Goddess of Love (4 page)

“So he has a crappy memory. Lots of guys do. And women like you? What does that mean?”

Pea sighed, and didn't feel up to mentioning that Griffin's memory hadn't failed when she'd walked up. “Women like me—short, plain, forgettable. He belongs with a model or a goddess. He doesn't belong with me.”

“You know, that's your problem! You defeat yourself before you even start. I've told you before that all you need is a little self-confidence. You're perfectly fine looking.”

Perfectly fine looking
. Didn't that just sum it all up? There was sexy Stacy giving her what she really considered praise and encouragement, but the best she could come up with was perfectly fine looking. She studied Stacy—tall and blond with her great curves, fabulous boobs and those cheekbones that made her face look like someone should carve it out of marble. How could she possibly understand what it was to be so average that you went through life being invisible? She'd never walked into a room and not turned heads. Pea would bet the great raise she'd just got that gorgeous Griffin had already forgotten her. Men always did, but she would also bet that the firemen were discussing her hot blond neighbor all the way back to the station. And then someone might say something like: “Oh, yeah, that
other
girl was there, too.” Pea was the other girl. The forgettable girl.

“So will you do it?”

“Huh?” Pea said, realizing Stacy had been talking and she'd not heard anything she'd been saying.

Stacy sighed in exasperation. “I said, it's not even noon yet. You have plenty of time to go into that fabulous kitchen of yours and bake a big plate of your to-die-for brownies and deliver them to gorgeous Griffin at the station as a thank you.”

“Let me think about that.” Pea paused for half a blink. “No.”

“And why not?” Stacy didn't give her time to continue. “Because you have so many men beating down your door to go out with you tonight? Because you're in an incredible relationship with your dream man? Hmm? Which one is it?”

“You know I'm not dating anyone, and thanks for reminding me,” Pea said through her teeth, and then thought
for the zillionth time
.

“Okay, so is it because you don't find Griffin attractive?”

“As you very well know that's definitely not the case.”

“Then is it because you're hateful and rude and you don't believe in thanking the man who just saved your weird Scottie cat's life?”

“Chloe isn't weird and she wasn't about to die,” Pea said.

“She definitely could have broken something if she'd fallen out of that tree.”

“Stacy, it's stupid and pathetic to bake brownies as an excuse to see a man who has no interest in me.”

“He smiled at you and asked about your nickname,” Stacy countered.

“He was being polite.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. If you don't bake the brownies, you'll never know.”

Pea opened her mouth to say no. Again. But Stacy interrupted. Again.

“Take a chance, Pea. Just one small chance. The worst that can happen is that a bunch of overworked firemen will get a treat. On the other hand, maybe your brownies will work magic and you might actually live out one of those fantasies you usually only dream about….” Stacy waggled her brows at Pea.

“Fine!” Pea surprised herself by saying. “I don't have dance class till this afternoon. I'll bake the damn brownies and drop them off on my way to class.”

“Finally I'm victorious with the Pea-and-men issue! Okay, look, be sure you write a little thank you note, too. On the stationery that has your new work title and letterhead.”

“Huh?”

Stacy rolled her perfect eyes. “It serves two purposes. He'll know how amazingly successful you are, and he'll also know how to get in touch with you.”

“Great. Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” Pea called Chloe and started to retreat up the steps to her homey porch.

“You'll write the note?” Stacy called.

“I'll write the note.”

S
he never knew what to wear. How did most women do it? How did
they figure out how to put the right clothes with the right hair with the right shoes? (Shoes! That was a truly nightmarish subject! She could never seem to pick out shoes that didn't look like a cross between someone's grandma and someone's cutesy two-year-old daughter.) Pea pulled at her sweater (why did it look so shapeless? She did have boobs. Really!) and checked herself in the rearview mirror of her fabulous new car. Pea groaned. Her makeup looked wrong. She couldn't put her finger on exactly what was wrong about it, but it just wasn't…wasn't…wasn't anything. It wasn't cute or sophisticated or sexy. And why did the new eye shadow she'd just talked herself into buying yesterday suddenly look orangish instead of the lovely blushing peach color it had seemed to be in the store? Naturally the eye shadow now clashed horribly with her mauve lipstick, which was all over her teeth. Pea rubbed it off vigorously. Then she glanced at her hair. How could the sky be clear and there be zero humidity today in Oklahoma, but her hair was still capable of frizzing out like the puff ball on a dandelion? What had she been thinking when she left it down? With a sigh of resignation, she pulled the scrunchie out of her purse and wrapped it around her hair. Then she grabbed the plate of brownies and walked through the parking lot to the front door of the fire station.

It didn't open. Were they closed? It was Saturday, but still. Fire stations didn't close. Did they? They'd been at her house earlier that day. And fires happened twenty-four seven. No way could they actually be closed. Had she gone to the wrong door? She stood there, chewing her lip and looking around what she had assumed to be the front entrance to the old fashioned brick fire station. Maybe she should just leave the plate of brownies. They were wrapped in aluminum foil; they'd be fine. And she had written a quick thank you note (signed by Chloe), so they'd figure out who they were from, and probably wouldn't worry about being poisoned by them or anything. Did firemen worry about being poisoned by thank you food? Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

Pea chewed her lip some more.

This kind of thing was exactly what Stacy had talked to her about time and time again. Stacy wouldn't just stand out here, undecided and pathetic with zillions of questions zinging through her mind. Stacy would have gone to the right door or whatever. Who was she kidding? The firemen would have caught one glimpse of blond and beautiful through the obviously two-way glass that framed the door (oh, great—were they all in there watching
her
right then?) and there would have been a mass rush to get the door open for her before—

“Ma'am?” The door opened and a man she recognized as one of the guys who had carried the ladder to the tree looked out at her.

“Oh, hi. The door was locked.”

“Yes ma'am. It's always locked. You just have to ring the bell there on the side.”

“Oh,” Pea said, her face going hot as she saw the little sign over the doorbell that read
PLEASE RING FOR ENTRANCE
. “I brought Griffin these to thank him for getting my dog out of the tree,” she blurted out and lifted the plate.

“Hey, you're the lady with the tree-climbing Scottie!” He laughed.

“Yep. That's me.”

“Come on in. I'll get the captain.”

He held the door for her and then motioned for her to sit on a bench that rested against the little lobbylike foyer. Pea sat and tried not to be too obvious about gawking around the fire station. About ten feet or so in front of her there was an arched doorway that led to the garage area where the fire trucks were kept. She could see the smooth cement floor and the front bumper of the nearest truck. To her right there was a counter that wrapped around to form what looked like a little communications area, complete with multiple-line phone equipment and complex radio stuff. The man who was sitting there nodded briefly to her and then went back to his book, which Pea recognized as Christopher Moore's latest.

“I love Chris Moore's books,” she said conversationally.

He glanced over the top of the trade paperback and grunted.

“I think he's hilarious,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, this time without looking at her.

“
Bloodsucking Fiends
is my favorite, but I love
Lamb
, too,” Pea said. By now she knew the drill. She'd try to make polite conversation, and he would make noises like he was pretending to listen to her. Men did it all the time. She had a theory that men only attempted to listen to really beautiful women—and then they were mostly only attempting to listen because it might get them into the beauty's panties. With women who were average—like her—they didn't even pretend to attempt to listen.

“Yeah,” he said absently, proving her theory correct. Again.

Pea sighed and started to chew her lip again—and then stopped. She looked at the fireman. Actually he was only an averagely attractive guy himself. Kinda youngish, like in his late twenties—he was probably only a year or two younger than her. He had nondescript brownish hair and an ordinary face and body. Of course, he had on the fireman's casual uniform—navy blue T-shirt, with the Tulsa Fire Department's logo in gold, and navy blue pants—so that probably made him more interesting looking. But still. The guy was
average
. Like Pea. And suddenly, just like that, it started to piss her off that he thought it was okay to ignore her. That everyone thought it was okay to ignore her.

“Uh huh, Chris Moore is a great storyteller,” Pea said. “Whenever I read his books I laugh so hard that I give birth to a whole litter of those flying monkeys from
The Wizard of Oz
,” she said sweetly.

“Yeah,” the guy said.

“Wonder if there's something you can take to cure that.”

Pea made a strangled yelping noise that probably made her sound like Chloe. Her gaze shot from the clueless average guy to the doorway of the garage, where Griffin was standing, arms folded, grinning at her.

“Cure what?” the guy behind the counter said.

“Nothin', Honeyman. Don't worry about it,” Griffin said, still smiling at Pea.

Pea swallowed and wished frantically that her face didn't feel so hot. Again. It meant that she was blushing a bright, painful pink color that there was no way to pass off as attractively flushed cheeks.

“I was just, um…” Pea trailed off. What could she say she had just been doing?
I was just being a total smartass because your coworker was rudely ignoring me
. No, that wouldn't do. She raised the plate of brownies like she was making an offering at the shrine of the Forget-the-Stupid-Thing-I-Just-Said God. “I brought you some brownies. As a thank you.”

Griffin wrinkled his brow and Pea realized he didn't remember who she was. A-freaking-gin! It had been three and a half hours since he'd rescued Chloe from the tree, and he'd forgotten her. For the fourth time. Great. How totally and typically embarrassing. Pea stood up and quickly placed the plate on the counter—thinking that's what she should have done in the first place. Just left the damn plate there with the stupid note and gone on to dance class before—

“Oh, that's right,” Griffin said, recognition clearing the confusion from his expression. “You're my neighbor. Chloe the Scottie cat's mom.” He paused a beat and then chuckled before adding, “Pea.”

“Yeah, Chloe and I just wanted to say thanks.” Pea pointed at the aluminum foil–wrapped plate, trying not to blush again, this time in pleasure, because he'd finally remembered her. “We baked brownies. Well, actually, I baked them. She and Max begged for a taste.”

“Max, the real cat in the family?”

Pea felt another ridiculous rush of pleasure that he'd remembered. “That's right. The one who's as good a climber downer as a climber upper.” Oh, no. Had she really just said climber downer again? She smiled gaily, hoping somehow he wouldn't notice that she was the biggest dork in the known universe. “You won't ever have to rescue Max.”

“That wouldn't be a problem, ma'am,” he said, pretending to tip an imaginary hat. “It's all part of the job.”

“We just wanted to say thanks,” Pea said, feeling herself getting caught in the blue depths of his eyes.

“Thank you, that was nice of you, and we always appreciate food around here,” Griffin said.

“Thank you,” Pea said, and then realized she had thanked him several times and had now begun thanking him for thanking her for thanking him. Well, hell. “Okey-dokey then. I'll just leave the brownies. Don't worry about the plate. It's old. You can just throw it away when you're done. Or keep it. Or whatever.” Oh, God. She was babbling. “Well, thanks again. And you guys stay safe out there.” Pea gave Griffin a jaunty little salute and then bolted out the door.

Her limited edition Thunderbird was a cream-colored sanctuary, which she decided was a perfect analogy since she had about as much social couth as Quasimodo. Pea closed the door and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.

“I saluted him,” she said miserably. “I really shouldn't be allowed out in public without supervision.”

 

Dance class, which had been Pea's weekly escape from the annoyances and disappointments of the world for twenty-five of her almost thirty years, didn't work its magic that day. She felt sluggish and Madam Ringwater, her ancient but timelessly competent ballet instructor, had to reprimand her sharply for missing basic movements. Twice.

Pea couldn't stop thinking about Griffin.

She knew it was silly and childish and unrealistic, but she was smitten. Her year-long crush-from-a-distance had morphed into a full-blown close-encounter crush.

She was an idiot.

“Dorreth! Concentration,
merci
. I clearly asked for
battement tendu jeté
and not the
battement dégagé
you so sloppily performed.” Madam Ringwater stamped her practice stick against the smooth wood floor of the studio and spoke sharply in her thick French accent. “
Faites-l'encore!
Do it again!”

Pea gritted her teeth and began the delicate lift of her toe from the floor, trying to focus and move in time with the classical music.

Griffin had smiled at her and met her eyes. Twice. Stacy had even said she thought he was interested in her, and Stacy should know. She was happily married to Ken-doll looking Matt, and men still showed way too much interest in her.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he had been interested in her.

Then Pea remembered how Griffin hadn't even really recognized her, for the fourth time, when he'd first seen her at the fire station, and her stomach sank. No. He was just being nice and polite like a fireman should be. What was it he'd said?
It's all part of the job
.

But if she were gorgeous…or somehow memorable…maybe then his little almost-interest would change into real interest. And how was that supposed to happen? How was she supposed to become memorable?

Didn't she remember how disastrous it was to try to pretend to be something she wasn't? All she had to do was to think back to her freshman year in high school, and like it was yesterday instead of a decade or more ago, she remembered all too well that humiliation…embarrassment…failure….

No. The past was the past. She was a grown-assed woman now. She shouldn't let that childish stuff still mess with her. But she did.

With a huge effort, Pea pushed the memories from her mind and focused on her reflection in the wall-sized studio mirrors. She saw what she always saw. Plain, ordinary Pea. She had on her gray dance sweats, which were rolled down around her hips (which really weren't hips at all—she was too damn little to have those fabulous curvy, luscious hips she'd always envied in other women). Her
ballet IS the pointe
long-sleeved T-shirt was tied up just under her ribcage, exposing way more of her skin than Pea was normally comfortable showing. But this was dance class, and dance class was somehow on a different standard when it came to showing skin and such. She wished she had great boobs to fill out the top of the shirt, but she didn't. She had what Stacy's daughter had once called bumps. Little bumps. Her hair was, as usual, crazily escaping from scrunchie bondage, and brown tendrils of it were plastered against her flushed and sweaty face. She hated her hair. Truly hated it.

Okay, but at least she wasn't all fat and saggy and out of shape. Truthfully she'd probably never sag. Her internal editor whispered nastily that was because she didn't have anything to sag, but Pea forced herself to ignore the voice in her head that was always so negative. It didn't really matter why she wouldn't sag—it just mattered that she wouldn't. Right? She didn't give herself time to answer the question; instead she took her mind down a path she rarely ventured.

Maybe she did have something that could be worked into unique or memorable. Or at least maybe she could have something attractive about her, like Stacy kept saying. Maybe she just needed some direction so she could develop her self-confidence. She wasn't in high school anymore, and there were no hateful girls on the dance squad to humiliate her and call her names. She was a successful adult. Actually she had managed to attain self-confidence about several things: ballet, cooking, her job as program director of Tulsa Community College. She even had self-confidence about her ability to create a great home.