The Other F-Word (5 page)

I’d never been one for commanding men, yet I found myself reaching into my back pocket, following his instructions. He punched in a few digits seamlessly.

“I put my number in here, but I didn’t save it. That’s for you to do. Call me.”

“Sure.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing, Jessie.”

“Things are complicated for me.”

“Is anyone’s life simple?” he asked, with a wide grin.

“I’ll try to call you.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” I said, knowing my resolve was weakening by the moment. I needed distance, and I took large strides to create enough space for my heart to beat normally again. What was supposed to have been an intriguing dance was becoming dangerous. No man had made me feel this way since…well, since ever. I’d made too many mistakes in my life to get caught up in his spell. I was a lover of love, addicted to romance, as evidenced by my more promiscuous days. He was a powerful aphrodisiac and I refused to be swept up by his sweet talk, sexy voice, silky hair and soft lips… Oh, they looked so damn soft.

Billie’s shriek snapped me out of my haze, a shocking drench of ice cold water against my heated skin. It was far away, but I recognised my girls’ voices like they were connected directly to my eardrum. I searched for her in the frantic crowd. Her shiny blonde hair acted like a beacon. Three large men surrounded her, gyrating in a circle like predators intimidating fresh prey. Oh…hell no. Not on my watch.

I stomped over to them.

“Are you coming to crash the party, cutie?” A shaggy haired, stout guy with ear gauges asked me.

I had no idea why so many men acted like idiots in places like this. I suppose anonymity, alcohol and hormones were the perfect recipe for instant asshole.

“No, I just came to rescue my daughter.” I smiled at the shocked expressions on their faces. Okay, I had older kids, but I looked damn good, especially tonight. “Her name, just so you know is…jailbait. Unless you boys want five to ten, I’d suggest you disperse.” It worked every time. Billie was eighteen but even with make-up and high heels, she looked young for her age. They all stared at each other then back at me, as if questioning what I’d told them.

“It’s not worth it. You boys are way too pretty to do hard time. You might get a much bigger man disrespecting you like you were just doing to her. I think it would be awfully painful for you, if you catch my drift.”

They all rushed off as if they were in the presence of a real cougar.

“Why did you tell them I was jailbait?”

I shrugged. “They don’t know your age. It’s the best way to let your youth work in your favour.”

“Thanks for your help, but I could have handled it.”

My poor daughter. She didn’t have Stevie’s brash bluntness or Marley’s cocky candidness. She was pure and innocent in the ways of the world. It made her unique. It was also the reason I worried about her so much.

“How were you going to handle it?”

“I was about to ask them to please stop.”

I sighed, putting my arm around her. “Billie, next time use your outdoor voice and drop the ‘please’. If that doesn’t work, scream your head off and kick them in the balls. You have my permission.”

“That’s not my style.”

I shook my head, tilting her chin so she was facing me. “A woman’s strength is sometimes hindered by her need to be kind. You can find a balance in both. Understand?”

She nodded, embracing me. I looked back at the spot where I’d danced with him. He was gone.
Did that really happen or did I imagine it?

* * * *

Later that night, I sat in bed confirming a foreign number was listed in my contacts awaiting a directive. There were two simples options—save, or delete? True to his word, he’d left it up to me. I replayed our short conversation again, wondering if I’d dreamed it. The way he’d caressed my arm when we’d danced, his flirty smile and those deep, persuasive eyes made me want to relive those moments. I chided myself—he’d somehow turned me into a gushing teenager, reading every gesture as a significant symbol of something more.

Only when I heard the grunts, did I fully snap out of my dream state.

Not the imaginary kind but real, boisterous grunts that didn’t emanate from my dirty imagination. They came through loud and crackled from the receiver on my nightstand, which hooked up to the baby monitor in Marley’s room. This had to be a joke. I cupped my hands over my ears, but I could still hear them. My daughter was of age and Rick was a good man, but this was not something a mother ever wanted to hear. I scrambled off the bed. I ripped the plug out of the socket so fast a spark escaped, then flung the heavy device on my bed where it crashed on top of my cell phone…cracking it in two.

Damn.
I stared at the broken piece of technology, knowing my call history was gone…making the decision that was raging in my head a moot point. This had to be an omen. The universe was mocking me, telling me to quit acting like a foolish girl with a crush. I was never going to call him anyway…probably. I was no cougar and he was out of my league. In fact, as far as I was concerned, I didn’t have a league.

Chapter Three

Present day

The glossy magazines played on women’s insecurities by selling them items to wipe away age. I knew a secret. Growing old gracefully wasn’t about spending thousands on surgery and eye creams. A woman’s state of mind was the most important weapon in her arsenal. I worked out, I ate healthily, I took my vitamins, and as a result I received many compliments. The thing that made me feel truly sexy though was a funky accessory. My look, as nicknamed by Stevie, was ‘funky conservative’. My idea of conservative was a tortoise shell clip holding up my shoulder-length brown hair, a grey pencil skirt and a white, button-down silk blouse…but the funky was the orange and white polka dot scarf around my neck. Just enough to keep me young. What girl could pass up a cute accessory? It was a one-size-fits-all solution to making a woman unique. And every woman deserved to be exceptional in her own way.

I’d dropped Billie at the airport yesterday then met with the realtor. Both events had been equally disheartening. Today, I’d decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. I listened to Dolly Parton’s
9 to 5
to pump me up while I got ready for work. I couldn’t help but shimmy my hips and sing along. This was a female anthem…full of power. I loved all kinds of music from hard rock to classic country, and I always told my girls to embrace what they liked whether it was music, clothes or books…just be themselves and never apologise for it.

I sighed as I put the list of updates the realtor wanted in my purse, so I could peruse it in more detail later. I would need to check out a few books about selling a house. My agent was a bubbly young girl, who gushed over the house and neighbourhood. Then she’d gone into a detailed tirade about improvements I should make before we listed.

“We have to make her the belle of the ball,” she’d insisted. “She has good bones, but she needs some make-up.” Her suggestions had insulted me, although I understood them. I was taking it personally when this needed to be a professional transaction, but it proved no less difficult for me. Our house was more than drywall, wood floors and ceiling fans. A home was the place where memories were made and kept.

I brushed the troublesome thoughts from my head as I headed into work. Arty adjusted what he referred to as his spectacles. I loved Arty. He looked like he’d been born in the library, with his patch of silver hair, cute bowties, wool suits and wire-rimmed glasses.

“I’m an impatient man. Luckily, you are worth the wait.” Arty’s witty flirting didn’t hurt.

“I’m on time.”

“True, however, there is something I need to tell you and I desired your presence approximately five minutes ago.” His smile was so huge, I thought it might hurt his face. “Big news,” he said, waving his arms with such glee that I couldn’t help sharing his excitement.

“Big news at the library? Don’t tell me we’re bringing back the Dewey Decimal system.”

He sighed. “No, better.”

“Better than the Dewey Decimal system? Are we getting new scanners? Have we increased the check-out time to three weeks?”

He shook his head, removing his lenses to clean them, as he often did when he got frustrated. “You’re never going to guess, Emmalynn, so stop trying.” Arty was also the only person who insisted on using my full name. If anyone referred to him as Arthur, he would scoff, but he’d advised me long ago that the longer a lady’s name, the more delicious it felt on his lips, so how could I possibly object? “Wolfe Enterprises is considering the library as their charity of choice for their annual benefit.”

“Wolfe Enterprises? I’ve never heard of them.”

Arty put his hands on his hips, tsking me. “You should stop reading the classics and glance at the journal once in a while. They own half of Chicago, as well as many holdings across the US and overseas.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, winking at me. “Mr Wolfe is here right now talking to the board about it.”

“I know we’re in a library, but the whispering seems cliché.”

“Alan requested discretion. He doesn’t want the paltry peasants to realise a prince is among them.”

“He may be rich, but that’s not the same as royal.” I gathered my books on the shelving cart.

“Darling girl, must I explain how the ruling class works?”

“Please do, your instruction always proves valuable.”

He grinned, placing a few more books on my cart. “Rich and royal are synonyms…at least in the New World.”

“Well, I hope His Excellence privileges us with a few jewels from his capitalistic crown. We can certainly put it to good use.” Our little library, like most others, was in danger of shutting its doors. Our funding got smaller every year, and the staff shrunk with each tightening purse string. We were becoming a relic—as archaic as haberdasheries, hat sellers and candlestick makers. At least that’s what people thought until they saw a child get excited about a new book, or the spark of energy that surged through a person when they acquired newfound knowledge to know we served a valuable purpose.

I started to roll the cart away, but Arty wasn’t done. “I haven’t revealed the best part, sweet Emmalynn.”

“Saving the library, providing a haven of education for the community and in turn, securing our livelihoods is not the best part?” I asked, tilting my head.

“I suppose it’s the most positive, practical part, nevertheless the decadence is in the icing. And the icing in this case is sinfully sweet, even to your vegan ears.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Arty.”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his bow tie, as if he were readying to deliver a presidential address. “If the man agrees to fund us, we’ll get to attend the benefit dinner.” He swiped his hand through the air to cement his point. “These affairs are strictly black tie, with live bands and expensive champagne. You and I can finally trip the light fantastic and do our Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers routine.”

I avoided the combined gulp and laugh that threatened to escape my mouth because it would hurt Arty. The man was a good foot and a half shorter than me. He’d come right up to my bosom. Tripping the light fantastic with him might result in an actual trip and subsequent fall…on my ass. Even with that knowledge, I would do it. Arty didn’t have many friends and although we made an odd pair, he was my buddy.

“Hmm…guess I’ll have to buy a new pair of dancing shoes,” I said.

“Keep the heel moderate, but elegant. I’ll purchase lifts. We’ll make it work.”

“We always do,” I said, patting his shoulder.

Arty shifted his gaze, gesturing to the half dozen people making their way towards us. Arty and I stood at attention immediately. Alan Crowe, library director and my boss, led the small group of dignitaries that was our board, except there was one tall, handsome addition to the group. My breath hitched as my heart swooped into the pit of my stomach with every determined footstep he took. It couldn’t be—I was seeing things.

Alan gestured in the tense air between us. “Mr Wolfe, I’d like you to meet two of our librarians. This is Emmie Mason and Arty Benson.”

And, fuck me…there he was. Damien. Damien Wolfe. I’d never caught his last name. My shock transformed into irritation because there was no recognition in his features for me. It was one thing to not remember our brief meeting over a year ago—I had read too much into it, as I’d thought—but not to recognise that I’d jumped into his limo the other night? I should have known. He probably flirted with every woman he met. I cursed myself, because despite that, his gold-green eyes, wicked smile, thick black hair and dark grey suit caused a slow burning heat to travel though my body…
Dear God, please let it be because he’s super-hot, and not a hot flash!

“It’s a pleasure, Mr Wolfe,” Arty said, shaking Damien’s hand. “I do hope you choose us. The library is a very worthy charity.”

“Why is that, Mr Benson?” he asked without pause.

Arty swallowed, stammering slightly. “Be—because it is.” Arty’s eloquence had clearly faltered in Damien’s presence.

“See what I mean, Alan? Even your own staff can’t answer the question. I honestly don’t know if this is a good fit for my organisation. I agree you do a service to the community, but there seems to be worthier charities, in my humble opinion.”

There was nothing humble about this man. He walked and spoke like a natural born leader. Like all leaders, his ego was in grave danger from overinflating. Time to get out some needles and puncture the balloon.

“You’re wrong,” I said. Every eye turned to me. I hadn’t meant to draw so much attention. At the same time, I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut either.

“Please go on, Mrs… Sorry, what was your name?”

Damn him…he remembered Arty’s name but not mine?

“It’s Miss Mason.”

“Please.” He gestured for me to continue.

“We really should be moving along with the tour,” Alan said.

Damien held up a hand. “I haven’t heard one strong argument all day. I would like to hear what she has to say.” His eyes conveyed a challenge, and I could never walk away from that. I kept my head high, meeting his fiery eyes.