The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (12 page)

I
leaped up the stairs to put my arms around her, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. “Oh, Brooke—”

She hugged me convulsively, but then gently disengaged herself. The look of startled wonder on her face told me I'd been wrong about the cause of her tears. They were tears of joy, not despair.

“I'm going to be a mother,” she said. A smile curved her lips, gradually growing until she was grinning. “I'm going to be a mom! In seven months, I'm going to be a mother.” She threw her arms up over her head and shouted, “Hear that, world? I'm going to be a moooom!”

She grabbed my hands, dragged me down the steps, and danced me around in a circle Ring Around the Rosy–style. Her giddiness infected me and we whirled quicker and quicker until dizziness made us stagger apart. I put a hand on a tree trunk to steady myself. Brooke hunched over, hands on her knees, braid dangling, trying to catch her breath.

“You're going to be a mommy,” I said, so happy for her. “Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I don't care. I'm happy either way. Troy kind of wants a girl to be a daddy's little
princess.” She suddenly straightened, the braid whipping over her head. “Troy! I've got to call Troy. He's going to be a father. Oh, my God.” She raced back into the office, where she'd left her phone.

She emerged less than a minute later, still smiling. I figured the smile might be permanently imprinted on her face, at least until sleepless nights of getting up for four a.m. feedings wore her down.

“Troy's ecstatic,” she reported. “Over the moon. He really liked Kay. That's the birth mother. He's going to tell Miss Clarice and Troy Sr., and meet me at home in an hour. We can have sex without worrying about getting pregnant for the first time in ages. Oops.” She covered her mouth with overlapping hands. “TMI.” She let her hands drop. “I'm just so happy I don't know what I'm saying.”

She positively glowed in the way all the books say expectant mothers glow. Huh. I'd always assumed that was a hormonal thing, but apparently not.

“This calls for a celebration,” I said. “Let's go get a bottle of champagne. The best part about adopting is that you can drink like a sailor throughout the pregnancy.”

She looked uncertainly back at the office. “What about—? I'm supposed to—?”

“Lock it up and leave it,” I said. “People can bring strays in tomorrow. This afternoon, we celebrate my bestie's impending motherhood.”

*   *   *

As a result of our celebrating, I had a slight headache as I got ready to go to Hart's place for dinner. Even one
glass of champagne does that to me. I took a couple of aspirin before showering and pulling on my jeans. As I shrugged into my clingy yellow top, my gaze fell on my pink toothbrush in its cup and I remembered Hart's suggestion. He had been to my house for dinner, but I had never been to his place and I was curious. A guy's place said a lot about him. I'd dumped one guy on the spot, an accountant who seemed nice and was kind of cute, when he invited me over to admire his plushy collection. He'd tried to introduce me to nearly a thousand stuffed animals, all of which he'd named, but I'd bolted after the third one, a chipmunk he called Absalom. A guy I'd dated briefly in college, during one of Doug's and my “off” phases, had had a place so obsessively neat that I knew we were doomed. I'm no slob, but I don't use a ruler to align the books on my bookshelves, or have labels on my fridge shelves to show where each condiment goes. I was mentally crossing my fingers that Hart wouldn't have a display of Farrah Fawcett posters, or piles of dirty laundry on every surface (as two other guys I'd dated had).

Hart had mentioned that his condo was a rental, and I'd been past the place numerous times, so I knew right where to go. He lived in a small complex, four buildings done up with timbers and stone to look like hunting lodges. They were built around a central courtyard with one unit per floor for a total of twelve units. Hart had the top-floor condo in the south-facing building. Looking up at it as I turned into the parking lot, I figured he'd have a great mountain view. The parking lot
had recently been resurfaced with slots marked for visitors. I pulled into one and turned off the van.

Gathering my purse and the bottle of Varaison Merlot I'd brought, I climbed the stairs and knocked.

“It's open,” Hart called.

I walked in to find myself facing a wall of windows and sliding glass doors that did, indeed, frame a spectacular view of the snowcapped mountains. Not a Farrah Fawcett poster in sight—a definite plus. I noted a sofa covered in sand-colored chenille and a matching chair arranged to face the sliding glass doors and a flat-screen television mounted over a gas fireplace. There were bookshelves filled with books—another plus—skis leaning against the wall by what I assumed was a coat closet, and a chess set on a table. The walls and the carpet were a neutral taupe, but a thick area rug that reached from the hearth's edge to the sofa added color with a geometric print in navy, reds, and tan. My gaze returned to the view. Smoke rose from a grill on the deck. I walked toward it, past the small dining room table, already set, and looked down at the barbered grass below, which merged with a meadow where four deer were feeding. The evening's chill seeped through the glass.

“I don't know what you're paying for this place,” I said, “but it's worth every penny.” Reluctantly turning away from the view, I angled to the right where Hart was working over the kitchen sink. He was vigorously massaging a delicious-smelling rub into two steaks that rested in a pan at the bottom of the stainless steel sink.

As I set the wine on the counter, he held up his crusty hands as an explanation. “Sorry I couldn't get the door.” He leaned over to kiss me. He wore jeans with a hole at the knee and frayed hems, and a Rascal Flatts concert T-shirt, and smelled of soap and damp hair from a shower. His lips lingered on mine, and I began to feel light-headed. He broke away when a clump of oily spices fell from his spread hands to the floor. “Almost done here,” he said, lifting the pan out of the sink and washing his hands.

I ripped off a paper towel and wiped up the marinade splotch. “Anything I can do?”

“Why don't you open the wine while I slap these on the grill?” He headed out to the deck and I searched three drawers before finding a corkscrew. Pulling the cork, I found wineglasses in a glass-fronted cabinet and poured just as Hart came through the sliding doors again, letting in a mouthwatering whiff of seared meat.

“If I get you a jacket, can we take these out on the deck?” he asked, indicating the wineglasses. “I don't want to overcook the steak. If it weren't so chilly, we could eat out there. That's what I've been doing all summer, but I'm afraid that's done for the year.”

“Sure.” I let him drape a red fleece jacket around my shoulders and followed him onto the deck. The air was bracing, but it felt good. My headache slipped away and I wrapped the fleece's sleeves around me, liking the faint scent of Hart that rose from the jacket. Leaning over the deck rail, I watched the mule deer with their outsized ears amble across the field and into the
tree line that bounded it. I tasted the wine and let its rich berry and leather flavors fill my mouth. My shoulders relaxed. I hadn't realized how stressed I was until that moment.

“Peaceful, isn't it?” Hart said, watching me. “When I think about buying a house, I come out here and decide that until I can find a place with the same kind of quiet and view, I'll just stay here.”

I turned to face him. “Have you been house-hunting?” That would mean he planned to stay. Happiness bloomed inside me at the thought.

Picking up the long-handled fork to turn the meat, he said, “Not formally. Not with a Realtor. I've been looking at listings online and driving around, scoping out the areas I like.”

“I'm sure Kerry would be happy to work with you when—if—you decide to really do it.” And she'd tell me the moment he contacted her, too, I thought. “She helped me find my house and get a really good deal on it.”

“How do you like your steak?”

We moved inside when the steaks were done to medium-rare perfection, and settled at the small table. Night fell outside, turning the windows to black, as our conversation ranged from real estate values in the area to discussions of our favorite TV shows. Mine—
Scandal
; his—
The Walking Dead
.

“I'd have thought you'd like a detective show, with all the mysteries you read,” he said. “
Law & Order
,
Blue Bloods
,
Elementary
.”

“Funny, I'd have guessed the same for you.”

“Too much like real work, or so ridiculous they make me cringe,” he said, refilling our glasses.

“What's the worst?”

“Castle,”
he said without hesitation, spearing a round of grilled zucchini like he was stabbing the show's creators.

“Aw, I love Nathan Fillion,” I protested. “He's so likable, and he and Stana Katic have such great chemistry, even though they're married now—I mean, their characters are married.”

He looked at me over the rim of his wineglass. “You think marriage kills romance?”

“Only on TV,” I said. I thought about his question a bit more and added, “I do think relationships change over time, though. The romance, the heat, waxes and wanes. Friendship is as important as chemistry.”

“Don't you think friends have to have chemistry, too?”

I'd never thought about it. “I guess so,” I said. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “I guess there's a friend version of love at first sight, where you just know someone is going to be a good friend from the moment you meet them. Brooke and I were like that. Oh, did I tell you she and Troy are going to adopt a baby?”

We talked and laughed until the wine was nothing but dregs and the steak fat had congealed on our plates. Then, I cleared while he loaded dishes into the washer. When he wouldn't let me help with that, I wandered into the living room and inspected the titles on his bookshelves. There was a lot of history and biography, which didn't surprise me, and an entire shelf of
poetry, which did. I angled my head to read the spines: Wordsworth, Frost, Oliver, Soto, Cisneros, Angelou, Kinnell. Some I knew; some I'd never heard of.

The scent of lemon danced around me and I heard his footstep behind me. I turned to see him holding two plates with what looked like iced lemon bread and forks. As I took one from him, our fingertips brushed and a spark arced between us. Drawing in a calming breath, I nodded toward the books. “Are you like Adam Dalgliesh?”

He wrinkled his brow. “Who?”

“P. D. James's Scotland Yard inspector—a cop who writes poetry.”

He laughed. “I read poetry, but I don't write it. My poetic efforts run to ‘Roses are red, violets are blue. Your breath is real stinky and your armpits are, too.' I think I wrote that in second grade. My mom still drags it out, along with all the family photos, whenever I come home for a visit.”

“Wow, and you gave up such a promising poetic career to become a cop.” I shook my head in mock amazement. “The world's loss.” I forked up a bit of the silky lemon cake and almost moaned as the bright citrus exploded on my tongue. “Now, this”—I pointed with my fork—“is divine. If you made this, I demand you hand in your badge immediately and open a bakery.”

He led me over to the sofa, grinning. We sat. “I made it, but it's my nana's recipe. I'm not the creative type, but I can follow a recipe with the best of them.”

“Yes, you can,” I agreed fervently, pressing my fork into the crumbs and licking them off.

“Seconds?” he asked, amused.

I held out my plate. “Please.”

While he was gone, I swung my feet onto the couch, digging them under a throw pillow, and leaned back against the arm. My ghostly reflection swam on the dark glass doors. When Hart handed me my plate, he set two glasses of water on the coffee table, then sat and lifted my legs to lay them across his lap. The naturalness and intimacy of it made me catch my breath. I choked on a cake crumb. Grabbing for the water, I gulped.

“Okay?” Hart quirked a quizzical eyebrow.

“Fine,” I managed. To distract both of us from my flustered state, I asked, “Any luck finding that station wagon?”

“No,” Hart admitted. He picked up one of my feet and began to massage it through my nubby sock. “But I just put the alert out this afternoon, so that's not too surprising. Any more contact from Sharla?”

I shook my head, the feel of his thumb digging into the ball of my foot leaving me dumb. My sock was off now and both his hands were massaging my foot, kneading and stroking, thumbs digging hard into the arch and then stroking toward the ball. I spread my toes with pleasure. It was the single most sensuous thing I'd ever experienced. We talked about our favorite authors, but I couldn't concentrate; I was too distracted by what he was doing to my foot. He massaged each toe individually between thumb and forefinger, before sliding his fingers between the toes and then pressing them up. The stretch felt divine. He did the
same thing with my whole foot, arching it down and then flexing it up. I swallowed hard. Heat rose from my core and flushed through my veins. I was totally incapable of speaking and wondered if he knew what kind of effect he was having on me. Then, his eyes, heavy-lidded and smoldering, met mine, and I knew that he did.

His fingers entwined with mine and he pulled me toward him. I went willingly, until I was sitting across his lap, his arm around my shoulders, his lips inches from mine. I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue.

“I happen to have a never-used toothbrush or two,” he offered conversationally, watching for my response.

I locked eyes with him and reached a hand up to draw his head down so I could kiss him. His hair was crisp under my fingers, not quite long enough for me to wrap my fingers around. When we broke the kiss, I smiled into his eyes. “That's okay. I brought mine.”