Believe It or Not (7 page)

He tore his eyes from Violet’s and offered a weak smile. “Sure, good idea.”

He grabbed his drink and stood up, relieved to realize he’d somehow gotten away with failing to introduce her. He gestured to the vacant sofa in an invitation to Violet. She moved past him, her hair brushing against his shoulder as she slid by. Drew breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of lavender and vanilla. He felt his hand start to rise, intent on stroking her hair.

Are
you
out
of
your
fucking
mind?

He dropped his hand. “Tight quarters.”

She looked up quizzically, her big, violet eyes studying him with an unasked question. Drew lost his breath.

Then she cut her glance back at the other sofa and raised one eyebrow.

Shit.
She’d noticed the skipped introduction. Drew raised one shoulder in a helpless shrug and moved around the table to sit beside his date.

Now
she
thinks
you’re a cad.

Okay, maybe he was. Since his divorce, anyway. Funny how it had never bothered him before.

He watched Violet settle onto the sofa and cross her legs primly. She folded her hands over her knees and Drew tried not to stare at her long, perfect fingers and rounded nails, bright with clear polish. He wondered what those nails would feel like dragging down his back and then gave himself another mental kick.

“So how long have you two known each other?” Violet asked as she signaled a passing waitress.

“Oh, this is our third date,” chirped Drew’s seatmate.

Really?

Drew took another sip of his drink and wondered if it might be wise pretend to go to the restroom and slip out the back door. He could just avoid this whole uncomfortable scene—the nameless date, the awkward conversation, the sight of Violet with another guy.

Then Violet recrossed her legs, her skirt riding up a little above her knee. Drew sat back in his seat, suddenly interested in sticking around awhile longer.

To his right, Drew’s date had begun to chatter to Dr. Abbott about the pain in her wrist. Drew had to give Violet credit, she’d picked a nice guy. Most doctors he knew would have told the girl to book an appointment by now.

Something hit Drew in the foot. He looked down to see a fork lying beside his shoe. He glanced across the table at Violet, who shot him a quizzical look. They bent down to retrieve the fork at the same time.

Apparently, that was Violet’s plan.

“You don’t know your date’s name?” she hissed in his ear.

Her hair tickled his nose, and Drew fought the urge to drag her down on the carpet and grope her under the table.

Classy, dude. Really classy.

“Help me out,” he whispered back.

“Me?”

“I just need a clue.”

“No kidding.”

“Her name’s been on the tip of my tongue all night, but I can’t remember.”

“Maybe you should be more selective in how you use the tip of your tongue.”

He grinned. “Are you talking dirty to me under the table?”

“Merely pointing out that if you dated with your brain instead of your—” She bit her lip. “You wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Please help?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know… aren’t you the psychic here?”

She smacked him on the arm and sat back on the sofa. Drew sighed and sat back, too. Okay, so the “psychic” jab probably wasn’t smart. He was feeling desperate.

Drew looked over to see their dining companions were still chatting away like old friends. The waitress showed up at their table with glasses of water, and Violet ordered a complicated-sounding Chardonnay. The doctor ordered a gin martini, and Drew’s date requested something fruity and neon colored.

“Cherry Coke,” Drew said, lifting his empty glass.

Dr. Abbott raised an eyebrow. “Not a drinker, Drew?”

“On occasion. I just tend to prefer cherry Coke.”

“Hmmm,” said the doctor in a tone that suggested either disinterest or a belief that Drew had the maturity of a third grader.

Probably
right, there.

As soon as the waitress had gone, Violet cleared her throat. “So what is it you do?” she asked Drew’s date.

Excellent
, Drew thought, shooting her a grateful look.
They
can
exchange
business
cards.

Violet took a sip of her water and folded her hands again.

“Oh, I’m a cocktail waitress.”

Drew sighed. No business cards.

“Actually,” the girl chirped, patting her left boob, “I came straight here from work and almost forgot to take off my name tag. Can you believe it?”

A
name
tag
, Drew lamented quietly.
So
close.

“So Drew,” said Dr. Abbott. “What sort of business is it you own?

He looked at the guy and tried not to be pissed that the good doctor had scooted so close to Violet, he was practically in her lap. “A bar,” Drew said. “Voted ‘Best in Portland’ two years running.”

“They have the most amazing male strippers on Friday and Saturday nights,” his date added. “Super hot.”

“Thank you,” Drew replied, feeling oddly proud.

“Male strippers,” Dr. Abbot repeated, looking bemused. “That’s… interesting.”

Violet cleared her throat and jumped in. “Chris and I were just talking on the way over here and he mentioned that he was named after Christopher Latham Sholes—the guy who invented the typewriter in 1867. Isn’t that interesting?”

Drew reached for the lifeline she’d thrown him—lame as it was—reminding himself to show his gratitude in some way that didn’t involve getting her naked.

“That
is
interesting,” Drew said. “And you’re named for the color of your eyes, right?”

Violet blinked at him. Drew lost his breath again.

“Should we order?” asked Drew’s date, frowning at the menu. “Happy hour is almost over.”

Drew slumped in his chair, defeated. He’d probably never know his date’s name. The only thing mildly cheering was the knowledge that Violet and her date had nothing better to talk about than who invented the typewriter.

Then again, it’s not as if he was wowing her with scintillating conversation. Toilet paper? Juggling? The superiority of the term
butt
rock
over
glam
rock
?

Drew slumped deeper in his chair and took another sip of his drink. Maybe he could make it through the rest of the night calling his date “pumpkin” or “love chicken.”

The waitress appeared again, and Drew waited until the others had made their selections before placing his order, not bothering to consult the menu. Violet quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I always order the same thing,” Drew said as he handed his menu back to the waitress. “I come here a lot.”

“You mentioned that,” Violet said dryly. “My mother, on the other hand, did not.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Violet reached for her wineglass and took a sip, apparently drinking more cautiously than she had the previous night. He studied the way she held the glass, her exquisite fingers curved around the stem. He wondered if she’d learned the precise way to hold a piece of stemware or if it just came naturally.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Violet turned back to Drew. “So, do you have some sort of low-grade hearing loss?”

“What?”

“You were blasting the music so loud, the mice woke up and started running in their wheel to the beat of ‘Eye of the Tiger.’”

“Sorry about that. Moonbeam never seems to notice, but I’ll try to keep it down.”

“You weren’t kidding about the eighties music.”

Drew grinned. “We’re actually doing this whole eighties theme next week. We were trying to find the right song for Jamie’s routine.”

“Sounded like you found the right one. Either that, or you just wanted to play that stupid ‘867-5309’ song over and over and over—”

“‘Jenny,’” he said, lifting a glass to the most famous—albeit the
only
—hit Tommy Tutone had ever recorded.

“Hey!” squeaked Drew’s date. “That’s how I got my name. My mom totally loved that song, and my dad was like, ‘Whatever,’ so that’s what they named me, even though the song had been out for like five years by the time I was born.“

Drew stared for a few beats, certain he couldn’t possibly have gotten so lucky. “Jenny?” he asked. “That’s your name? Jenny?”

She scowled at him. “What the hell did you think it was?”

“Jenny, of course,” he backpedaled. “I knew it was Jenny. I just…” Drew picked up his drink and downed it in one gulp.

Jenny was glaring at him in earnest, and Drew wondered if she planned to throw her neon-pink drink in his face. He probably deserved it. Maybe he should save her the trouble and just pour it over his head and call it a night.

Across the table, Violet cleared her throat. “Didn’t that song come out in 1982?” She shot Drew a look that said exactly what she thought of him dating a woman barely over the legal drinking age.

Jenny turned toward Violet, her drink-tossing plans momentarily forgotten. “Something like that, why?”

“No reason,” Violet said. “Actually, 1982 was the year a brutal cold snap swept in from Canada and plunged temperatures in the Midwest to all-time record lows. Even Portland recorded a record low temperature for September, which was forty-one degrees Fahrenheit. Statistically speaking, a meteorological event like that—”

Drew sat back in his seat and let Violet carry the conversation away to safer, albeit weirder, territory. He was grateful. He was relieved.

He was also ridiculously, stupidly certain he was falling for her.

Idiot.

After enduring two hours of drinks and conversation with Drew and his ditzy date, Violet almost forgot there was a business reason behind her outing with Chris Abbott.

As the elevator doors closed behind them and they began their descent from the thirtieth floor, Chris turned and touched her elbow. Violet looked up at him, wondering if he was going to kiss her. Had she eaten too much garlic in the bruschetta?

He smiled. “Would you like to go get coffee someplace quiet so we can go over the books?”

“The books,” Violet repeated, feeling her cheeks flush. The elevator doors opened and Violet stepped out onto the lower level, grateful she’d refrained from puckering up. “Of course. I think there’s a little place just a couple blocks this way.”

Chris fell into step beside her. “I wonder if they have matcha green tea? Moonbeam insists it’s quite high in antioxidants.”

“My mother, the fountain of health information.” She hoped she sounded affectionate rather than snarky. She couldn’t tell from the curious look Chris gave her.

“Are you and your mom very close?”

Violet shrugged. “As close as two people who live on opposite coasts can be.”

“But it must be such an amazing thing, sharing the sort of bond you do. I mean, the psychic thing—”

“Right, the psychic thing,” Violet said, trying not to sigh. “Isn’t it a little unusual, you being a doctor and all, believing in the supernatural? I mean, most science-minded people are sort of skeptical.”

Chris laughed, a warm, rich sound that made Violet crave a tall mocha. Good thing, since they’d just reached the coffee shop. Chris held the door open for her and followed her to the counter. Once they’d ordered and seated themselves in a quiet booth, Chris handed her a steaming mug and smiled across the table at her.

“To answer your question,” he said, “I’m not all that skeptical of the supernatural. I’ve witnessed it plenty of times.”

“You have?”

“Sure. The vegetative patient who opens her eyes when she hears her grandmother’s voice. The heart-attack victim two hundred miles from a hospital who survives because a mysterious stranger appears and performs CPR. The guy everyone said would never walk again who suddenly stands up and takes a step when his wife calls his name.”

“Wow. I never thought of it that way.”

Chris shrugged. “Every doctor has a few stories to tell like that. We all choose to interpret them differently. Some attribute it to a higher power, or the supernatural, or even just dumb luck. Bottom line though, there’s something more than science at play.”

“Huh,” Violet said, leaning more toward the dumb-luck theory.

“And there’s you, of course.”

“Me?”

“And Moonbeam. Clairvoyance is something that’s always fascinated me.”

“So you believe in psychics,” Violet said, blowing on her mug.

He smiled at her, his eyes warm and pleasant. “I believe in you. I believe in your mom. She’s doing great, by the way. What a fighting spirit.”

Violet felt a funny swell of pride in her chest as she took a sip of her mocha. “Moonbeam certainly has her good qualities.”

Chris laughed and touched the back of her hand. “Let’s not talk about your mom. I can tell it makes you uncomfortable. Shall we go through some of the paperwork I brought?”

His fingers were warm against the back of her knuckles. Violet took a sip of mocha, thinking about how nice it felt to have his hand on hers. How safe and solid and
normal
.

She set her mug down and looked up at him. “Actually, let’s talk some more,” she said softly. “Get to know each other a bit. Do you mind?”

Chris squeezed her hand and smiled back. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

***

On the other side of town, Drew was trying to figure out how to extricate his date from his passenger seat.

“So it was great to see you again, Jenny,” he said brightly.

At least he knew her name now. He resisted the urge to tap out the song’s drumbeat on the steering wheel just to remind himself.

Jenny smiled up at him, the glow from her front porch light giving her face a weird orange hue. She looked at him from under her lashes. “Would you like to come in? I can open a bottle of wine, maybe show you what I learned in pole-dancing class last week.”

“Wow. That sounds really”—Drew tried to think of an acceptable adjective—“interesting.”

“Oh, it would be. Believe me.”

“Well, actually—”

Something in the car buzzed. Jenny looked up at him with wide, startled eyes. Then she smiled, slow and seductive. She trailed a finger up his arm.

“Drew,” she murmured. “That’s a nice surprise.”

“What?”

Something buzzed again and Jenny’s smile widened.

“The vibrating seat. Do you have a remote control for that?”

Drew stared at her, baffled. Something buzzed again. Drew let go of the steering wheel and slid his hand under Jenny’s butt.

“Wha… oh, my,
well
…” she squeaked.

Drew grabbed hold of the cell phone and pulled his hand back. He held up the phone for her to see. “It’s set to vibrate.”

She smiled. “Great idea. I do that with my phone all the time.”

“No, it’s not mine.”

It was Jenny’s turn to look confused. “You vibrated me with someone else’s cell phone?”

“No, it’s not… I didn’t… Never mind. Violet must have left this in the car last night.”

“Violet?” Jenny frowned. “The uptight woman at the restaurant? You’re dating her?”

“No, no… of course not. I just gave her a ride home last night. She must have dropped this on the seat.”

Jenny plucked the phone out of his hand and studied it. “Moons and stars? She doesn’t look like a moons-and-stars kind of girl.”

“She’s a little unpredictable,” Drew said, and tried to decide if that was a good or bad thing.

“Well, since we have this extra cell phone, and since it’s already set to vibrate, what do you say we go inside and—”

“I’m not using someone else’s cell phone as a sex toy,” Drew said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “Look, Jenny, let’s just call it a night. I’m tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

She rolled her eyes and handed him the phone back. “Fine. Call me next week?”

“Sure.”

Jenny leaned forward, her cleavage spilling out of the top of her blouse as she grabbed the back of his head and mashed her lips against his. Startled, Drew kissed her back, enjoying the pressure of her breasts against his chest. They weren’t real—he could tell silicone even through two layers of fabric—but what the hell. He briefly considered taking Jenny up on her offer. It’s not like he was a monk. It’s not like she was a nun.

It’s not like she’s Violet
, he thought.

Exactly. Violet’s the last thing you need.

Jenny leaned back, her breath a little ragged as she looked into his eyes. “Come on, Drew. Let’s go inside.”

***

Violet had only been home for fifteen minutes, and she’d spent most of it fighting with Moonbeam’s stereo. It wasn’t that the device was so technologically advanced. Quite the contrary, really. Moonbeam refused to purchase new electronics, so everything she owned was “rescued” from secondhand stores, complete with remote controls that may or may not correspond to any of the devices.

“Dammit,” Violet muttered, slamming down another useless remote.

She only wanted to unwind with a little music, maybe a nice glass of wine. She had changed into cozy silk pajama pants and a threadbare cami top, and had opened a good bottle of Chianti. She’d even managed to find a wineglass among her mother’s array of recycled glassware.

Starting up the stereo was another matter. She’d tried just pressing the power button right on the stereo, but no dice. She’d even checked to be sure it was plugged in. She was on the verge of filling the bathtub with water and tossing the damn thing in.

She took a sip of wine and picked up another remote control from the pile. She hit the power button and watched as the ceiling fan whirred to life. She clicked off the fan and grabbed another remote, muttering to herself as she clicked some more buttons.

“How many goddamn remotes does one person need?”

The hall lights flickered off and on, so Violet tossed the remote aside and picked up another. She took a sip of wine and hit the power button.

Ding-dong.

Violet frowned down at the remote. Why would Moonbeam have a remote control for her doorbell?

She started to hit the button again when a knock at the door startled her out of confusion. Setting down her wineglass, Violet trudged to the door with the remote still clutched in one hand. She peered through the peephole and felt something flutter in her belly.

“Drew?”

He waved at the peephole, clearly aware he was being watched. “Hey, Violet. Long time, no see.”

“What are you doing here?”

He held up something purple and glittery. “I brought your cell phone.”

Violet opened the door and felt her nipples contract from the cold and, admittedly, from having Drew in such close proximity. “I have my cell phone in my purse. I just used it a few minutes ago.”

“Well, this definitely isn’t mine,” he said, and held it out to her.

Violet studied it, admiring the silver moons and stars on a bright purple background. “Oh, right. That’s Butterfly’s phone.” Violet reached out and took it from him, ignoring the way her nerves jumped as his fingers brushed hers. “She asked me to hold it last night so she wouldn’t be tempted to drunk-dial her ex. I guess I forgot to give it back.”

“Makes sense. It didn’t look like something you’d have.”

“What does that mean?”

Drew shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, grinning at her. “Just that your phone is probably plain black with the factory ringtone.”

“Are you calling me a cliché?”

“In the most affectionate way possible.”

She stared him down, wanting to feel annoyed, but also wanting to feel his hands on her body.

She cleared her throat. “Speaking of clichés, did you have a nice time on your date with the infant whose name you can’t recall?”

Drew’s grin faded. “She’s fine. Thanks for the help with the name thing.”

“No problem.”

“I’m not usually such a jerk with women.”

“No?”

“Not always. Since the divorce, I guess I just—” He frowned down at the remote clutched in her hand. “You’re playing with a radio-controlled car?”

“What?”

“That’s what that remote control goes to. Some sort of radio-controlled vehicle.”

“Oh.” Violet looked down at it. “That’s why it didn’t work on the stereo.”

“That might explain it. Moonbeam has a remote-controlled car?”

“No, it’s a Humvee. Someone bought it for her last year as a joke after she sold her Prius and vowed to go totally green and eliminate automobiles from her life. She acted annoyed, but I’ve caught her playing with it a few times.”

Drew laughed. “That sounds like Moonbeam.”

Violet looked down at the remote again and sighed. “I suppose this is a sign I should just give up on the stereo and go get ready for bed.”

“Want help?”

Violet looked up at him, alarmed. Her pulse sped up, and she felt a warmth flooding her arms and legs. She wished it was indignation, but it felt a lot more like intrigue. Was Drew propositioning her?

His eyes widened a fraction, almost as if he were reading her thoughts. “Help with the stereo,” he said, swallowing hard. “Not getting ready for bed. I wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t…”

“I knew what you meant,” Violet lied.

“Right. So, the stereo? I’m happy to help. I play with sound systems all day long.”

Violet nodded and stepped aside. “Thank you. That would be great.”

Drew eyed the neat row of clogs and Birkenstocks at the door. “Should I take my shoes off?”

“If you don’t mind. Moonbeam is very particular about maintaining proper feng shui in the home environment. There’s a basket of slippers right there, if you want something to put on.”

Drew glanced down at an array of colorful raw silk and tie-dyed cotton. “Thanks, I’m fine in my socks.”

“Okay, so the stereo is this way.”

Violet led him past Moonbeam’s psychokinesis practice studio and through the kitchen. She stepped down into the sunken living room, conscious of the thick carpet under her bare toes, of Drew’s eyes on her back. She stopped in front of the stereo cabinet and pointed. “If I could just turn it on…”

“That’s Moonbeam’s stereo?” Drew asked, stepping up beside her. “Is she aware that technology has advanced beyond the eight-track?”

“It’s recycled.”

“It’s older than I am.”

“Are you going to help or are you going to mock?”

“I was kind of enjoying the mocking,” Drew admitted. “Tell me you at least have more advanced technology in your life.”

“I have an iPod, but I can’t exactly hook it up to this—”

“Sure you can.”

“What?”

Drew knelt down in front of the stereo. He looked down at the floor, momentarily distracted from the technology. “Hey, this carpet’s really nice.”

Violet shrugged. “It’s made from recycled pop bottles. What were you saying about my iPod?”

“Right. There’s an AV jack right here. You can have your iPod running through these speakers in no time.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Go get your iPod.”

Violet looked down at him, trying not to stare at his hands, trying harder to resist the urge to pounce on him. What was it about men who fixed things that was such as turn-on?

“Okay,” Violet said, taking a breath. “iPod.”

She padded out of the room, chastising herself a little for allowing a strange man into her mother’s house at this hour. At least she was perfectly sober, unlike last night. Less risk of blurting out “I’m a fake psychic” and forcing him to grope her.

As she began digging through her suitcase for her iPod, she thought of her visit with Chris Abbott. They’d had a nice time at the coffeehouse, talking about their lives and careers and childhoods.
Bonding.

Of course, her childhood had been a lot less normal than his. Violet envied him that. The son of a neurologist and a third-grade teacher, Chris had grown up in New Hampshire with an older brother and a younger sister. He played rugby in high school, studied biology in college, got perfect grades in med school, and enjoyed skiing and mountain biking in his spare time.