The Fixer Upper (22 page)

Their salads arrived, but Libby clearly had more impor
tant things than food on her mind. “Tell me about your wife,” she requested.

Shit. If she was going to put him on the couch, she’d damn well better lie down on that couch with him—and remove her jacket before she went horizontal. “What would you like to know?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound testy. He supposed this fell into the getting-to-know-you category, too, and he didn’t want her to think he resented her inquisitiveness or felt threatened by it. “She was an English major. She loved Emily Dickinson. She was a mediocre cook, she was tone deaf and she was incredibly sweet and generous. She was blond like Eric.” Certainly that ought to be enough. But he preempted Libby before she could tell him it wasn’t, and said, “Now tell me about your husband.”

“Oy.” She rolled her eyes, then dug into her salad. “Harry is not incredibly sweet and generous. Well, he has his generous moments,” she amended. “But sweet he’s not.”

Ned listened while she told him, without hesitation or hedging, about meeting Harry at Columbia—“just like you and your wife, except that in your case it was obviously a good match”—and found herself pregnant in the spring of her senior year. She told him they got married and, thanks to Harry’s law-school connections, they moved into the apartment she was now in the process of buying. Libby got a job as an assistant in the admissions department at Hudson, Reva was born, Harry finished law school and announced that he wanted a divorce. “I really can’t blame him,” she said, then shook her head and laughed. “Sure I can. He’s a schmuck. He wanted a high-power job that paid tons of money. Dirty diapers didn’t figure into his plans.”

“His loss,” Ned said simply. He’d done his share of diaper duty when Eric was a baby, and he hadn’t minded. He would have gladly changed diapers for more kids, but Deborah had had a miscarriage, and that had sent her into a de
pression for a while, and she refused to attempt pregnancy. Ned had accepted her decision.

He was only thirty-seven, though. Still young enough for another kid. So was Libby.

Whoa. Where had that thought come from?

“So, what do you think of the president?” he asked, deciding it was time to change the subject.

Libby caught his eye and smiled. She must have agreed with him that enough had been said about their marriages, because she said, “I think most politicians are putzes. What do you think?”

He wasn’t sure what a
putz
was, but he cheerfully concurred. “Definitely,” he said. “
Putzes
, one and all.”

L
ibby agreed to go back to his apartment, just for a few minutes. He wanted to show it to her, and she figured Eric’s presence would keep them out of trouble.

Not that she feared trouble was imminent. She could just as easily bring Ned to her apartment and stay out of trouble. They didn’t need their children to chaperone them. If she told Ned she didn’t want to sleep with him, he would respect that decision.

The problem was, she
did
want to sleep with him. She’d considered him a hunk from the first moment he’d stepped into her office—the star of the Hunks of Hudson calendar she and Tara had fantasized about—and the more she got to know him, the more aware of his irresistible hunkiness she became. But sex was a big deal. It meant a lot to her. If it meant a lot to him, making love would imply a commitment she wasn’t sure they were ready for. And if it didn’t mean a
lot to him, then he was an asshole and she shouldn’t be sleeping with him.

It was only ten-thirty, though, and her options weren’t limited to sleeping with him or saying good-night. So she walked with him back to his building on West 71st Street. He unlocked the glass front door and led her through the vestibule to the stairs, and they climbed. She was a little out of breath by the time she reached his floor. She ought to join a gym to get in shape. Maybe after she’d paid off her mortgage and her debt to Harry—she should only live so long—she’d be able to afford that.

Ned led her to one of the four doors in the hall and opened it. The quiet babble of a television reached their ears as they entered, and then the sound ended and a wiry girl with a pierced eyebrow entered the neat, square living room. “Hi, Mr. Donovan,” she said, although her gaze fixed on Libby with blatant curiosity.

“Any problems?” he asked as he dug his wallet out of his hip pocket.

“Nope. Eric went to bed about ten. I hope you don’t mind that I let him stay up that late.”

“That’s okay,” Ned said. “It’s a weekend.” He handed her a few bills. “Did he watch any TV?”

“He mostly just did computer stuff,” she said, cramming the money into a fabric purse and sliding its strap over her shoulder. “I can get home myself.”

“No, I’ll walk you.” He turned to Libby. “It’s just down the hall. I’ll be right back.”

She waited for them to leave, then surveyed the living room. The furniture seemed lived-in, the surfaces clean of dust. A faded Persian rug covered the hardwood floor, and a pile of magazines—
Newsweek, Computer World
and
Gotham—
stood in a neat stack on one side table. On a shelf a framed school photo of a stiff, freshly barbered Eric was
displayed, and also a photo of a younger Eric, maybe five or six, with his parents. Ned also looked younger in the photo, the laugh lines framing his eyes a little less defined, his hair marginally shorter. The woman in the photo was blond and delicate, with a tiny nose, blue eyes and cheekbones to die for. She was the exact opposite of Libby, at least in appearance. Probably in personality, too. Libby had a lot going for her, but she’d never really thought of herself as sweet. And her cheekbones left something to be desired.

She wondered if Ned still mourned for his wife. He had clearly loved the woman, but he didn’t act like someone in the agonizing grip of grief. He seemed so blessedly normal, grounded, content. Why the hell was he wasting his time on a divorced single mother about to hurl herself into a bottomless pit of debt?

He lusted after her fireplace, she recalled with a wry smile. And then there was his son’s dream of attending Hudson.

She firmly shoved that thought from her mind. She was having too much fun on this date, enjoying Ned’s company too much, to spoil the evening by worrying about what he might hope to get out of her.

He returned, whistling the way he’d whistled the other night while working on her fireplace. “Shh,” she cautioned him. “You’ll wake Eric.”

“Eric could sleep through a nuclear explosion,” Ned assured her. “Would you like a glass of wine? I’ve got white and red.”

She’d already had wine with dinner, as well as decaffeinated coffee and a flourless chocolate cake that Ned had forced her to order and she’d forced him to eat half of. She supposed another glass of wine wouldn’t kill her. “Okay. Thanks.”

He led her to a kitchen so tiny she understood why he
found her kitchen impressive. While she hovered in the doorway, since there really wasn’t space for both of them in the minuscule room, he removed a bottle from the refrigerator, uncorked it and filled two goblets. “I didn’t know you liked wine,” she said as he handed her one of the glasses.

“It’s not beer, but it’ll do in a pinch.” He tapped his glass to hers. “To Libby with the beautiful brown eyes.”

For some reason, his toast struck her as remarkably romantic. She must have regressed to her giddy I’m-on-a-date mentality.

“So, this is the kitchen,” he said, waving with a gesture far too grand for the room’s puny dimensions. “And this—” he backed her out of the doorway “—is the living room. I added that wall.” He escorted her to a wall of bookshelves. “I decided we needed a separate den.”

The renovation was so natural and well proportioned she would have assumed it was part of the original design. The den was nearly as small as his kitchen, barely big enough to contain the computer desk and the love seat he’d somehow squeezed into it.

“My masterpiece is Eric’s room,” he continued, leading her back through the living room to a small back hall.

“I don’t want you to wake him up.”

“He can sleep through a nuclear explosion,” Ned repeated as he nudged the door open. She peered into the gloomy room. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw an elevated bed that nearly doubled the available space. Tucked beneath the bed was a dresser, a desk and a bookcase, creating a clubhouse-like nook. A ladder at one end rose to the mattress, and she was able to make out a lumpy silhouette beneath the rumpled blanket. Heavy breathing just shy of a snore rose from the lump.

“It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “He must love it.”

“Yeah. He thinks he can hide things from me under the
bed.” Ned touched her arm, guiding her out of the room. He closed Eric’s door. “Bathroom,” he said, pointing to another door. “Linen closet.” And then the final door. “My room.”

Those two last words seemed to fill the snug space.
His room
. Was she supposed to say she wanted to see it? Had he built a loft bed for himself, too? If he had, Libby could dismiss any possibility of the evening ending on an X-rated note. No way was she going to climb a ladder for sex.

So why else would he want her to see his bedroom? Did he have a wall of bookcases he wished to show her? An interesting window treatment? A restored fireplace?

Damn it, she knew why he wanted her to see his bedroom. She just didn’t know what to do about it.

In the sudden silence, he bowed his head and touched his lips to hers.
Oh, God
, she thought,
I’m on a date with a hunk, and his bedroom is on the other side of that door.

And his son’s bedroom was on the other side of a door, too. “Ned, I don’t think…I mean, Eric—”

“Can sleep through a nuclear explosion,” he reminded her, sliding his free hand along the edge of her chin and into her hair. He kissed her again, a light, teasing kiss.
Sweet,
she thought. Ned was sweet. His kisses were sweet. The promise in them was so sweet they ought to be banned from weight-loss diets.

She already assumed Ned was destined to be a weight-gaining experience for her. He’d bullied her into ordering that slice of sinfully rich cake, hadn’t he? She’d been relieved that he’d eaten part of it—but now she tasted traces of chocolate on his lips, along with coffee and wine.

If only Reva weren’t at Kim’s, Libby would feel obliged to say good-night and go home so her daughter wouldn’t worry about where she was. Not that it was so late, and not that Reva would spend a full second worrying about Libby. Libby was the family worrier, Reva the worried-about. Yet
Libby hadn’t remembered to call Reva all evening. She’d been having too good a time with Ned.

She was a terrible mother. Her daughter’s first time out of the apartment after last week’s debacle, and Libby hadn’t even spared her a moment’s worry.

It was a bit late to start fretting about Reva now. It was also impossible. Ned was kissing the corner of her mouth, the rise of her cheek, her temple, his lips as light as a gentle rain on her face, and that rain washed away all thoughts of Reva.

He steered his lips back to hers and sighed happily when she opened for him. She kissed him eagerly, kissed him wantonly, kissed him the way she imagined women without daughters to fret over might kiss irresistible hunks.

Her fingers went numb around the wineglass she was gripping. If she dropped it, they’d wind up mopping spilled wine and broken crystal from the floor rather than kissing each other. Which might be a good idea—but kissing Ned seemed like a better one. She grazed the slightly rough surface of his chin, the edge of his jaw and then his mouth again. When his lips met hers, they were aggressive, his tongue sliding hard against hers. He dropped his hand from her hair to her waist and pulled her against him. She felt his erection and clutched her glass so tightly she came close to snapping the stem with her fingers.

“Ned,” she murmured when his mouth released her.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, a little breathless.

“Ned, it’s just…”

“Don’t say it’s Eric,” he warned her. “He can sleep—”

“Through a nuclear explosion. You’ve told me. But…you
are
a daddy. I’m a mommy.”

“How do you think we got that way?” he asked, his eyes bright with amusement. Gradually his smile faded. “This isn’t about the kids, Libby. It’s about you and me.”

“I know.”
You and me.
What an amazing phrase.

He touched his lips to hers. “I want you, Libby. I want to make love to you.”

“I noticed,” she said, then smiled nervously. “It’s been…awhile for me. Since the last time I…well…”

“Me, too,” he said, then grinned. “It’s kind of like riding a bike—once you’ve learned it, you don’t forget.”

She laughed. She imagined making love with Ned was not going to be anything like riding a bike—except maybe for winding up with tired thigh muscles.

“Libby…” He kissed her forehead. “I’m crazy about you. Nothing that happens tonight is going to change that. If you say no, I’ll still be crazy about you. But I really…” He brushed his lips against her brow again. “I really hope you’ll say yes.”

“Yes,” she said, because she couldn’t come up with any other response that made sense.

He opened the door to his bedroom. It was smaller than hers but bigger than Eric’s, just barely wide enough for a queen-size bed flanked by twin oak night tables. A tall oak bureau stood against one wall, and another faded Persian rug covered the floor. A narrow chair was wedged into one corner. The curtains were drawn. A framed photo of Eric dressed in a colorful ski parka and knitted cap and holding a pair of skis against a backdrop of a snowy slope stood on the bureau, and an abstract art photo of a skyscraper under construction—steel girders rising into the sky like a jungle gym on steroids—hung above the bed.

In all its modesty, it was a lovely room. It reminded her of Ned—straightforward, honest, nothing frilly or phony about it.

He took her wineglass and set it beside his on one of the night tables. Then he gathered her into his arms. “Take this jacket off,” he said. “I’ve been dying to see what’s underneath.”

Feeling a little shy, she removed the jacket. He sucked in
a breath. The top she had on was a long-sleeved T-shirt made of a white lace fabric that wasn’t really sheer, although she’d never have the nerve to wear it without a jacket or sweater. “Nothing shows,” she said as he stepped back to scrutinize her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That shirt is my favorite thing in your wardrobe.”

“You haven’t seen everything in my wardrobe.”

“I don’t have to. The shirt wins first prize.” He pulled off his own jacket and tossed it onto the chair, then eased her jacket from her hands and laid it neatly on top of his. The sight of their two jackets draped together like that, one lying on top of the other with the sleeves tangled, struck her as erotic.

He moved his hand down the front of his shirt, undoing the buttons.
Stay focused,
her mind ordered.
Forget about the jackets getting intimate on the chair. This is about you getting intimate with Ned.
And it was about Ned’s chest, which became exposed as his shirt fell open. She saw golden skin, rippling muscle, a small patch of honey-colored hair. Heat surged through her body and gathered in her womb, making her feel woozy. She sank onto the bed.

Ned accepted that as an invitation to kneel before her and remove her shoes. He slid his hands up her legs to her waist, popped open the button, eased down the zipper and stripped her slacks down her legs and off.

Okay,
she thought as her heart thudded.
Stay calm. It’s just like riding a bicycle.

In less than a minute, they were naked. She acknowledged that Ned naked was one of the wonders of the world. He didn’t resemble a buff model, some callow, cute pinup boy advertising Calvin Klein underwear on a poster in a bus stop shelter. He had a real body, a man’s body, taut and healthy but lived in. Hairy legs but no hair on his back or
on his knuckles, thank God. Broad, bony shoulders. An abdomen that a desk jockey would have to do a hundred sit-ups a day to accomplish, but that Ned probably obtained naturally, through physical labor.

Her abdomen was soft. It had endured a pregnancy and many years of her jockeying a desk. But Ned didn’t seem to object to her lack of buffness. He kissed and licked and touched her with a healthy, uncritical enthusiasm that would have amused her if she could squeeze amusement into her mood. She had no room in her soul for amusement, though. Only arousal, deep and fierce, threatening to burn right through her.

He caressed her breasts. He caressed her arms. He kissed her collarbone and the tips of her fingers. Most men she knew would have started with her breasts and stayed there, leaving them only when it was time to move down to her crotch. Not that she was an expert, but the few men she’d been with hadn’t considered her fingertips a particularly important part of her anatomy.