We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (24 page)

“It doesn’t work like that,” Dalton said. “They do whatever they want. You can go ahead and sue them, but it’ll be after the fact. They’ll run the footage and photos of you, unless they get something juicier this week.”

“Mothershit,” Shayla swore as she ran up the stairs to her room then shut the door behind her.

Dalton took the bag of groceries from my hand and headed toward the back of the house. “The kitchen’s this way, I assume? I guess I’d better get to work, since these nice eggs you bought aren’t going to scramble themselves.”

I followed him back. “Did you happen to tell anyone about us?” I asked. “I only told Shayla, and my mother.”

“My private life is nobody’s business but mine.” He kissed me on the forehead, right above my eye. “And your business too, now.”

“That reporter woman, Brooke Summer, she asked if I was sleeping with you, and she acted like she knew something.”

“Probably just fishing. Does it matter? Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be linked with me?” He grabbed me suddenly and lifted me up to sit on the countertop. I hadn’t been picked up like that since I was a kid, and the good feeling it gave surprised me.

With his hands gripping me around my hips, he kissed me hard, pushing me back until my head tapped the upper cupboards.

I had been so fuming mad from that horrible woman, and all those people tramping on my lawn, not to mention stomping all over my geraniums. Now, though, alone with Dalton, my anger dissipated.

“I’m not embarrassed,” I said. “But aren’t you? Like, to be seen with me? I’m not exactly Hollywood starlet material.”

He kissed me again, sucking my lower lip into his mouth briefly, then offering me his tongue. He must have brushed his teeth, because he tasted minty.
Mmm, refreshing.
I wanted more.

Pulling away, he wiped a strand of my blond hair back behind my ear. “
Nobody
is Hollywood starlet material. Nobody. They’d have to build one from robot parts to get what they want. You do know there are entire industries devoted to the illusion, from hair and makeup people to digital retouchers?”

“Do you think that reporter knows you’re in my house right this minute? Getting your package groped by me?” I reached down and made my statement true. He had nice balls that really filled out the package area.

He bounced his eyebrows. “They’ll never catch me.”

“So what if they do? They’d just take your picture and ask you stupid questions. Isn’t it good for you to get more publicity?”

“The way to get good publicity is to pretend you want your privacy.”

“Interesting.” I kept fondling his package through his jeans, enjoying guessing what was sausage and what was beans.

He winced, and the package in my hands grew in size.

“Careful what you start,” he said.

I pulled my hands away and put them behind my back. “Sorry! I have no control over my mouth, or my hands.”

“One of the many things I love about you.”

I snorted in surprise. He said the word
love
.

“Breakfast,” I said, eager to change the topic.

“Right.” He held one hand up, motioning for me to stay seated on the counter. He got the eggs out of the grocery bag and started hunting for a frying pan.

“Right here, sexy.” I parted my legs so he could access the cupboard beneath me. I was wearing the blue dress again, and pretty sure he’d get a view of my panties.

He crouched down to get the frying pan, but couldn’t resist taking a nibble on my bare calf. My freshly-fucked panty zone pulsed with heat. Oh, the way he touched me—like I was a fancy android-sex-bot and every square inch of me was a turn-on panel. Oh, my circuits! He licked and nibbled my calf and then my bare knee.

In a robotic voice, I said, “I am your sex-bot. How may I pleasure you?”

He stood up slowly, giving me a sly look. “Nobody’s ever asked me that before. Not in that exact way, at least.”

“I am the Peach Three Thousand. Your pleasure is my top priority.”

He reached into the cupboard behind my head for a bowl, pausing to drink in more kisses. I was so hot, my baby oven felt like an incinerator. Which was weird. But not entirely unpleasant.

His voice throaty and thick, Dalton growled near my ear, “I’m going to wear out your warranty.”

I would have reached down and tried to pull his clothes off right there in my kitchen, but he moved away and danced over to the stove. I sat and watched as he made breakfast for us, to eat for lunch. There’s no lunch quite like breakfast, when you missed the latter because you were making love and napping.

“C’mere, sex-bot,” he said once our meal was ready.

I sat across from him at the walnut pedestal table in the corner of our eat-in kitchen. The table was a “loaner” from my mother. She’d found it a few years earlier at a garage sale, covered in decades of layered paint and marked up from love and abuse. She’d painstakingly stripped off all the layers of paint in our garage, using a heat gun and finally a chemical stripper to get into the carved detailing. The wood was still scarred, its giant ruts filled with walnut-stained compound, but that was what she called “character.”

There are two kinds of people who love antique furniture. The first kind appreciate character in all its many flavors, meaning flaws and quirks in everything, from people to towns and objects. The second kind is those who think everything made today is crap. I’m glad my mother is the first.

As we ate our scrambled eggs and bread (I had three slices of toast while Dalton begrudgingly had one that he savored), we talked about antiques and furniture restoration. I wasn’t that surprised when Dalton told me he liked mid-century modern pieces with teak wood and clean lines. Considering the guy was staying in a silver bullet Airstream trailer, it made sense he couldn’t just like normal furniture from IKEA, or whatever the rich-person equivalent of IKEA is.*

*Now that I think about it, there probably is no rich-person equivalent of IKEA, no more than there’s a rich-person version of marble cheese, Pabst Blue Ribbon, or beans and wieners.

He talked some more about his house in LA, and as he did, there was an awkwardness in the air. He shifted back and forth between explaining his home to me like I would never see it myself, and then changing tone and saying things like, “But of course, you’ll see for yourself that the swimming pool isn’t garish at all. Make sure you bring your sunscreen, though, because your pale Washington skin is unaccustomed to so much sunshine.”

“I could tan if I wanted. Just six to eight weeks of blisters and peeling skin, and I’m as brown as my cousin, Shayla.”

He pointed to the ceiling, as she was still upstairs. “Your roommate’s also your cousin? Wow, I really am in a small town.”

“Don’t say it like that. We’re not
all
related.”

“Are you related to the Weston family?”

I gave him a sidelong look. How did he know about the Weston family? They’d lived in Beaverdale for generations, but their descendants never married anyone from the town. Spouses were always met elsewhere, then imported. They didn’t even have their weddings in Beaverdale, but you couldn’t fault them too much, because through their lumber mill they did employ a good portion of the town. They also sunk money back into the community, sponsoring local sports teams, and paying for improvements to the recreation center. I’d certainly enjoyed the new tennis courts countless times. Not playing tennis, but walking by and enjoying the fit young men sweating and chasing the yellow ball.

“Nobody’s related to the Westons except the Westons,” I said. “How do you know about them?”

“I have my ways. Do you know about their hot spring?”

“That’s a rural legend. Um… the small-town equivalent of an urban legend. The hot spring isn’t real.”

He looked down at his cleaned-off plate, his smile smug. “Interesting you believe that.”

“Doesn’t matter. Even if the hot spring is real, nobody’s allowed on the estate who isn’t family, which rules out all of town.”

“I hear the spring has magical restorative powers.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “I hear Old Man Weston has quite the shotgun collection, and doesn’t take kindly to people trespassing on his land.”

“Are you sure you’re not related? He sounds a lot like you, when reporters show up on your front porch.”

“Oh, fuck. You had to bring that up. Now I’m getting mad all over again. I should send them a bill for my plant pot. Do you think I could sue the crew for something?”

He laughed. “Let’s go skinny dipping in the Weston hot spring. I think it’s the perfect thing for us to do today.”

I jumped up with a start. “Poor Vern! Has he been waiting in the car this whole time?”

Dalton pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I told him to take the day off. Someone recommended the tennis courts, so I believe he’s starting there, taking a tennis lesson.”

“Careful about that,” I said, grinning. “He’s going to get too comfortable here in the Beav and you’ll find yourself without a butler.”

“We’ll see about that.” He nodded for me to follow along as he walked toward the front door. “Just me and you. Let’s have an adventure. Put on your adventure boots.”

“Sure, but they don’t go with this dress.” I ran up the stairs to my room and got changed into my Disco Duck T-shirt, plus sweatshirt layers in drab colors, plus a pair of dark, lightweight cords with some stretch. I didn’t own a pair of hiking boots, but I had some year-old, unused tennis shoes that could use some breaking in.

I popped my head into Shayla’s room and told her we were heading out.

She looked up from her computer and gave me a worried look. “Be careful.”

“How do you know what we’re doing?” I looked down at my outfit. “Is it that obvious I’m dressed for trespassing on the Weston estate?”

“Oh.” She scrunched her lips from side to side thoughtfully. “I just meant be careful in general. He’s so charming, just like his vampire character. But you wouldn’t trust Drake Cheshire with your heart.”

“He’s not Drake. That’s just a character, and Dalton’s not a character.”

More lip scrunching, plus wincing.

“Funny you should mention that,” Shayla said. “You say Dalton’s not a character, but what if he is? This whole super-playful personality thing he has going on… insisting on going to the wedding of a complete stranger, with a stranger. It’s fucked up.”

“Maybe that’s just how he is. Some people are impulsive. Fun. I hope he rubs off on me.”

“He’s going to fill your head with promises and leave you broken hearted.”

Now, I love Shayla like a sister. Or, based on the siblings I know,
better
than a sister. I knew she meant well with the warning, but her condescending tone was not helping her message get through.

I stepped into her room, pulled the door shut behind me, and whisper-yelled, “He’s going to fill my vagina with cock and leave me satisfied. You’re not the exciting one now. Get over it.”

Before she could retort, I quickly exited the room, shutting her door firmly behind me.

With a deep breath, I put a smile on my face to lift the weight in my chest, and I ran down to join Dalton on an adventure.

~

We drove toward the Weston Estate, which is on the opposite side of town as Dragonfly Lake.

With Dalton at the wheel of the sleek black car, and me beside him on the passenger side, we drove past the Burger Barn and Chloe’s Pie Shack, both of which seemed busy with the Saturday afternoon crowd. Through the large windows, I spotted a table full of boys in baseball uniforms, trying to get the attention of a table full of girls with their hair up in buns from the afternoon’s ballet classes.

Dalton had slowed down to a crawl to catch a good look as well, and said, “It’s like a Norman Rockwell painting in there.”

“You should buy a house in town if you like it here so much.”

He didn’t respond, just smiled and tapped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the road.

Now it was my turn to feel awkward about touching on that forbidden topic of The Future. When you’re dating someone, you need to have intercourse at least ten times before you start talking about The Future.

(That’s not one of Dottie’s rules, just one of my own. I probably got it from my mother’s trashy magazines that she hides under a stack of decorating and craft magazines in her impeccable, non-trashy living room.)

To date, I’d never talked about The Future with a man.

I’d made The Beast with Two Backs more than ten times, but never ten times consecutively with the same person. I made the mistake of trying to talk about Two Weeks From Now with a guy I’d had intercourse with three and a half times, and he’d claimed I was suffocating him. Ironically enough, he liked being suffocated, and had asked me to smother his face with my breasts. Because I am a lady, I refused.

Just kidding. I totally smothered him as requested, but the whole thing was weird and I think I did it wrong, because we didn’t work out a safe word or signal, and he kept begging me to stop, so I stopped, but then he got annoyed and said the begging was part of it. We tried again, but by this point I was about as excited as a school janitor after a cafeteria food fight. We finished the smothering, and I was on the bottom as he wiggled his wormy dick around, and the whole thing just felt so wormy that I awkwardly began to make small talk to cover up his weird grunting. I mentioned a family barbecue planned for the upcoming holiday weekend.

“You’re smothering me!” he cried as he spurted out his hand lotion in or near my leg crease.

I’d held out hope he would change his mind, and even bought a big package of tofu hot dogs just for him. The wieners had been more expensive than regular meat wieners, which seemed all kinds of wrong to me, so I’d thrown them in the freezer so as not to waste the money. A year later, I’d found no takers for the tofu hot dogs, and as I sat in the car next to sexy Dalton Deangelo, I thought about those hot dogs. I wasn’t going to repeat the mistake of buying fake meat products or trying to talk about The Future before it was time.

The landscape on either side of the road grew more lush and green.

We reached the turn-off for the Weston Estate, and Dalton turned onto the road, completely ignoring the multiple posted signs forbidding trespassing.