Rusty Nailed (24 page)

“There’s a new krav maga studio opening up down the street, and I’m thinking of taking it. As long as I can protect my hands,” Sophia remarked.

“Clive has finally figured out that the cat that’s running back and forth outside the window wall and anticipating his every move is his own reflection,” I said.

We chewed.

“I think I finally talked Ryan into taking ballroom dancing lessons for the wedding. We get to learn how to tango!”

“I heard from Professor Bernard Fitzsimmons; he and Polly just moved in together.”

“I think Jillian is lying to me about something.”

Forks clattered.

“Wait, what?” Mimi asked as Sophia looked at me in confusion.

“I can’t explain it. I just think something’s going on and she’s not telling me.” As soon as I said it out loud, I was even more convinced. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s up.”

They listened as I told them about everything that had been going on: the phone calls, the non–phone calls, the e-mails, everything. I sat back and waited for them to see it, to agree with me.

“You’re basing this all on the fact that she might have said Munich when she meant Vienna?” Sophia asked, shaking a sugar packet.

“No. I mean, partly, but—I don’t know, I just feel like something’s off,” I insisted, not understanding why no one else was seeing it too.

“She’s on her honeymoon. If I was riding that Benjamin train every night, you can be damn sure I’d be forgetful. Mmm, you think he likes it dirty? Do you think he likes it when—”

“Good Lord, Mimi!”

“Jesus Christ, woman!”

We stared at Mimi. To be fair, we’d all fantasized about it. But we never discussed it.

She had the decency to blush into her sausage circles.

“Anyway, no, it’s not just mixing up the names of the cities. She was supposed to be gone awhile, but this is almost getting ridiculous. And she hardly ever checks in anymore—”

Mimi laughed. “How could she check in, when she’s too busy checking out Benjamin in one of those tiny little European bathing suits? I bet they do it in—”

“Enough!” I said, slamming my hand down and making the silverware bounce. “I don’t have time for this; I’m trying to tell you that—forget it. You know what? I need to get to work,” I snapped, throwing a twenty down on the table and getting up.

“Are you really leaving?” Sophia asked as I put my coat on.

“Yes, I’m really leaving. I have to go receive an art installation for the hotel in Sausalito!”

I slammed out of the restaurant, my heart pounding. I was
so
mad, and I had gotten there
so
fast. Dammit.

I went back inside to where they were still sitting, wide-eyed. “Thank you very much for asking me to be a bridesmaid; that was really very sweet.” Then I left again.

I got into Jillian’s Mercedes and drove back across the bridge to wait for my art installation. Which never showed up.

Hey, art installation? Suck my dick.

•  •  •

T
hat night, I was frustrated beyond belief that I’d wasted an entire morning and the better part of the afternoon when my free time was at a premium. Waiting around for the artwork after repeated calls to the delivery service, which just kept telling me it was “in transit,” just further irritated my already foul mood. I felt frazzled, so I decided to tune out and get turned on. I wasn’t going to think about work anymore.

I found Simon in the kitchen, looking through Chinese take-out menus. He asked me if I wanted to just stay in tonight and pig out on pot stickers. It was exactly what I needed and I told him so.

I needed to relax. Everyone else got free time, I was going to get some too.

After pot sticking, we retreated to the hot tub. Simon turned on some Count Basie and we hurried down the chilly path. Sitting under a blanket of stars, I leaned back into the bubbly water with a glass of wine and tried to relax. I tried to let go of the unease I’d been feeling about Jillian, my stress about work, and the mini fight I’d had with Mimi and Sophia that morning.

I’d texted both of them with apologies that were met with an “Oh please, it’s fine” and “You’re an asshole but I love you anyway.”

“You seem quiet tonight,” Simon remarked, his strong arms curved behind him on the edge of the hot tub. A wet Wallbanger was something that can never be described. But I will try.

It was . . . Oh, hell, it was really good.

“I’m relaxing, can’t you tell?” I replied, making a great show of settling back and letting out a contented sigh.

“That’s good. You need to relax more, if you ask me.” He tilted
his face toward the sky, throwing his jaw, and his stubble, into stark relief against the cold night.

As I admired him, I noticed his jaw was not only strong, it was tense. “You okay?”

“Never better,” he replied as he breathed out heavily.

Had I been ignoring Simon? Surely not; how could anyone ignore someone this good looking? But just to be sure . . .

Feeling a spark below, I pushed across the water to his side, sitting on his lap. His hands wrapped around my waist, fingers tangling into the edges of my bikini bottom. “You remember the first time we hot tubbed, Wallbanger?”

“I do. You were quite randy,” he remembered, the hint of a smirk appearing.

“I really was. You were hot to trot as well, as I recall.” I rolled my eyes. And my hips. Which did not go unnoticed. “Until you put the brakes on my advances.”

“You will never know how hard that was.”

“Oh I
know
how hard that was.” I laughed as he thrust up against me. I turned around, sitting with my back to his chest, and looked out across the bay, the lights from the city sparkling on the water. From this vantage point, I could see the town below, its own light reflecting in the waves. It was so peaceful over here, I’d miss it when we moved back to the city full-time.

A moment of tension crept in, but I shook it away. I breathed deep, inhaling the scent of laurel and pine, the saltiness of the sea air that was always in the background. He pushed my hair off my shoulders, leaving a trail of warm wet kisses behind. Passion was one thing, but that quiet comfort of unhurried touching?

It was really good.

“This is nice.” I sighed, leaning back against him.

“I agree,” he murmured into my skin, his hands beginning to roam across my belly.

“I meant being out here in Sausalito.” I laughed, shivering as his mouth dipped into the hollow between my shoulder and ear.

“I know what you meant, and I agree,” he answered, nibbling me like an ear of corn. “I didn’t think I would, but I really like it over here. It’s homey.”

I squealed, his touch causing me to break out into gooseflesh. “Who you callin’ homey?” I giggled.

“Shush, I’m seducing you,” he instructed, raising my arm and kissing the length of it like a villain in an old-timey cartoon. “You’ll soon be putty in my hands; I’ll be able to have my wicked way with you.”

“Then by all means, continue.” I fell back against him, doing my putty imitation.

“Wow, you’re easy.”

“You’re just now figuring this out?” I laughed, bouncing on his lap, splashing water all around.

His response was dunking me under the water. I came up spitting and sputtering. While I was grumbling and wiping my face off, I felt him tugging at my bikini top.

I feigned a look of surprise. “Now look what you did.”

“I’m looking.” And then he was touching. And then he was doing other things to me. Wanton naked licking loving sucking biting thrusting things.

It was
really
good.

chapter sixteen

The free time continued into Sunday; I desperately needed a day off. I could have been at the Claremont. I should be approving curtains and rod placement; I should be eyeballing the marble tiles in the bathrooms and whether they should be hung vertically for a touch of whimsy; I should be approving a slab of reclaimed wood for an entryway table that was being custom designed; I should be . . . I should be . . . I should be playing hooky. So I did.

I slept in, I ate eggs sitting down instead of toast on the way out the door, and I was presently on an afternoon stroll with Simon, with absolutely no direction and nowhere to be. Hooky. Doing it.

We’d started off walking down the main drag, stopped to get coffee, and then turned down a hidden pathway through an old garden gate back up into the hills. We chatted as we walked, our hands linked. He was telling me about a call he’d had with Trevor from back east. They’d kept in touch after the reunion, and his wife had indeed sent me an autographed cookbook that had been signed by none other than Ina Garten herself.

She’d
touched
it. Touched the book that now lived on my nightstand. I wonder if her husband, Jeffrey, had touched it. Perhaps the day she’d been signing countless cookbooks, he’d stopped
by her office. Maybe as they’d chatted about rosemary bushes and lobster rolls (as you do), he’d patted her hand, weary from signing her own name. Maybe her hand (and now Jeffrey’s) was resting on the cookbook that became
my
cookbook! It could have happened.

We stopped at a corner, not quite sure where we were. I could see peekaboo Pacific here and there, but not enough to orient myself.

“Where’s the house?” I asked, looking back up to the hillside. No landmarks I recognized.

“We’re a few blocks away. I think I zigged when I should have zagged. No problem, it shouldn’t be too far,” he said, looking left, then right, then left again. “I think it’s this way,” he said. As we walked, my phone rang. I reached into my pocket and turned it off.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you do that in weeks,” he remarked, and I smiled ruefully.

“I’ll feel guilty Monday, but today I can’t think about anything work related. My head will literally burst.”

He nodded, squeezing my hand as we walked. “Let’s talk about what we should make for dinner tonight—I feel like cooking. How about we stop at that farmers’ market you’re so in love with and see if we can find something fun—”

Still continuing to walk, I didn’t realize he had stopped dead in his tracks. I pulled on his arm. “Hey. Come on, pokey. Hey, Simon.” I snapped my fingers to get his attention. He was staring at a house at the end of the street, partially hidden by trees and a jungle of weeds.

“Babe, look at that.”

“Look at what—that shack? Yeah, it looks pretty abandoned. Let’s head back. Farmers’ market? Dinner?” I answered, pulling on his hand again. He stood fast, peering through the debris.

“No,
look
at that house. Isn’t it interesting?”

“Interesting isn’t the word I would use—” But he pulled me toward the house. Which had a For Sale sign in the yard.

Uh . . . what?

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, dragging my feet as he led me up the walk. As we got closer, I saw that it was probably once a very nice house. Victorian, but not froufrou. Peeling paint gave it a melancholy look, but it had clean lines and looked to be decent sized. I glanced around at the other houses on the street; rows of beautifully maintained homes. How had this house deteriorated so?

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a voice called, and we turned to see an older woman peering over her newspaper from her front porch.

“Um, well,” I hedged, smiling at her.

“Well, it
used
to be pretty. Want to see the inside?” she asked.

“Oh no, we couldn’t—” I started, only to be interrupted by Simon. “Yes, we’d love to.”

“Babe, what are you doing?” I whispered through my teeth as the woman produced a set of keys from her pocket and threw them over to us. He caught them in midair, saying, “Thanks.”

“No trouble at all. The Realtor has only shown it a few times, but I still have a set of keys. Mrs. Shrewsbury—she’s the old owner—went to live with her daughter in Sacramento. She let the house get the best of her the last few years, but it’s got good bones,” she said, going back to her paper.

Good bones.
I mentally snorted. Someone’s been watching HGTV . . .

“Have you lost your mind?” I asked quietly as we made our way up the walk. Dodging clumps of grass and twigs, we headed up onto the porch.

“I don’t know. I just want to see the inside; don’t you?” he asked, and his eyes lit up with something I couldn’t pinpoint.

“Sure?” As he fiddled with the lock I glanced around, noting the orange trees, the honeysuckle vines, the shrub roses. This Mrs. Shrewsbury was definitely a gardener. Looking past the debris, I could see the white clapboard, the faded shutters flanking an
enormous picture window. A traditional two-story home, its porch curved away from the street and wrapped around toward the back.

“There we go,” Simon announced, the door swinging inward. We walked in, the afternoon light showing us an outdated interior. I gazed at the mauve wallpaper with a calico cat border. But as we moved farther into the house, the entire back wall opened up into a view of the bay.

“Oh,” I gasped, seeing the little lights of Sausalito just beginning to twinkle down below, and farther out, San Francisco. The porch wrapped all the way around the back, with two comfortable-looking lounge chairs positioned to take in the view. The grass needed mowing, the weeds needed weeding, but it was a killer porch.

I turned back toward Simon, who was leaning against the mantel of a stone fireplace flanked by bookshelves with leaded-glass doors. They were covered in shelf paper, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.

Thumping my feet along the pink wall-to-wall carpeting, I made a guess. “There’s hardwood under this Pepto rug, I bet you anything,” I said, my heart racing a little.

Whoa, slow down Heart. What the hell were we even doing in here?

I passed Simon on the way toward the kitchen, finding avocado green appliances but ample space. My mind began to work. Not you too, Brain—settle down!

“Interesting?” he asked, reaching out his hand to me.

“Interesting,” I allowed, letting him pull me toward the stairs. On the way we passed a formal dining room, complete with bay windows facing the . . . bay. The carpet on the stairs continued the pink, but was only a runner, exposing the hardwood underneath. As we made our way upstairs, golden sunlight broke through the stillness, another huge window hiding under an eave but making for great light. I held my breath as we reached the second floor,
peeking inside rooms and counting one, two, three bedrooms, a hallway bath with subway tile, original probably, and heading into what was the . . . master bedroom.