Between the Sheets

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2014 by Amy Dunn Caldwell.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8484-2

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8484-8

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8485-0

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8485-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/Raya Hristova

This story is dedicated to my three favorite music teachers, Mrs. Arizzi, Miss Sunde, and Mrs. Berry. I’ll forever be grateful for the ways you’ve influenced my life.

I’d like to thank my fabulous beta readers Amanda, Ruth, Rhay, and Debbie. You guys keep all my ducks in a row, for sure. I’d also like to thank Tara, Jess, and Julie at Crimson. As always, you guys are fantastic to work with! And finally, I’d like to thank my oh-so-patient husband and kids, who put up with my absentee status while I got this baby finished.

The guys on my softball team liked to talk a big story, but Krista and I were the ones who hung out the longest after our games. Thursday night at O’Brien’s meant happy hour until nine and Irish music until closing. Well before eight o’clock, the last of the ballplayers left us alone at a debris-covered table, with the band in the corner playing a reel.

“They bailed on us again,” Krista said, raising her voice to be heard over the pipes and fiddle. Friends since college, we’d gone through the same music ed program. Now I taught grade school kids while she had a job in a middle school. It gave her a hipper aura, which I often envied. Like right now, for instance.

I stacked empty pint glasses, and the hurricane candle on our rickety table flickered. “We’re the only ones who don’t have to go to work in the morning.”

“We do too, Maggie Jeanne.” She snorted like I’d insulted her dignity and raised her glass in toast. “To choir camp.”

“Geez, don’t call it choir camp.” I clinked my pint glass against hers with a laugh threaded with sarcasm. “And don’t call me Maggie Jeanne.”

“Oh, pardon me. To a successful, um, Western Washington Choral Directors Annual Retreat.”

I let my glass tip forward, coming close to pouring beer in her lap. “Whatever.”

“I could have said … what would it be? W-W-C-D-A-R? DubDub-Cee-Dar?”

“Give it up.” I shrugged, rocking my head in time with the drum’s bass beat. I knew the musicians in this band and planned to join in if anyone started step-dancing. Or elbow my way on stage and grab the harp. Or take a turn on the bodhrán. “I can’t imagine anything happening this time that hasn’t happened the last two or three years.”

“What are you talking about?” Krista whipped out her phone, which may or may not have buzzed with a text message. She maintained a man-harem big enough to make my eyes cross.

“The weather is gorgeous and we’re going to be out of town for three nights.” She waved her empty glass at the crowd. “There is
no end
to the adventure we could have.”

“Adventure? With a bunch of music teachers?” I topped the empty nacho tray with used snack plates.

She half stood and leaned over the table to point in the direction of my belly. “Sit up straight and lift your shirt.”

“No way.” I clutched at my grubby softball jersey, the soft yellow hem smudged with red clay from a head-first dive into second base.

“You’ve got bricks under there, girlfriend. I’ve seen them.”

“So?”

“You’re too cute to be single. Half the men in this bar would do you right now.” She sat down with a smug grin, like she’d just nailed me with a killer argument.

“Yeah, the drunk ones,” I muttered into my beer. Whenever Krista played her “Maggie needs a man” rap, it blasted my ego—and my heart—like a storm of irritated bees.

She brushed off my rebuttal with a
whatever
eye roll.

“Anyway,” I said, hoping to put this conversation to bed, “all the guys at the retreat will all be married or gay or both.”

Those conversations didn’t usually end well.

The waitress slipped through the clot of grown up frat boys surrounding our table to see if we wanted another pitcher of beer. I said no. Krista said yes. I glared. She caved.

At least the debate saved me from Krista’s enthusiasm for a couple of minutes.

“You know what I love?” Krista started yapping as soon as the waitress left. “The feeling when a guy first slides himself in, you know?” She faked a shiver. “You might not remember this, but the first long thrust, when everything is tight and you have to work it in. It’s so … yum.”

Aw, now she’s playing the sexy card.
I blinked once. Twice. I fought to keep my eyes from widening and bit down on the tip of my tongue. Hard. She did the fake shiver thing again, her chin jittering on the inhale. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, coming very close to snorting beer out my nose.

“You are so full of shit.”

“And you
so
need to get laid.” Satisfied with making her point, Krista adjusted her purple-framed glasses and took a hit from her beer. Between the blocky frames and the hard edge of her bangs, she should have a pocket protector and a compass in her pocket instead of lipstick and an iPhone. Next to her edgy style, my wispy blond hair and twice-broken nose said sidekick. Jock. Tomboy.

“You’re not denying it,” she said, tapping the table with a blunt fingernail.

If we dug into all the reasons I preferred to limit guys to friendship, we’d have to take this little discussion to a therapist’s couch.

“Maggie …” She dragged out the word.

“What? You’re right. I need to get laid.” I raised my glass to nearly eye level as if inspecting the amber color for flaws. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Only if you mean it.”

I sipped some beer. Did I mean it this time? It had been a while. Five years, three months, and four days, actually.

Not that I’d been keeping track.

The band swung into a hornpipe, the bodhrán laying down an easy rhythm. A girl started step-dancing near the stage, and then another joined in. If I got up and danced, I could avoid the conversation entirely.

On the other hand, she was right. I needed to get laid.

Because five years, three months, and four days ago, I’d been wearing a white lace dress when my groom called to say he was on his way to Los Angeles.

Alone.

Krista made kissy-lips, which meant she had an idea. “The Blues Revivalists are playing in Langley on Sunday night. If the music teachers strike out, we could head over so you can try with the rock ’n’ rollers.”

I chewed a pinky nail, delaying my answer. Maybe I finally felt strong enough.

A tall man with shaggy brown hair sat down at the table next to ours. Krista tipped her nose in his direction and let her gaze drift significantly. I ignored her, studying the
Lord of the Rings
posters on the wall.

“Sometimes you gotta open yourself up a little, you know. Try something new to get what you want,” she said.

“Okay. Fine. I have a goal for the weekend.”

Krista clapped her hands like a little girl. “Goodie!”

A burble of giddiness broke free from somewhere deep. I was going to get laid. Didn’t know with whom, and didn’t know when, but I was going to do it.

The next morning, it took a little while to shake off the crusty edges from a night of beer and music. My first waking thought was,
Krista dared me to get laid and I said I’d do it
.
Alrighty, then
. I’d also volunteered to drive, because between the two of us, I was the one most likely to be starting from her own bed.

After a quick exchange of texts to confirm her location, Krista climbed into my CRV clutching a travel mug, her face wrapped in a pair of black Ray-Bans. She smelled like apples and sex, and though I couldn’t see her eyes, she could see me and had no qualms about sharing her opinion.

“Your shirt,” she said, flicking a finger in my direction. “It’s baggy.”

Something about her tone made me nervous. “It’s clean.”

“It’s boring. How are you going to get laid if you hide the goodies under a sack?”

Apparently she hadn’t forgotten my goal either. I pulled out onto Lake City Way, certain Krista’s present mood wasn’t going to help my hangover. At. All.

We drove in silence until Alderwood Mall came into sight. “Don’t miss the exit,” she said.

“We’ve got a ways to go to get to Mukilteo.”

She glared at me over top of her Ray-Bans. “We’re stopping at Target first. If you packed for comfort instead of cute, you’ll never get any action.” She used her bossy-teacher voice, oblivious to my eye-rolling and halfhearted harrumph.

Okay, quick decision. I could hold tight to my values and keep driving north, or I could concede defeat and let her help me choose an outfit that might get me laid. The throbbing in my head was somehow echoed by something further south, and I could see the big red logo from the freeway. “I do need some moisturizer.”

As soon as we hit Target, she dragged me toward the women’s clothing.

“The moisturizer’s over there,” I said, pointing in what I hoped was the right direction.

“We can go get some as soon as you try this on,” she shoved a cobalt blue sleeveless dress in my hands—“and this”—a paisley print peasant blouse in greens and lavender—“and this.”

The last item was stretchy and black and short enough to be a skirt, because as a dress it would let way too much Maggie hang out the back end. Krista turned to another rack, and just as quickly I hung up the black thing. And then I picked it up again. I was a tomboy, not an idiot. Maybe something short, black, and stretchy would change things for me.

The shopping frenzy didn’t take long. Despite the low odds of actually breaking my drought, I had a moment of maturity and wheeled our cart through the contraception aisle on our way to the checkout. After all, low was not the same as zero, and Lord knew any condoms I owned would be well past their shelf life. The
Cosmo
magazine Krista tossed in my basket, however, almost broke my resolve. Grown-ups didn’t read
Cosmo
. Right?

Of course, her rah-rah enthusiasm did a better job than coffee to clear my head.

We pulled onto the freeway toward the ferry dock at Mukilteo and she twisted in her seat, giving me a smile that would have flustered the Cheshire Cat.

“You’re wearing a dress. You’re seriously wearing a dress, and you look hot.”

I plucked at my dark green hoodie, a sure sign of embarrassment. It didn’t quite match my brand-new topaz flowered sun dress, but the late August morning was too cool for a halter top.

Krista lifted her sunglasses. “Blue is a good color with your eyes.” She leaned forward to peer at my feet. “Wish we had time to go for pedicures.”