Spiral of Bliss 02 Allure (30 page)

“Awkward as that was, it was sort of… fun,” I admitted, hitching my bra straps back up my shoulders. I leaned over the seat to find my blouse, jeans, and panties. “I can see the appeal.”

Dean stroked his hand down my back.

“Me too,” he agreed, rubbing his palm in circles over my ass.

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “How often have you done this?”

“I don’t know.” He was gazing at my naked behind. “A few times.”

“Enough to know the best position.”

I must have sounded irritated because he stopped stroking me. I grabbed my panties and maneuvered around to get them on, then tried to turn my jeans right-side out.

“What’s going on?” Dean tugged his jeans over his hips. “You’re mad that I did this with a couple other girls?”

“No, I’m not mad.” I shook my head. “I’m not
mad
.”

“You look mad. You sound mad.”

“I’m annoyed. Not mad.”

“Why are you annoyed?”

My thoughts spun and whirled. I yanked my jeans straight and thrust my legs into them. I struggled to get the denim over my damp skin. My head bumped against the ceiling, which amplified my irritation.

“Liv.”

“Well, hell, Dean.” The realization hit me with a clarity I hadn’t expected. I flopped back against the seat, breathing hard. “Why is it you get to be my first for so many things and I’m, like, number
twenty
for you?”

Amusement glinted in his eyes. “I promise you, Liv. I have not had sex with twenty girls in the backseat of a car.”

“It’s not just the car.”

“I know.”

I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my blouse. My heart felt tight. I started to climb back over the console into the front seat, but Dean grabbed my hips and pulled me back so that I tumbled onto his lap.

I stiffened and tried to pull away. I wasn’t quite clear on all the reasons I was so irritated just then, but I did know one thing. I wanted to be everything to him. The way he was for me.

Dean tightened his arms around me from behind, preventing my escape. Not that I could have gone anywhere except the front seat or out onto the dark, deserted road where I had little doubt aliens and serial killers lurked.

“Hey.” Dean’s warm breath stirred my hair and brushed against my ear. “You think you’re one of many?”

“Based on what you’ve told me, I don’t see any evidence to the contrary.” I twisted around to look at him.

It had grown darker during our little rendezvous, but the moon was out and I could see the planes and angles of his face, the shape of his mouth, the heat of his eyes. His brown hair was tousled, and a bead of sweat still trickled from his temple.

Yeah, I got it. I understood why women wanted him. I knew it’d be unrealistic, not to mention downright stupid, to expect that a man of his appeal would reach the age of thirty-three without having had his share of willing women.

I got it. But I didn’t have to like it.

“You don’t think you’re the first for me?” he asked.

“I know I’m not.” I plucked at a loose thread on my blouse.

“Not sexually, no, but you’re the first in other ways.”

“I am?”

“You are.” He grasped the back of my neck and pulled me to him for a long kiss filled with affection and tenderness.

Then he took my hand and placed it on his chest. Beneath the cotton of his T-shirt, his heart beat rapidly against my palm.

“Feel that?” he asked. “You’re the first woman who’s ever made my heart beat like that. You’re the first woman I’ve ever wanted to spend all my time with, the only one who could convince me to start a new life. You’re the first woman who’s ever made me genuinely happy. Who makes me glad to be alive, who makes me burn hotter than fire. You’re the first woman who’s ever made me afraid.”

I stared at him. “Afraid?”

“Afraid of how good this is. Afraid it won’t last.” He pushed a lock of hair off my forehead. “Scared to death of losing you.”

“Oh.” I was speechless. I swallowed hard. “You’re… you don’t have to be scared of losing me.”

Something flickered in his expression that I didn’t understand, couldn’t decipher.

“I don’t?” he said.

“No.” I shook my head.
“No.”

“Good.” He pulled me closer. “Because you’re the first woman I’ve never wanted to let go.”

February 4

Pink and red hearts, smiling teddy bears, and cheerful cupids plaster the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The sidewalks are edged with dirty piles of snow, the roads crusted with slush. Skate-blade grooves scar the frozen surface of the lake, and skiers’ ruts twist through the mountain trails.

I walk through downtown, unconsciously glancing at every young woman in the hopes that one of them will be Maggie Hamilton. In my imagination, we have a good, old-fashioned ninja fight where I take her down with a lot of violent kicks and spins.

I now understand the fierce protectiveness that Dean has always had for me. I know that white-hot burn of rage, the certainty that you would do anything,
anything
, to make things right. I hate the helpless feeling simmering at the edge of my anger, the fear that my husband could be hurt. I want to stand in front of him like some avenging angel, battling anyone who dares to try and destroy what he has worked so hard to build.

Though I knew I shouldn’t, this morning I looked up Maggie’s contact information in the student directory, then called her from one of the phones at the public library. Another girl answered and said that Maggie was staying with her parents for the spring semester.

I know I can’t track her down and demand answers, so instead I’ve looked up tons of information about sexual harassment cases, legal recourses, case precedents, how to deal with false charges. Dean’s lawyer put him in touch with another attorney who specializes in sexual harassment cases. At least we can start a defense.

But it’s fucking scary. I found a report online that discussed how educators are particularly vulnerable to false charges from embittered students—and even if the professor is proven completely innocent, he can still face devastating, long-term repercussions. Professionally, emotionally, and financially.

That cannot happen to Dean.

No way. Not now. Not ever.

I stop outside The Happy Booker and wait for Kelsey, who is stalking toward the store with her hands shoved in her coat pockets and her shoulders hunched.

“When the pioneers established settlements, what made them think this was a good place?” she remarks as we go inside. “Especially when they discovered that winter is a bitch?”

“Have some hot chocolate.” From behind the front counter, Allie waves toward the hot-chocolate maker she set up by the cash register. “It’ll warm you up. Free sugar cookies too.”

“Huh.” Kelsey blinks at her, then approaches the little table. “I guess that sounds pretty good.”

Allie beams. I introduce them to each other and go behind the counter to check my upcoming hours on the schedule and program them into the calendar on my phone.

“You going to lunch?” Allie asks me.

“Kelsey’s taking me to Matilda’s Teapot,” I say, then amend it to, “Well, she’s tolerating Matilda’s Teapot because she knows I like it, and it’s closing soon.”

“And because, for whatever reason, your husband is snarling and growling at everyone these days,” Kelsey adds, “which leads me to believe you could use some strawberry scones and apricot tea.”

“What’s wrong with Professor Hottie?” Allie asks.

“He’s just stressed out with work,” I say, aware of Kelsey’s sharp gaze.

I wish I could confide in her and Allie, but Dean and I need to deal with this alone. Since we returned to Mirror Lake a few days ago, he’s been mostly quiet and grim-faced, either holed up in his office or working out at the gym. When we’re together, he hugs me often, asks how I feel, pulls me close to him at night in bed, but he is silently under siege.

Are you sure you’re okay, Dean? “Fine.”

We should meet with that counselor soon. “Okay.”

I scheduled my follow-up appointment with Dr. Nolan. “I’ll be there.”

“So I was thinking of us hosting a Willy Wonka party,” Allie tells me. “We can wrap golden tickets around small chocolate bars and leave them at the toy store down the street and a few other kids’ places.” She pushes a tumble of red curls out of her eyes as she peers at her planning worksheet. “Will you take some to the library too? Maybe give them out during story time?”

“Sure. I have a shift tomorrow morning.”

“I can give some to my colleagues who have kids,” Kelsey offers. Apparently the sugar cookie sweetened her disposition.

“That would be great,” Allie says. “We can have a buffet of different candies, of course, like gobstoppers and lollipops. I’ll play music from the movie, and we can do trivia games related to the book. Oh, and we’ll have balloons with little prizes inside them that the kids have to pop to win. We might need to move a couple of shelves to make room.”

She bites her thumbnail and stares out at the store, where most of the shelves are almost bare.

“At least moving the shelves will be easy,” I remark.

Allie sighs and shakes her head, pushing her purple-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. “You think I’m a total basket case, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I really love your perseverance.”

Despite the daunting circumstances of downhill sales, a big rent hike on the building, loss of customers… Allie has never once wavered in her determination to turn things around with balloons and lollipops.

I have a pang of regret that I wasn’t able to help her out with a small business loan. All my other ideas sound fun and feasible, but not potential sources of revenue.

“Oh, I also saw an article about making edible teacups out of ice-cream cones.” Allie starts scribbling on a notepad. “And we’ll have a chocolate fountain. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You’re really good at this stuff, Allie.”

“I like doing it. It’s fulfilling, you know?”

I don’t know, but I wish I did. I glance at Kelsey. “Are you fulfilled, Kels?”

“As long as I have a glass of wine every night, sure.”

Allie grins and pats my hand. “Everyone wants to do something fulfilling, Liv. It’s just that a lot of people have a hard time figuring out what that is for them.”

“So what’s it for you?” I ask.

“Being creative, helping people, doing neat things for kids…” She shrugs. “It’s why I like parties, I think. Everyone has a fun time, enjoys the food, forgets about troubles for a while, leaves feeling good. I love being able to give that to people. And I love giving people books, chatting with customers, learning new things, being my own boss, all that stuff.”

“How do you know that’s what you love?” I ask.

“It makes me happy. Isn’t that how you always know what you love?”

I look at Kelsey again. She shrugs, then gives a barely perceptible nod. Not even she can refute Allie’s statement.

I pick up my satchel and sling it over my shoulder. After giving Allie a hug good-bye, I follow Kelsey outside and we walk to Matilda’s Teapot. A grandmotherly woman seats us near the window and serves us homemade soup, quiche, fruit salad, and Assam tea.

I give Kelsey a brief outline of how things went for us in California. I’m not ready to tell her about the miscarriage—not ready to tell anyone—and I have no idea if or when I’ll be able to.

I do wish I could tell her about Maggie Hamilton. Kelsey would go into firestorm mode if she knew Dean was being threatened with a false charge. I’ve never actually seen Kelsey in firestorm mode, but I imagine she’d be a highly impressive and unstoppable force.

I turn the conversation to her work so I don’t give in to the temptation to confess. We split a plate of petit fours before gathering our things to leave. We part ways at Kelsey’s car, and I decline her offer of a ride home.

Instead I walk back to Avalon Street. There’s a fancy baby boutique located about halfway down the street, not far from the Wildwood Inn. I pull open the door and am greeted by the scent of lavender and the gentle cadence of a lullaby. Everything is in shades of pink, cream, blue, and yellow. The cribs are made of gleaming wood, the bedding looks fluffy and pretty, and artwork of cuddly animals lines the walls.

“Hello.” A well-dressed woman approaches me from behind the counter. “Can I help you find something?”

“Just looking, thanks.” I enter with a touch of caution, closing the door behind me.

I look at the tiny baby clothes, the ruffled bassinets, and patterned diaper bags. There are pink-and-white striped stepstools, hand-carved wooden blocks, butterfly lamps, and rocking chairs.

I stop beside a wall of baby clothes and pick up a blue cotton hat that is soft as a cloud.

“That’s one of our most popular newborn hats,” the saleswoman says. “Made of organic cotton and hand-stitched. Comes with a full matching layette too.”

I have no idea what a “layette” is. I didn’t have a chance to find out. I pick up another hat, the same as the blue one but in a shade of pastel pink.

“I’ll just take these.”

“Shall I wrap them up?” She goes behind the counter and rings up the hats. “Are they a gift?”