Vivian's List (Vol. 1) (8 page)

“Yep,” I said, popping the
p
sound. “But this will just be purely about sex. No emotions, okay?” I extended my hand.

She took my outstretched hand, closing her soft fingers over mine without breaking my gaze. “Deal.”

After we shook on it, there was a moment of awkward silence. “Can we,” she began tentatively. “Can we …” Her words petered out.

“Can we what?” I asked.

“Never mind.” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It was nothing.”

I sensed more behind the gesture than a casual dismissal.
“No really,” I pressed. “Tell me.”

When I raised my eyebrows in question, s
he kneaded her hands together. “When we … um, do this …” she hesitated, twisting her fingers. “Can we pretend that we’re really into each other?”

“Yes.”
My throat swelled. “Of course.”

“So when do we start?” The words came from her in a rus
h, too earnest, too eager, and I found myself smiling in spite of myself.

“Tonight.
” I edged closer and ran my knuckle along her cheek. “I’ll need to set the mood.”

“Mood.”
She looked at me with wide, inquiring eyes. “What mood?”

“You’ll see,
” I said, being deliberately evasive. “And while I get to work, I’ll need you out of the house for a few hours.”

She
wrinkled her nose. “Where should I go?”

“I don’t know.”
I shrugged. “Go see your friends, go do some shopping.”

“Shopping …” she mused
aloud. “But I can’t think of anything I really need at the moment.”

Even so, she stood and
I followed her down to the foyer. “How about Victoria’s Secret?” I placed a lingering hand on the small of her back. “Buy yourself something sexy.”

“Okay,
” she said mostly to herself. “I can do that.” When we neared the front door, she grabbed her purse and hoisted it over her shoulder. “By the way, what’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” I said without missing a beat.

Chapter Nine

Vivian

As I wrestled with the lock, I let out a heavy sigh. My brain hummed with nervous energy. I wanted to lose myself in Liam and forget all about Brody but a small semblance of rational thought remained. And for the briefest of seconds I considered putting an end to the absurdity of it all.

No.
A small voice in my head said. “No,” I said aloud to reinforce the notion. I needed to do this for me. I needed to get lost in the physical and forget the emotional.

When the lock finally connected, I turned the knob and stepped inside. 

The hardwood floor gave their familiar creak, and the old house embraced me, still smelling faintly of Mom and Dad.

Suddenly
I froze as I took in my surroundings. Did I just walk into the wrong house?

The open floor plan allowed me to see into
the living room and dining area, and m
y eyes widened as they swept across the open space, taking in the blood red roses on the dining table, the crystal wineglasses, the lighted candles that glimmered and glowed, sending a score of reflections across the room.

Jack Johnson’s “Sexy
Plexi” was
playing softly in the background, set in perfect harmony to the romantic and whimsical ambiance.

I
moved through the room and set my keys and purse on the coffee table, noting the overstuffed leather armchair sitting by the fireplace.

Hmm
, I thought.
Liam must have gone furniture shopping
.

I
found him in the kitchen, busying himself over the stove.

“Smells good.” I slipped
off my sandals and walked barefoot into the kitchen. “What’cha got cooking over there?”

“Lobster bisque,” he replied, not looking up from the pot he was stirring.
“That’s the starter. I’ve also got some ravioli cooking on the stove and the chicken tarragon is warming up in the oven.”

“Nice.” I
pursed my lips and gave a crisp nod. “I’m impressed.”

“So.” He eyed me quickly
. “Did you go shopping?”

I held up
the bright pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag for his inspection. “Mission accomplished.”

“Good
. Dinner should be ready in about thirty minutes,” he said brusquely.

“Okay.”
I started toward my bedroom and tossed a glance over my shoulder. “I’m gonna hop in the shower and um … put on these racy underthings.”

“You
do
that.” His gaze lingered on me and he sent me a lazy smile that did strange things to my equilibrium.

After
a quick shower, and a twenty-minute battle with a blow dryer and a straightening iron, I stood in front of the mirror in my Victoria’s Secret Dream Angels bra and matching lace thong.

The bra
was a veil of ruby red lace with a down-to-there plunge front and a delicate diamanté charm at the center.

I smoothed my hands over my hips and turned to the side, taking in my profile.

I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I looked devilishly sinful.

That and
I hadn’t counted on the arousing effect of wearing these lacy underthings.

A burning heat rose to my cheeks
and my nipples strained against the intricate lace cups.

Right.
I swallowed as twin bolts of panic and anticipation shot through me. Time to get dressed.

Decisions. Decisions.
I sighed as I stared into my closet. What should I wear?

I didn’t want to appear
like I was trying too hard so I slipped on a plain white cotton tee and paired it with a short denim skirt. I dressed slowly, trying my best to ignore the butterflies starting up in my stomach.

A
long glance in the full-length mirror, a quick flick of mascara and I was finally ready.

I pulled in a deep
, calming breath before striding out.

“Hey.” Liam sent me a
warm smile as I cut across the kitchen floor.

“Hey.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels. “Need any help?”

“Nope,” he said switching off the burner. “I’ve got it all under control.”

I stood behind him, giving him a wide berth as he carried a pot of boiling hot water to the sink. He tipped the pot and poured out the contents into a stainless steel colander.

“
Have a seat at the table,” he called over his shoulder.

I did as I was
instructed and Liam went about serving up dinner.

“Careful.” He
placed a bowl of lobster bisque in front of me. “It’s piping hot.”

“You’re spoiling me
here.” I smiled my delight. “Not that I’m complaining.”

He headed
back into the kitchen and emerged moments later with another steaming bowl of soup, a French baguette, and a bottle of wine.

After setting the food on the table, h
e poured wine into the two glasses and pushed one toward me. “You hungry?”

“Ravenous.
” I picked up my wineglass and took a sip, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly relaxing.

Liam
started slicing the French baguette. “It’s still warm,” he informed me. “Right out of the oven.”

“Nice.” I
sat back and admired the spread. “You’ve really gone out of your way.”

“
Go on,” he prompted. “You can start.”

I lifted
the spoon to my mouth and slowly sipped on the bisque. The flavors were really bright, refreshing, and truly ballsy.

“You like it
?” he asked as he sat down across from me.

“
It’s delicious.” It was something to savor indeed. I found myself enjoying the flavors even more as they melded together. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“
Cooking shows,” he said simply. “In between missions there were long periods of doing nothing, and I’d usually watch the Food Network.” He tore a chunk of bread and dunked it liberally into his bisque. “Someday I’d like to enroll at culinary school.”

I took another sip of wine, my
eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Lieutenant Liam Sykes wants to go to culinary school? Why?”

He shrugged.
“For me cooking is … relaxing. Therapeutic.”

My glass stopped halfway to my mouth
and I wondered for a moment if he suffered from PTSD. If he did, he surely hid it well. “Interesting,” I commented.

He
lifted his glass and took a long drink as he gazed unseeingly toward me. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I’m the broken-down soldier who’s a day away from suicide, PTSD, or who knows what kind of mental problems. Or you’re wondering if I’m the opposite: strong, nothing fazes me, completely unaffected by the war. It’s like I’m supposed to fit into one of these two extremes. Which one am I? Fit into one of these caricatures.”

“A
caricature?” I echoed. “No.” I shook my head fiercely. “That’s not what I think of you at all.”

At my words, emotion flickered in his
eyes. “Truthfully,” he went on, “sometimes I feel lost in the gray.”

I
gave the smallest nod of understanding but I didn’t quite know how else to respond.

Should I say, “So tell me,
Liam, why do you feel lost in the gray?”

I
didn’t think so, even though I truly wanted to know.

“Thank you for your service,” seemed sort of
inadequate, like telling someone to have a good day.

Flippant remarks were
obviously out.

In the end I simply decided to say nothing and a
new silence settled in.

“
I’m sorry, Viv.” Liam stared absently into his glass. “I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”

“
It’s okay.” I tacitly let it drop, and for a little while we ate in companionable silence.

After we’d finished the bisque, Liam cleared
the bowls and headed into the kitchen.

The
open pass-through area between the kitchen and the dining room allowed me to continue our conversation and watch Liam as he served up the main course: chicken tarragon and ravioli.

“I see you went furniture shopping.” I gestured my head in the general direction of
the living room. “Why’d you get that leather armchair for?”

“You’ll see,
” he said, giving me one of his maddening half smiles.

I started to speak
when I was interrupted by the sharp ringing of my cell phone.

“Aren’t you
gonna answer that?” Liam asked.

“No.”
I expelled a frustrated sigh. “It’s Brody. He keeps calling me. And he’s texted me like fifty times today.”

My phone beeped. “Make that fifty-one.”

And it beeped yet again. “Fifty-two times. Excuse me a sec.” I strode into the living room, retrieved my phone from my purse and switched it off.

“Have you talked to him?
” Liam inquired as I sat back down. “After last night?”

“Just once.
” I sighed, staring at my plate full of food. Liam had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this meal and the knowledge helped lift my spirits a little. “But I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.”

“What did he say this time?”
His voice held a combination of warmth and concern.

Unable to meet his gaze,
I picked up my fork and pushed the food around the plate in a circle. “He accused me of sleeping with you.” I inhaled sharply. “And he called me frigid again.” I paused and took a swig of wine to cover my distress. “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder … if I wasn’t so frigid in bed, he wouldn’t have needed to find it elsewhere.”

I heard Liam
exhale. “Don’t do that, Viv.”

As I fiddled with the stem of the wineglass,
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

“Doubt yourself. Blame yourself. Don’t do that.”
His voice was nothing but kind. There was no hint of condescension in it.

I tried to speak, failed, so I drank some more wine.

“Listen.” Liam set his fork on the table. “If a girl is frigid, it is usually because the way she is treated outside of bed has left her frigid.”

“
But there
has
to be something wrong with me. I mean, what twenty-two-year-old has never experienced the Big O? You know, I can be a little uptight, even high-strung at times. So really, it could just be
me
.”

“It’s not you,” Liam said firmly. “
Don’t let Brody mess with your head. Do you know that about ten percent of women have never experienced an orgasm? And most women aren’t able to climax with intercourse alone. They need other sorts of …” He paused, seemingly to search for the word. “Stimulation.”

The word made a blush rise
on my neck and throat.

Liam
leaned back in his chair and regarded me steadily. “And from what it sounds like, Brody is a fucking moron. No guy should ever expect you to function with the predictability of a machine. And if he does, then he should just have sex with his car.”

I
smothered a giggle. “So I take it you’ve had plenty of experience helping girls reach the pinnacle of sexual passion.”

His lips turned upward in a semi-grin
. “Not really.”

“C’mon,” I teased
, swirling the wine in my glass. “What about all those Jessicas you dated? Jessica Neal, Jessica Cena, Jessica Long, Jessica Alba?”

He
let out a dismissive laugh. “I never dated Jessica Alba.”

As I forked a mouthful of ravioli, I
pointed out, “You had the biggest crush on her, though.”

He didn’t deny it.
“Me and every other guy I knew.”

I
arched an eyebrow. “So did you love all the other Jessicas?”

He shrugged.
“Truthfully, I don’t think I even knew what love was back then.”

I eyed him curiously
. “Do you know now?”

He shoveled in a bite, chewed then
swallowed. “I think I may have some idea.”

I leaned back in my chair and ran a finger
tip around the rim of my wineglass. “What do you think love should feel like? Fireworks? Crazy intense, mad passion?”

The look he gave me was long and considering
. He lifted his glass and took a swig before answering. “I think a slow burning candle produces more warmth and light than a brief explosion.”