Commitment (15 page)

The pen fell to the desk then rolled to the floor. He pressed his lips together. His chest felt tight. His pants were even tighter. Planting his elbows on the edge of the desk, he let his head fall into his hands and pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

A baby. The woman wants to have a baby. There was nothing wrong with that. Lots of people want kids. Hell, he loved kids. His niece and nephews knew they had their Uncle Tom wrapped around their fingers. He wouldn’t want it any other way. Sean’s kids were the kids he’d never have.

His head jerked up. He blinked to clear the spots from his eyes. The yellow legal pad with its ink blot and single name mocked him. He lowered his left hand to the tablet, tearing the sheet from the perforations and crumpling it. His fingers worked the paper into a ball, squeezing it in his palm until it formed a tight knot. Raising his fist to his mouth, he brushed his knuckles against his lip, waiting for whatever it was his muddled mind was trying to sort to crystallize.

The gnawing pain was back. The seething ooze of jealousy pooled in his stomach began to simmer. He lowered his hand to the desk, the wad of crumpled paper rolling off his fingertips forgotten. Tom pressed his palm to the clean, lined pad of paper, splaying his fingers wide. Fine, dark hairs curled between the knuckles of his bare ring finger. The finger he vowed would never sport a band of gold.

The jealousy bubbled up inside of him, burning in his chest, scorching his throat. Marriage—and the whole archaic idea of binding your life to one person—was a farce. He knew that. He tasted the bitterness of the cold ash left behind when his father left. His mother’s disappointment became his oxygen. Extracting people from those binding ties with some semblance of dignity became his life’s work.

The dregs of his Irish-Italian-Catholic upbringing must be to blame for his blind assumptions. Until that moment, he truly thought Maggie had lost it. A decision fueled by some kind of delusional desperation brought on by the prospect of too many candles stuck in a cake. He sat up straight, rubbing his bare ring finger. Suddenly, the merit in her decision became clear.

His smile teetered on the brink of a smirk. He rocked back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Brilliant,” he whispered to the ceiling. He shook his head slowly, the smile widening into a grin. A laugh burbled from his throat, punctuating the compliment. He stretched his arms above his head, staring up at his unmarred hands. “Fucking brilliant. Brava, Maggie.”

****

This time, he was prepared. Tom strolled into the coffee house across from The Glass Slipper at exactly seven-thirty Thursday night. The air was perfumed with fresh-ground coffee. When he stepped to the counter, he picked up hints of cinnamon and sugar and the cloying scent of freshly fired marijuana.

He eyed the pierced and tattooed twenty-something who took his order. The guy moved with the easy grace of a trained dancer. A telltale waft of patchouli tickled his nostrils. Tom produced a ten in exchange for the large paper cup of caffeine and tamped down the surge of envy the guy’s mellow smile engendered.

Change in pocket and coffee in hand, he moved to a tiny table situated at the plate glass window and took up his vigil. Four or five scrubs-clad women made the circuit to the spa’s reception area in the fifteen minutes he’d been watching, but none of them were Maggie.

A young woman with Whoopi Goldberg dreads and café au
lait
skin sauntered into reception and leaned against the counter. Tom nearly dropped his coffee when Reefer Boy heaved a gusty sigh. He jumped and twisted in the chair, shooting the younger man a glare that bounced right off the kid’s pot-induced haze.

“Now, that’s what I’m
talkin
’ about,” Cannabis Coffee-guy murmured, nodding to the shop across the street.

Tom couldn’t help but smile his commiseration. “Oh yeah?”

The kid nodded. “Dude, her name is
Sharita
, but I’m
bettin
’ she can shake that ass like
Shakira
.”

Eying the young woman in question, Tom tried for a little objectivity but fell into the age-old habit of masculine objectification. “You’re probably right,” he concluded.

Patchouli Punk dropped a towel onto a perfectly clean table and began to wipe it down again, his gaze fixed on the lady in The Glass Slipper. “You
waitin
’ on your lady?”

The question jolted Tom from his bemused observation. “Oh, uh… Yeah. A friend, I mean. I’m waiting to talk to a friend who works over there.”

The Java Junkie straightened up and gave him a speculative once-over. “Well, three of them are married, and one is barely old enough to drink, so unless you’re stalking the redhead who owns the place, you must be
talkin
’ about
Sharita
,” he concluded with startling alacrity.

Taken aback, Tom laughed. “Um, the redhead.”

The Caffeine King’s smile came slow. His bloodshot eyes narrowed and he nodded his head approvingly. “Dude, excellent choice.”

“Uh…Thank you?”

“Seriously. Miss Maggie’s hot. Pretty too, for a lady her age. Not all stretched tight and pushed up like a cougar. Fresh and clean, like…grass or a princess or something…” The guy actually snapped his fingers, trying to drum up the right word.

“Snow White,” Tom mumbled.

“Dude! Exactly!” The kid guffawed and slapped the towel against his leg. “Snow White, but with red hair and a luscious ass. Nice tits too.” He turned his gaze to the window, and his tone grew wistful. “Old or not, if she even looked at me twice, I’d so hit that.”

Tom’s hand curled into a fist. He clamped down on his lip, trying to stave off the urge to clobber his new best buddy. Instead, he lifted his wrist, checked his watch, and rose. He snagged his cup and stalked to the door. “I’ll pass your offer along,” he called over the chime of the bell.

“
Wha
? Dude, I was just kidding….”

Scanning the traffic, he wove his way behind a passing cab and trotted across the street. He dumped the coffee cup in the trashcan he’d used as a crutch just days before and made a beeline for the door to the spa. A dazed-looking woman with greasy hair and beatific smile blew past him clutching a bottle of water. A quick side step saved his toes. He rushed into the salon then drew up short. The bravado that fueled him through a day of plotting, planning, and prepping his arguments wafted away on a eucalyptus-scented cloud.

The young receptionist’s eyebrows rose. His lips parted, but words escaped him. The pretty girl with the dreadlocks—
Sharita
, if his buddy Java Jones could be trusted—turned and gave him a slow once-over.

“May we help you?” she asked, an amused smile quirking her lush lips.

“Uh, Maggie… Is Maggie McCann in?”

“We don’t accept sales calls during business hours,” the receptionist chirped.

Tom glanced down, smoothing his hand over his tie as he gathered his scattered wits. “I’m not a salesman. I’m a friend of Maggie’s.”

Sharita
pushed away from the reception desk, smoothing her tunic top over her hips. “A friend of Maggie’s?”

He managed a nod, trying to hold his ground under her intense scrutiny. “Tom Sullivan.”

A bemused smile lifted her lips. She sashayed to the curtain that draped the entrance to the spa. “She just finished with her last client. I’ll let her know you’re here, friend of Maggie’s, Tom Sullivan.”

To keep from fidgeting, he tore his gaze from the swaying curtain and shoved his hands into his pockets. The jingling of loose change gave him away as he feigned fascination with the tastefully printed list of salon services.

“We do have quite a few male clients,” the receptionist volunteered.

He dropped the brochure like a hot coal. “No, uh…I just need to talk to Maggie.” Shuffling a few feet away from the desk, he turned his attention to the display of hair and skin care products lined on the glass shelves. A can of shave cream caught his eye. He snatched it from the shelf and scanned the back of the package.

“You’ll like that. It warms when you apply it.”

Maggie’s voice startled him. He jumped and thrust the can onto the shelf, knocking over a row of lotions. Bottles rolled from the display, falling at his feet. “Shit,” he hissed, dropping to a squat to gather the wayward bottles. He rose, cradling the plastic jugs of virulent blue girl goop in his palms. “I’ll pay for them.”

She chuckled and plucked one bottle from his hand, holding it up so he could read the label. “Do you suffer from razor burn and ingrown hairs around your bikini line?”

“No.”

“If you do, you really should use this,” she persisted. “It has aloe and a touch of
lidocaine
. Very soothing.”

“Ha. Ha.”

One by one, Maggie realigned the bottles on the shelf. “What are you doing here, Tom?” she asked in a low voice.

He matched her tone, leaning a little closer to her as he handed over the last of his victims. “I want to talk to you.”

“No point. My mind is made up.” She straightened the row of shave cream and stepped back from the display, gently pulling him out of the danger zone.

The girl behind the desk didn’t bother to pretend she wasn’t listening. The sexy hairdresser leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, holding the silky drape back with her hip. He dared a glance at Maggie’s impassive face and sighed.

“Fifteen minutes. Is that too much to ask?” Her emerald gaze skittered over the rows of product as if she’d find the answer there. “Maggie, please.”

Without glancing in his direction she nodded once and spun on her heel. But instead of leading him out to the stairs to her apartment, she dove into the depths of the spa, leaving him gaping in her wake.

****

The curtain swished between them when
Sharita
rushed after her. “Do you want me to hang around?”

Maggie shook her head. “No. You guys can go on. He’s harmless.” She looked up and met his gaze. The man clearly wasn’t a fan of being called harmless. She quirked an eyebrow in his direction and shrugged. “Give her your card so she’ll know who to sic the cops on if I turn up missing,” she instructed.

Tom blinked in surprise but didn’t move.
Sharita
held her hand out palm up, waggling her fingers. He huffed and flipped the tail of his suit coat and rooted for his wallet. “Make up your mind. Am I harmless or not?”

“I think you are, but
Shar’s
a lot more suspicious than I am,” Maggie answered.

Tom pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it over. “Want my cell number too?”

Sharita
laughed and tucked his card into her bra, adding a bawdy wink. “If Maggie wants me to have it, she’ll give it to me.” She sauntered past him, flashing a wicked smile. “Not that it matters. I don’t call men. Men call me.” At the curtain, she glanced over her shoulder. “Night,
Mags
. Call me if you need help hiding the body.”

The batik drape swished into place. Maggie and Tom locked eyes from opposite ends of the narrow hallway. A wry smile twitched his lips. “I’m not sure if she was trying to seduce me or scare me.”

Maggie wet her lips. “Probably both.”

She ducked into the small treatment room and switched on a dim lamp. Unlike her apartment, she kept her room neat as a pin. The treatment table was draped in fresh sheets and a thermal knit blanket. Her instruments were sterilized and lined up between two clean towels. The rolling stool she used was stowed at the head of the table. Her business cards were splayed in a perfect fan on the small table next to an overstuffed chair. Stacks of cotton squares stood ready and waiting on the rolling table against the wall.

Tom stepped through the doorway and she had to force herself to draw breath. His broad shoulders crowded the room. His scent flooded her nostrils. His midnight eyes locked on her, determination darkening the blue flame that leapt when their gazes met. She took an involuntary step back then forced herself to regroup. This was her territory. If he wanted to talk, he’d have to do it on her terms.

She patted the padded table. “Take your shirt off and hop up here.” Maggie fluttered about the room, switching machines on, re-lighting a candle, and reaching for a stack of towels.

“What?”

“You can leave your pants on, but lose the jacket and shirt and lay down on your back.”

He squinted at her. “Why?”

She snapped open a towel with a flick of her wrist. “You want to talk? Fine. But I can’t stop staring at your pores, so strip and hop up on the table.”