Knot a Liar (Knotted Up Book 1) (3 page)

‘Hey, Sandy. I’m running late, but I’ll be there.’

Good, Grace is usually late, so that gives me a little more time to handle dinner. The roast beef I put into the crockpot this morning before work spells yum, but that’s the only part of dinner that’s ready.

I step out of my bedroom, fully dressed, and head to the kitchen. I slip on the apron and slice the baguettes I bought on my way home. I brush garlic butter on them and stick them into the oven before setting the timer. Next I toss the salad and remove the red velvet cake I’d put in the oven.

I hear the door buzzing right as I put the cake on a platter. Right on time.

Alex arrives about ten minutes after Grace with the sangria and a bottle of wine. Grace always brings extras, just in case we ever run out.

We never do.

We then begin our weekly scheduled meeting of eating, drinking, complaining, drinking and staggering home.

“So what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Grace props on the floor to form a triangle with me and Alex while pulling the TV tray closer to start on the cake first.

Déjà vu sets in. As usual.

“Nothing much,” Alex gives a lazy one shoulder shrug. “Roger is pretending as if I don’t exist anywhere on this planet. You’re bedding John Public as community service and Sandra hasn’t started her book so that I can quit teaching and live off of her.”

Grace nods. “Okay, so the status quo remains the same. Is that really so bad? If Roger can’t figure out how awesome you are by now, Alex, it’s time to move on. And Sandra’s just waiting on inspiration to blow the world away like last time. Aren’t you, honey?” Grace grabs onto my arm. “Please say yes, this is the only glimmer of hope so far this week.”

With a dip of my head, I half turn to answer. “Lying solves nothing, Grace. Only creates problems.”

“Ugh. A girl can’t catch a break,” Grace slaps my mustard and pink area rug. Well, Mom’s mustard and pink area rug. “I think I’m getting fired this week. The theatre is taking too much of my time and Mrs Beck thinks there’s still joy in standing on your feet the entire day just to snap snotty faces. Being a photographer has lost all joy for me long ago.”

Alex and I smile, shaking our heads. “Grace, that’s been five weeks now that we’ve heard the same thing. Besides, she’s your aunt, so getting fired isn’t in your future. Nepotism and the quality of your work are like lifetime irrevocable guarantees.”

Grace moves around the cake crumbs on the plate and mumbles, “Wasn’t my aunt when I needed her to be one.” Grace sighs, stabs the crumbs and smiles a sad, empty smile. “Okay, before we go off in the world of depression, let’s take a drink.”

“Says every drunk ever.”

Alex ignore me, gulps her wine and refills all of our glasses. “To what?”

Mouth full of the last bit of a healthy bite of beef, Grace mumbles, “What else? Our friendship.”

“Isn’t it sad that we never have anything else to toast about, though?” I look between Alex and Grace.

“I know, huh? I just wish Roger would walk up to me one day, take me by the arms and press me into a wall as he says: ‘
Alex, I have adored you since my eyes fell on you. Be mine
.’ Is that such a horrible dream? That can’t be too great of an expectation.”

Grace grins. “No. I’ve the same dream about Chris Hemsworth all the time. I love him so much and if stalking weren't illegal, he'd find me in his bed daily, ready for action. After all we’re both actors. That’s a lot more I’ve got in common than most of his groupies.”

“Chris can't be your boyfriend.” I frown at Grace. “We’ve been in a dedicated, monogamous relationship in my head for years. Chris is mine!”

Alex nudges my arm and leans in with a smile. A very different expression to what she was wearing a minute ago. “I had a dream today with him as my new lover in his Thor outfit from the last movie. The one that leaves nothing much to the imagination. When a student woke me up mid dream, I almost cried.” Alex releases a laboured sigh and drops her swinging head. “And he was doing so well.”

Crossing her arms, Grace narrows her eyes at Alex. “Weren’t you just pining over Roger Saville? Although I’m still trying to work out your attraction to an almost fit, underpaid, smartass math teacher. That you can’t publicly date at the school! Can’t you stick to one dude?”

“What?” Alex shrugs. “A girl has to have options.”

“And those options include Roger? Roger? How stupid to think I trained you better.”

After a couple hours and an almost accident with Grace confusing the location of the toilet with the clothes hamper, we decide to abandon the meeting for good sense. We then pop aspirin as work is still an obligation come morning.

I relax when Alex and Grace part ways. Grace managed to keep her mouth shut about my plan on hiring someone to stand by me on Saturday, but that wasn’t accomplished without effort. Four times throughout the night I had to stare down Grace into submission. Each time she reluctantly swallowed the words searching for release.

I understand her hesitations as we rarely keep secrets in our friendship. The only secret that Grace kept was about five weeks after we met in college when she had a pregnancy scare. That and her repeated dalliances with ‘Sir Drink and Strip.’ But that’s mostly to keep Alex sane.

This time, however, I just want to stay clear of the verbal lashing I’m sure will come from Alex.

Delay is more accurate as once Alex finds out, that lecture becomes inevitable.

Alex needs not knowing about the plan. It will be quick and easy. Much like Patricia. Once Saturday is over, I’ll be okay. Grace can then blab to Alex all she wants. The goal will be accomplished by then. Alex can tell me tell me how immature I am after the fact. I don’t care. Much.

I can’t have Alex finding out what I’m plotting. She’ll seek ways to undermine and subvert my efforts, probably citing it an early mid-life crisis. My plan for the reunion can’t be hindered by any added uncertainties. I already have enough surfacing minutely. I can’t handle hers and mine.

Besides, I have two dates tomorrow. That’s two more than I’ve had in seven months, or is it eight? I’ve lost track of the time I wasted on that bastard Peter. Been with that crap of a man for almost a year and spent two months going on almost nightly dates. Those then tapered off to three times weekly, then two, one, once in a while, then none.

That’s what I accepted from a relationship? I must represent the classic definition and fleshly embodiment of an idiot now that I look at it.

But it’s time for me to get back in the groove. Stella did. And I prefer that being very literal after Saturday.

After this fiasco is over, the search for a brand new horsey to ride must begin.

[3]

Three Portions of Luck?

I look up to the restaurant’s banner on Tuesday evening at 6:46 thinking it was best to be a few minutes early rather than late. Yet, I found myself loitering and not walking in like I intend. I walk over and take a seat on one the benches across the road from the restaurant to collect myself.

As the minutes tick by, I try to analyse the flickers inside my chest. They aren’t painful, more like a fluttering. Something perhaps akin to a heart attack in women if I remember the articles online right. With my hand resting over my heart, I close my eyes and try deep breathing. But the deeper I breathe, the faster my heart speeds. In that moment, I decide if it gets worse, I’m skipping dinner and heading for the hospital.

But it stops. The same moment I decide to skip dinner, the sensation ceases. Altogether and quite abrupt in its departure. I sit for a few minutes longer waiting for its to return but nothing comes.

In the meantime, I keep a lookout for Samuel. The descriptions are simple. A milk chocolate sexy warrior take-me-as-your-woman-now physique as Grace describes him. Or if that isn’t enough, I should look for the best dark brown skin that covers the perfect male specimen’s physique and an even prettier face. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the image of a young Clooney, younger Damon and Thor getting together to create him as Grace declares out of my head.

Even though I don’t care much for all that, I’m more than intrigued by the exhaustive and plentiful descriptions Grace provides of him. Funny enough, I still have no clue what to look for except a man about six feet, or six and half as she isn’t sure, with beautiful creamy, milk chocolate skin.

Problem is, in Bloxton, that describes about a third of its inhabitants. The other two-thirds are a perfect melting pot of every other ethnic group. So more than half of the town has between caramel and chocolate skin. In other words, Grace’s detailed descriptions gives me nothing useable.

Checking the phone, I notice it’s now 7:08 PM. Which means I’ve sat out here for over twenty minutes and was yet to see Samuel enter the restaurant. So either he’s even tardier than I am or he’s already inside.

I get up and straighten my dress and once again cross the road. Stopping by the hostess, I ask if Samuel turned up and she says no. Not in the mood for any games, I decide to give him ten minutes before I leave. Instead of sitting at a table like some lonely loser I got to the bar until the time expires. Pity, I’m looking forward to meeting the man who has Grace’s underwear on fire.

The good part is that I have Mike to fall back on if indeed I get stood up. Though I can’t see why he’d call, in the first place if he wouldn’t show. The best thing I can do is hope he’s held up in some way. But he has a phone. A functioning phone if the one he used last night is his. So why won’t he call? Checking the time again, only four minutes until I go home so I turn my thoughts to more pressing matters.

I try to define the logic behind what I’m doing. But then, if Patricia gets married without broadcasting it to the world, it can only mean one of two things: the guy is a troll or Tweedle Dum’s twin. Maybe both. I’m voting for both. Perhaps... what if when Alex said “what I heard” that includes some spectacular event? Some impromptu candle-lit thing on a beach in Montego Bay, where Tweedle Dee is so besotted with Patricia that he walks into walls? That ticks all her boxes. And if Patricia’s guy lights the sun each morning, I have to find one who decorates the skies at night.

While checking my phone for the final time at the bar, a voice intrudes on my space.

“Waiting for someone?”

I tilt my head and turn to the voice.

A figure raises up a glass with dark liquid swirling in ice to his lips and unfolds himself off the counter. “You keep checking your phone and looking around.”

It’s the same figure at the bar when I came in. He smiles and I swear the stars shine a little brighter in that moment. His eyes gleam as his lips glean whatever humour he finds in the atmosphere.

“I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

I sit staring at the stranger. The moment my eyes hold his gaze, I feel a jolt and I think that must mean one of two things. I discard the first idea because this isn’t some sappy romance movie where leads are overly dramatic. Nor is this some book written by a third-rate wanna-be writer thinking that a heart jolt in the presence of my fated one is a grand idea. I was once that third rate writer. But have long grown past that. Things like those never work. So that means one thing: I really do have a heart murmur.

“Not in the mood to talk to a stranger? I promise I’m not a serial killer. Just thought I’d make conversation with a pretty lady before I finally accepted that my date stood me up.”

I open my mouth to say something, but words desert me. The harder I try and the greater the effort in scrambling for words, the more I realise my brain has abandoned me. She’s sitting there fawning and conjuring up images of the ideal way this night could end. And I’m all for every one of those ideas. Except if she doesn’t flip the switch and get me talking, none of that is possible.

“I got you.” He stands, takes out his wallet and hands over his credit card to the bartender. “Drinks are on me. Goodnight.”

Again I try to get my mouth open to speak. To say something, anything to prove that I’m not mute, stupid, a complete idiot or diffident. But looking at him in the full light of the restaurant and not under the dimmed bar light, I imagine that this is how a milk chocolate sexy warrior take-me-as-your-woman-now physique looks. This is how the progeny of Clooney, Damon and Thor dipped in chocolate looks.

And even in the desertion of my higher functioning senses, I have no intentions of letting him escape. So scrambling to gather my wits and purse, I practically make a mad dash after him, almost knocking over a waiter in the process before I caught him on his way exiting the restaurant.

As he walks over to the hostess, my feet go after him. He says something to the hostess and she laughs– a coy laugh– responds and then scribbles something on paper. His phone number, I assume. But that doesn’t deter me.

Trying not to come off as a stalker down a dark alley, I decide to call out to him instead of keeping apace a few behind.

“Hi! Excuse me, um, hello.” And like the awkward high schooler I am, I give a short courteous nod.

He stops just under a street light with the glare giving him a halo and I think it’s quite appropriate. He turns and a timid smile tilts his lips. “Hello?”

“Hmmm?” My focus still lingering on the man.

“I said hello. Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes! Uh... you were talking earlier, before in the restaurant?”
Am I asking? And what’s up with me pointing like a three-year-old?

“Yeah, I remember. But I also remember you didn’t seem to be in the talking mood.”

“Yeah, about that. I was... um... thinking?”
Stop asking questions, dummy.
“I was preoccupied... thinking. I got stood up too?”
Nice recovery, Jodi.

He doesn’t say anything for a full minute. In that time I stand fiddling with the straps around my pink polka dotted wrap dress, hoping he doesn’t realise I was making a complete idiot out of myself.

While he decided whether to speak to me,  I got a more accurate study of his physique. He was defined, not sculpted. His upper body, undisguised even through a well–pressed opened black blazer and a crisp button down shirt, reminded me of a carved sculpture. The light blue shirt was snug, without much spare room. It didn’t look tight just well fitted.

His face appeared tense, stretched void of whatever emotions that had to be fizzing underneath that perfect skin. A change in expression disclosed mischief peeking through as he took a closer step. A fun, relaxed demeanour came closer and I wondered if I became a good little girl for Santa, if I could get him.

Afraid of scaring him away, my face camouflaged into a cool, detached mask. Pretending to be a normal, everyday woman shouldn’t be hard. Since I was one.

I couldn’t believe I was gawking at a man like an alcoholic lusting after beer in a Kool Aid convention. By my behaviour you’d think that he was the last living male specimen.

Head tilted, he smiled and nodded. My nerves became as relaxed as the strings of a well-adjusted bow.

“Hi, I’m Samuel. Or Sam. I prefer Sam actually. Makes me sound less old.”

Wait, what? Sam? My Sam? The Samuel that I should’ve met in the restaurant Samuel?

“Samuel McGowan?”

“Yeah? Are you, Jodi?”

“Yes! Hi, Jodi. I’m Jodi Pennington.”

“And here I thought you pulled some kind of game on me.”

“I thought so too!”

“But why weren’t you sitting at the table?”

“I didn’t want to come off as a lonely loser, so I chose to wait at the bar. But if you were inside all along, why did the hostess say you weren’t?”

“Hostess? No. It was a he at the front when I came in. But still, I left the message that I’d be waiting at the bar. Weird, but for the same reason as you.”

“Two of a kind, huh?”

“I can’t believe I almost missed you. Grace is horrible at describing people. I just never realised how bad she was until tonight. You look nothing like a hot chocolate mama I want to lick all night long. You’re more like a,” he paused to tap his chin the snapped his fingers.” You’re a classic milk chocolate creamy goddess. Demure... but with a surprise underneath?”

He leaned in for a handshake and pulled me closer for a kiss to my right cheek. Sam’s hands were masculine yet Graceful; oversized, a bit rough but manicured to entertain the idea of them trailing my body.

For some reason, though, I moved even closer and hugged Sam tight while trying not to gasp. His back felt like a natural wonder. The muscles overlying his shoulder blades were a mountain range I could climb with just the pads of my fingers, only to dip again into the valley of vertebrae.

Either surprise or fear caused his back to stiffen. The solid mass was broad enough to carry his troubles and a maybe room for the world’s as well. Sam’s body felt ridiculous as I moved closer than needed. No one person should’ve felt like that. It made no sense. Somewhere out there a guy must be feeling robbed. My hands moved with singleness of mind as they roamed and lingered over his chest as he pulled out of the hug.

I was tempted to strip him and check him out in entirety just to make sure I wasn’t duped. And more importantly, he wasn’t wearing one of those Halloween muscle suits. His body belonged in a museum at least. Because he was a work of art.

A grin marched unto his face and twisted his thick, luscious lips into a blood thickening smile. My heart stopped. I swore. There was no blood passing through. I could be clinically dead but all I thought of was that smile. Then again, there couldn’t be a better way to die than with that piece of perfection as my last memory.

With every breath, his scent invaded me, making my body hum in appreciation and thanksgiving. Hmmm.

And he was supposed to be gay? Why? All the pretty ones were. I was never any good at picking up men, but this was a new low for me. At least the previous candidates liked the right body parts on me. He’s probably thinking what nice I eyes I had or how cute my outfit was. For me, on the other hand, none of that were important. I was more focused on other specific parts of his package.

“So, do you want to head back? I don’t think we could still get a table, but we can eat at the bar.”

“No, that’s alright. I’d settle for a pizza or burger at this point.”

“Ah, there’s Mexican about five, ten minutes away. Wanna go?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction.

“I could do that.”

After a couple minutes in silence, Sam said, “So, uh, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you looking for a boyfriend? You certainly don’t give off any ‘desperate loner’ vibes.”

“I actually have a reunion coming up. High school reunion that I’d rather not attend by myself.”

“Why?”

“Long story short: rival got married, can’t stand being annoyed her, best way to get rid of her is to show up with someone.”

“I get that but why not just get a real boyfriend and get it over with? Are you gay?”

“No, but she sort of blindsided me. I just found out a couple days ago.”