Screwdrivered Page 21

  I leaned on the table, two legs of the chair now in the air. I looked him right in the eye, and lowered my voice. “What. The. Fuck. Clark.”

  “Chloe, would you excuse us for a moment?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of me.

  “Sure thing,” she said with a chuckle. “Nice to meet you, Viv,” she offered, patting me on my shoulder as she left the table. I didn’t actually see her go, since I was engaged in a stare-off with a librarian.

  “She’s nice,” I said.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “That’s correct,” I agreed.

  “I’m curious about something, Vivian,” he said, still not breaking eye contact with me.

  “Curious?”

  “Mm-hmm. About why you were so interested in who I was here with tonight.” He leaned forward; I leaned forward even more. We were within inches of each other. “You almost looked . . .” He looked at my hair, my lips, my shoulders, my breasts, still pushed forward and half bared. When he met my eyes again, he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Jealous.”

  “Jealous? Me?” I breathed, then turned it into a laugh. Which turned into a sputter. “I just came over here to say hi. To my friend, who I used to talk to all the time. My friend who used to want to help me with my house, and call me in the middle of the night, and go for rides in a kick-ass car with a ridiculous knight in shining armor hanging out of the back. Where did he go?”

  “You really have no idea, do you?” He shook his head, then stood up, calling out to John, “We’re gonna take that pizza to go.”

  “You’re leaving? Again? Why do you keep doing that?” I asked, angry. My head was starting to hurt.

  “Chloe’s going through some stuff right now, and—”

  “How could anyone that pretty be going through some stuff?” I snorted, looking over his shoulder at the gorgeous blonde at the bar.

  “Everyone goes through stuff, Vivian. She’s thinking about leaving San Diego and moving up north. She needed to talk it out. Sometimes you just need to say things out loud to really hear it.”

  “I can say some things out loud,” I muttered, staring up at him. So tall. So angry. When had he gotten so angry?

  He nodded to someone behind me, and I turned to see my girls flanking me.

  “Make sure she gets home okay?” he said quietly to Jessica, and she nodded.

  Which made me angry.

  “I don’t need someone to make sure I get home okay. I can take care of myself, you know,” I snapped.

  He just looked at me flatly.

  I didn’t like that. If anything, I preferred the angry Clark.

  He turned away, chatted with John for a minute, and took his pizza. Then he gathered his cousin from the other end of the bar, where she waved a good-bye.

  He was gone. I was drunk. With half my bra out.

  I was ready to go home.

  I woke up with a ball of awful in my mouth, which turned out to be my tongue. With each step toward the bathroom, I was reminded of how very bright the sunshine was here, how very loud seagulls could be, and how very briny the ocean smelled when it was right outside your window. The window letting in all that damned light.

  As I weaved down the hallway, Caroline appeared in her doorway, fresh and pretty, the fucker.

  “Morning, sunshine,” she said, and I punched her in the shoulder. Not hard. “Nice,” she said.

  I nodded back and made for the sink. With a mouthful of toothpaste I splashed water over my face and evaluated. And then evacuated the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Caroline thoughtfully closed the door as I sat on the floor, waving her away.

  “I’m going to get you some saltines,” she called, and I moaned a thank-you. I let my body get its bearings for a moment, then splashed some water on my face a second time. Also tried the toothbrush a second time. Feeling a little better, I grabbed my robe off the back of the door and made my way downstairs.

  In the kitchen, Caroline was tearing apart my pantry. “No saltines, but I found some oyster crackers.”

  I smiled weakly. “I’ll take ’em. And if you could just hit me over the head with a sledgehammer, that’d be great.”

  “No sledgehammer handy; how about a screwdriver?” She followed me to the table, setting down the crackers and some water.

  “As long as it’s the tool, not the cocktail. Anything will feel better than the hell I’m currently in.” I sipped the water gratefully and munched on a few crackers. “Did I really unbutton my shirt in front of half the town last night?”

  “You did. The table next to us was taking bets on whether you’d take your bra off, Flashdance style.” She moved around the kitchen in a blur, pouring coffee, flipping burners.

  “How’d you figure out how to do that so fast? It took me weeks to get that damn stove to work,” I said. “Not to mention the percolator.”

  “I installed one of these stoves for a client and was fascinated by it. I thought about putting one in our new kitchen, but my love for a Viking won out.”

  “Vikings are hot,” I agreed, and sipped some more water.

  “Speaking of hot, you want to talk about last night?”

  “Nope,” I told my crackers.

  “Not at all? You don’t want to talk about how you ran over to see who Clark was having dinner with?”

  “Nope.”

  “While in the middle of telling us a story about how you’re destined for some cowboy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She walked over with her coffee and toast and sat across from me. Saying nothing.

  “It was his cousin,” I said, taking a piece of her toast. “In case you were wondering.”

  “I had a feeling it was something like that,” she said, barely hiding her grin.

  I’d have rolled my eyes, but they felt like they’d been dipped in sand. But mentally? Epic eye roll.

  Caroline stayed until after lunch, walking me through some final thoughts she had for the house. I showed her the attic, and told her my idea for turning it into a studio. Not having any idea I’d been an artist in my other life, she was thrilled with the idea and made me promise to show her some work next time she was in town. “Better yet, send me some pictures when you get things up and running again.” I tried to explain to her that it had been years since I’d actually painted, and that who knows what would happen when I actually got up there and started playing around, but blah-blah-blah, she wouldn’t hear it.

  Simon was flying in tonight from Mexico, and she was anxious to get back before he did. I envied her. I admit it. She had a man who adored her and no doubt ravaged her to within an inch of her life. She had that glow, so it was safe to assume. More important, she had someone who said I love you. Woke up to it, walked in the park with it, sat on the couch next to it, and heard it during the sexy times. Big, sappy sigh.

  Holding my arm in a sisterly way as we walked out to her car, she took a deep breath of ocean air before throwing her bag into the backseat. “It really is kind of magical up here. Simon and I need to start heading north more often.”

  “My door is always open, come on up whenever.”

  She pulled me in for a close hug. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Okay. You be careful too?” I said, confused.

  “Seriously, Viv. I know you think you’re in this romance novel—”

  I moaned and pushed her toward the car.

  “No really—listen. I believe in signs, and that things are meant to be, I truly do. But try and be open to anything, okay? It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.”

  “You should be writing for Hallmark.”

  “Fuck you, Viv—this shit is gold I’m giving you. Gold.”

  “This is what I get for sharing secrets,” I muttered, shaki
ng my head.

  “Just remember what I said, okay?”

  “Be open. Got it. Drive safe.” I laughed, giving her a little salute as she got into the car. “And thanks for everything, all joking aside. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she asked, deadpan.

  “Thinking about it,” I shot back.

  She laughed, backed out of the driveway, and honked cheerily as she headed around the corner. Then she was gone.

  And I was alone. With Caroline’s words echoing in my hangover head.

  It doesn’t always have to be so hard. Sometimes falling in love just means turning around and seeing what’s right in front of you.

  If this were a made-for-TV movie, I’d walk toward the edge of the cliff and watch the breakers roll in, casting a strong but sad silhouette against the backdrop of steely blue. The camera would pull back slowly, taking in the beautiful but empty house.

  I went into the kitchen to make a peanut butter sandwich.

  But those words worked on me all day. And damn if they didn’t work my belly into a mess of knots.

  chapter fifteen

  I paced. I plotted. I plotzed.

  I padded in circles around the house, adjusting Post-its on the wall where Caroline had left notes for the contractor, making sure they were at ninety-degree angles and flush with the others in their row.

  After Caroline left, I couldn’t stop thinking about her parting words. Damn her and her witchy ways.

  I stared down the dolls in the dining room that Jessica still hadn’t taken home, and fired off a text that said that if she didn’t come and get the psychotic army they would be marched lemminglike toward the cliffs. She responded with a very specific finger gesture.

  I organized the Johnny Mathis albums, which had been relocated from the fireplace to the built-ins on either side. I arranged them by style (Christmas and otherwise) and then by date, making them easily accessible whether you were searching by time line or by season. Alphabetical when possible. Did I Dewey decimal myself in order to keep my brain occupied? Perhaps. But Dewey brought to mind a very particular person who was determined to cross-reference himself right out of the stacks, smack dab into the romance section.

  There was a sudden crack of thunder, and when I looked out the picture window I saw lightning stab the sea. Great. The rain that had been promised all week was finally rolling in. The wind was picking up, assaulting the hanging baskets of ferns on the back porch.

  I curled my knees underneath me on the couch, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and huddling inward. I’d changed into my pajamas when I realized I wanted nothing more than a good sulk tonight. But the white V-neck T-shirt and cotton panties weren’t keeping me very warm. Luckily I knew where to find a giant pair of tube socks, and I’d pulled them up past my knees, tugging them up even farther now to fend off the chill.

  My eyes roamed the room and stopped on the fireplace. Hey, Contractor Joe told me the chimney was sound and safe to use. Hey, there’s a bunch of wood there that looks dry and brittle. Hey, Viv, make a fire.

  So I did.

  I grew up camping, so I can make a fire with three sticks and a string. I opened the flue, crumpled up some newspapers, and shoved them underneath the old iron grate, which could hold a fire large enough to roast a beast. I stacked kindling, breaking off some of the smaller bits of bark to make a little fire nest, making sure there was enough room for the air to get through.

  That’s what novice fire builders forget about. For the fire to burn long and bright and stay hot, you need a little space. A little room to breathe. But not too much space, or the fire will go out.

  Shaking my head as deep thoughts began to poke through again, I struck a match and lit the paper below the grate. The kindling above began to catch, crackling and popping. Laying two larger logs on top, and continuing to feed twigs and snapped-off pieces below, within minutes I had a large blaze going, sending out its warmth and beginning to take the chill off the room. Keeping the area clear in front of the fire, I set the screen to the side so I could enjoy the view.

  I curled back onto the couch, watching as the fire grew, illuminating the approaching dusk with a radiant glow. Embers gleamed brightly underneath the blaze, ruby red and cheery orange.

  But I wasn’t cheery. My stomach was still in knots. No one else seemed to see the romance novel that I was still convinced I was starring in. Or they did, but they didn’t think the cowboy was the hero. Was I still convinced?

  Dammit. Double dammit.

  Confusion whirled with anger and frustration. Resignation?

  But when I saw Hank’s truck speed around the corner of the house and stop next to the barn?

  Pure, unadulterated lust took center stage.

  I thought about nothing at all as I crashed through the house and out the back door, crossing the yard with a single intent.

  Must. Have. Now.

  He’d already stripped down, the shirt tossed casually aside as you do when you have hay to pitch, and the sight of his suntanned skin and muscles for days made me quicken my pace.

  The chickens knew better than to get in my way; they cleared a path straight through to the barn as I walked so fast my boobs jiggled. They’ll do that when you’re a double D and you left your bra on the floor upstairs. See, it’s all how it’s supposed to be! Did I randomly forget my bra earlier that day, or did some unknown hand guide me, eliminating bra clasps for frantic fingers to fumble over?

  Predestined. Preordained. There just better not be any premature what-have-you, ’cuz this shit was going down. And God willing, so was he.

  I entered the barn, striking what I thought was a particularly fetching pose with one hand poised over my head, the other on my waist, leaning against the doorway, hips jutted forward, back arched, girls pitched forth like an offering.

  He was pitching hay down from the loft. So strong, so virile, sweat already gleaming on his stunning hand-of-God-etched back, his hips narrowing into a waist I wanted to wrap my legs around and ride off into a sexual sunset.

  Speaking of sunset, it cut through the impending clouds, golden and glowing across the barn floor, highlighting the scattering of hay, the rustic planks, the brown poop.

  Um, what?

  It’s a barn. That’s where the poop lives.

  Well, I could breathe through my nose. And pretty soon I’d be panting, so no matter. I returned my gaze to Hank.

  Yeah, concentrate on him. His hands sliding up and down the handle, gripping the shaft and turning into the upstroke. Aw yeah.

  I waited for him to turn around and see me, to see me and leap down from the hayloft, his eyes burning hot and wild, his blood racing throughout his body and concentrating into one big, thick, hard, throbbing missile of seed.

  Quiet. He’s going to turn any minute.

  But he didn’t. So I did what any heroine would do in that situation.

  “Ahem.”

  Nothing.

  “Ahem.”

  Paul and Paula turned. Hank? He kept on pitching hay.

  With words designed to seduce, incinerate, and level, I ordered, “Turn around, please.” Aw yeah.

  He did turn. He did appraise. And how could he not? I was a vision in white, backlit perfectly by the setting sun for the ravishing of the century.

  His eyes traveled down my body, and everywhere his gaze went, my flesh sizzled.

  He tossed his pitchfork to the ground, and as he climbed down the ladder, each inch of skin revealed above his low-slung jeans was a present from the gods. He jumped the last three rungs, landing lightly on his feet with a predatory feline grace.

  He looked at me from underneath impossibly long lashes, his tongue licking his lower lip. A flash of something crossed his face. Longing? Pure carnal need? Or did it border more on . . . amusement?

 
Amusement was good; simple pleasures and all that. It hinted at a deeper emotion. After all, one cannot live on lust alone.

  The onion was finally peeled, much like my clothing would soon be.

  He rested his hands on top of the buckle. “C’mere,” he said, his voice silky smooth and perfectly orchestrated to make me swoon.

  Swoon I did, and I closed the distance between me and my destiny. I left behind my perfect lighting, but the closer I got to my perfect cowboy, I couldn’t tell if the sun rose in the east or the west. I was now within inches of miles of beefcake, and I wanted to sink my teeth into every layer.

  He reached out one hand, fingertips seeking and finding my mouth, which instantly parted. He pressed his thumb against my lips, tasting of salt and earth and man. He pressed further, and I took him in. He was inside of me, finally. I suckled at his thumb, and his eyes darkened.

  “All right. That’s what I’m talking about,” he said.

  Huh?

  “You want me, don’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “Say it. Out loud.”

  Did he just quote Twilight? No matter.

  “Ah wah ooo,” I managed. Not as sexy when you’re sucking someone’s thumb. But that’s okay. This was happening.

  And now he was pushing me up into one of the stalls. My back thrust up against a hay bale. Still, with the thumb. Aw yeah.

  As I bounced off the hay, my entire field of vision was filled with Hank, and it was good. He removed his thumb, dragging his hand down the center of my body to wrap around my waist. Then he leveraged my lower body up and around him, my legs finally where they belonged. Ahhhhh. There is something about being wrapped around hot man that feels exactly right.

  His eyes stared into mine, piercing my soul and seeing my innermost thoughts and secret desires. He seemed to be mapping my face, memorizing every feature, committing it to his memory to take with him to the end of his days.

  “You look like that girl from the dancing movie. With the freaky black shit around her eyes.”