down next to me. We turned on our sides to face each other, arms curling under the pillows.
“I know, I know. I can’t believe you held it in as long as you did! I know you’ve been dying to make jokes since last night.”
“Seriously, who is this guy?” he asked.
“He’s a new client.”
“Ah, got it,” he said, looking pleased.
“And an old boyfriend,” I added, watching for his reaction.
“I see. New client but old boyfriend—wait, the lawyer?” he asked, trying to keep his expression neutral, but failing.
“Yep. Haven’t seen him in a few years.”
“How’s that gonna work?”
“Don’t know yet. We’ll see.”
I really didn’t know how things were going to go with James. I was glad to see him, but it was going to be tough to keep things professional if he wanted more. And every instinct I had told me he wanted more. In the past he’d had more control over me than I was comfortable relinquishing. I’d found myself sucked into the gravitational pull that was James Brown—lawyer, not Godfather of Soul.
“Anyway, we’re just going to be working together. It’ll be a great job for me. He wants his entire place redone.” I sighed, already planning the palette. I rolled onto my back and stretched. I’d really abused my stomach tonight and was starting to get sleepy.
“I don’t like him,” Simon said suddenly, after a long pause.
I turned and saw him scowling.
“You don’t even know him! How could you possibly not like him?” I laughed.
“I just don’t,” he said, now turning his gaze to mine and unleashing the power of the baby blues.
“Oh, please, you’re just a stinky boy.” I laughed, ruffling his hair. Wrong move. It sure was soft…
“I don’t stink. You said yourself I was April fresh,” he protested, lifting his arm and sniffing.
“Yes, Simon, you smell delicious,” I deadpanned, sniffing the air around me.
He left his arm up higher on the pillow, and I knew if I rolled just a little I could slide right on into the nook. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. Was he thinking what I was thinking?
Did he want to nook me?
Did I want to nook him?
Oh the hell with it…
“I’m coming into the nook,” I announced and went full snuggle: head nestled in, left arm over chest, right arm tucked under his pillow. Legs I kept to myself—I wasn’t a total fool.
“Well, hello there,” he said, sounding surprised. Then he curled himself around me immediately. I sighed again, wrapped in boy and voodoo.
“What brought this on, friend?” he whispered into my hair, and I shivered.
“Delayed reaction to Linda Blair. I need some nook time. Friends can nook, can’t they?”
“Sure, but are we friends who can nook?” he asked, tracing circles on my back. Him and his demon finger circles…
“I can handle it. You?” I held my breath.
“I can handle just about anything, but…” he started, and then stopped.
“What? What were you going to say?” I asked, leaning up to look at him. One piece of hair uncurled from my ponytail and fell down between us. Slowly, and with great care, he pushed it back behind my ear.
“Let’s just say that if you were wearing that pink nightie? You’d be in a heap of trouble.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re just friends then, right?” I forced myself to say.
“Friends, yes.”
He stared into my eyes.
I breathed in, he breathed out. We traded actual air.
“Just nook me, Simon,” I said quietly, and he grinned.
“Come on back down here,” he said and coaxed me back to his chest. I slid down, resting where I could hear his heart beat. He folded the afghan over us, and I noticed again how soft it was. It had served me well tonight, this afghan.
“I love this afghan, but I have to say it doesn’t really fit your apartment—the cool-dude motif you have going on,” I mused. It was orange and pea green and very retro. He was silent, and I thought maybe he had fallen asleep.
“It was my mom’s,” he said quietly, and his grip on me became infinitesimally tighter.
There was nothing to say after that.
Simon and I slept together that night, with every light in the entire place on.
Clive and his hangnail stayed away.
