You Dropped a Blonde on Me (25 page)
A slam of the truck door later and she was stomping into her mother’s, shutting out Campbell and his assumptions with a final shove. Flopping back against the door, inside the dark interior of the kitchen, she huffed a sigh of utter aggravation before hurling her purse at the countertop.
No more dates. Definitely no more dates with men who wanted her to leave her baggage behind. Her baggage was what was going to make her stronger, tougher, smarter, if there was ever a next time round. Hanging on to it for just a little longer would serve as a not-so-subtle reminder that she was never going back to being owned by anyone again, but it also reminded her soul mates and soap opera romances were all bullshit.
Oh, and fuck fate.
Fate was for dreamers.
Something she most certainly was not.
Campbell flung open the door to his father’s with a little too much emphasis on “fling.” He had to grab it to keep it from slamming against the wall and waking his dad.
A light flicked on by Garner’s favorite recliner. “I see you went all half-cocked and put your pedal to the metal.” He shook a finger. “I warned ya, kiddo,” he said on a hearty chuckle.
Campbell ran a hand through his hair then let it drift to his tired eyes to give them a rub. “You did. I blew it.”
Garner’s head bobbed under the lamplight. “So I guess there was no smooch good night for you, eh, pal?”
His snort was derisive. He’d just as soon kiss those lips again as he would kiss an open, pus-filled wound.
Garner rose to make his way toward his bedroom. “Just because you’re mad right now, don’t try and talk yourself into thinkin’ you weren’t hoping your date would end with one either, bucko. You’d just be lying to yourself.” His dad slapped him on the back. “Night, son.”
“Night, Dad,” he muttered, flipping the light back off to brood in the dark.
The understanding he’d doled out all night long had limits, and Max’s hardcore pessimism had a way of making him forget all the promises he’d made to himself to sort out what was born out of resentment that would eventually fade, and what was unshakable resolve with her.
He was calling it tonight.
His patience had run out.
See if he ever kissed her again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Note from Maxine Cambridge to all ex-trophy wives: Everyone needs a good wake-up call once in a while. If you’ve smartened up and are now surrounding yourself with only honest people in your life, they’re not going to be afraid to give you hell, no matter the venue. Open your eyes. Better still, open your ears.
Listen, learn.
And pucker up, buttercup.
The light in the kitchen flipped on, shining bright in Maxine’s eyes. Mona went to the fridge, pulling out a gallon of milk. Her quilted baby blue bathrobe rustled when she reached into the lower cabinet for a container to warm her nightly milk in. “So that went well, eh, kiddo?” She busied herself pressing buttons on the microwave.
Fire burned the tips of her ears. “You were eavesdropping!” She didn’t have to ask, she knew. Her mother’s bedroom window was centered over the driveway, and now she was going to stick her nose in where it didn’t belong. She was going to get unwarranted advice from a woman who’d told her to let Campbell make her eyeballs warble—wobble, whatever.
“Catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“Maybe I don’t want to catch this particular fly,” she said, meaning every flippant syllable. Just because Campbell was all things handsome, brought her to unknown heights of passion, and was canine appealing to boot, didn’t mean he was appealing to her.
Mona snorted into another, higher cabinet, reaching for a coffee cup. “Right. Well, just in case you go hunting down some other fly one day, do yourself a favor. Lay off the ‘poor me I had a humdinger of a husband’ biz. It’s a real turnoff.” A plunk of ceramic later, her mother poured the milk into the coffee mug and sauntered out of the kitchen. “Night, Maxie,” she said with a smug smile, the billow of her bathrobe leaving a cloud of blue in her wake.
Maxine gritted her teeth, dropping to the kitchen chair. Lights around the cul-de-sac where her mother’s unit was situated dotted the landscaped front lawns of the neighbors. Festive gnomes, all the rage with the seniors, eyed her with disgust in all their gnome-ish wisdom. She sat and stared at them for a long time, her chest tight, her hands clenched.
She just wasn’t ready to date. That was all there was to it. Yet, riding on the back of Campbell’s dirt bike, her chest pressed to his damp back, had been liberating—dare she admit, fun. And okay, pretty arousing, seeing his jeans hug his thighs and his shirt cling to that harder-than-hard stomach.
Just his physical presence brought her such peculiar serenity as they’d ridden around the track he told her he’d made himself with a bulldozer. Despite her rant about his presumptions, there was no denying her definite attraction to him. He had the ability to turn her inner thermometer up while relaxing her mind. His hands and mouth on her were akin to nirvana.
But Campbell believed in things she could no longer cop to. So she’d just keep telling herself her vulnerabilities after that orgasm had nothing to do with finding an excuse to push him away. Any excuse it took to never again find herself so caught up, only to lose everything in the end. All of Len’s advice about sharing lives versus owning each other’s was bunk.
So it had all worked out for the best.
Yes. Definitely.
Yet . . . if it was so fine, then why, when she rose from the kitchen table to prepare for bed, did her stomach drop to her feet, and her heart chug with sluggish regret for her behavior?
Why did the sinking feeling that Campbell Barker would rather have his skin peeled off at high noon than ask the crazy, almost divorcée out on another date as long as he lived leave her bereft?
Len scrolled through her phone book on her cell, hitting Mona’s number. It was past time she at least told Maxine about Adam.
Fire lit her cheeks while she listened to the endless ring on the other end, trying to fend off the jitters in her stomach just thinking that man’s name. She just wanted to touch base with Maxine about him—to be sure he wasn’t someone she knew by way of Finley. Though, she’d probably leave out the part about naked and hotel rooms, tangled sheets, and booze.
Len’s head sank into her hand in shame, but her body tingled—and it wasn’t with embarrassment. On the contrary, she was absolutely without a shred of indecency. Though every act she and Adam had committed could be considered such.
And they’d committed. Whoa, had they ever. All night long until her muscles ached and her jaw hurt from clenching back her screams of delicious orgasm.
Her low groan filled her office. She wanted to feel remorse for having her first one-night stand ever. She even wanted to feel remorse that it had been with a man she’d originally thought was on Finley’s payroll.
But she didn’t. Not entirely.
Because it had been brilliant.
Meeting Adam at Wendt’s began as curiosity, to decipher his purposefully cryptic parting shot. His bold demands, his refusal to explain his sudden presence all intrigued her. Sliding into a booth in the darkened interior of the bar was a fact-seeking mission. After an appletini or three, he hadn’t just intrigued her; he’d left her breathless.
He was funny, powerful, Cracker Jack smart, and shared far too many interests with her. The reassurance that he wasn’t in fact stalking her, but in Riverbend on business, and had been in the village the night they’d met to visit a “friend,” left her feeling less and less like he had anything to do with Finley.
When Adam flattered her by telling her he’d happened to see her as he drove past the rec center and finally got up the courage, after following her around town, to introduce himself, Len was already halfway to the fantasy their night became. She never bothered to ask the friend’s name—by drink three, Len was too lost in the intimacy the booth they sat in created.
Next, they were in the lobby of a Holiday Inn Express, booking a room like some illicit, giggling couple in a movie. Which had all led up to some of the naughtiest, most mind-smashing sex of her entire adult life.
Oh, Jesus. She was such a sinner.
Of course, Len soothed herself, almost all of her adult life was spent married to a man twenty-three years older than her. She’d had two lovers prior to Gerald, in college, before being swept off her feet and voluntarily quitting college to marry him.
Her husband’s memory crept in, sweet and with a still sharp hint of the ache his loss had created. Guilt drove her to look his picture in the eye. He’d been a wonderful lover, but it had been a long time since she was held in the arms of a man—much less one as virile as Adam Baylor.
She and Gerald had enjoyed a fulfilling, intimate relationship before his cancer had gotten in the way. Until he’d died, leaving her financially insolvent and more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
He didn’t just die, Lenore
, her conscience whispered in painful reminder.
, her conscience whispered in painful reminder.
No. He hadn’t just died.
Thankful for the reprieve when no one picked up at Mona’s, Len slunk down in her chair and let her head fall over the back of the chair, stretching her neck muscles.
“I brought coffee. I figured you’d need it as much as I did after last night,” Adam said, throaty and deep, not looking at all like they’d torn up a hotel room bed, sunk-in bathtub, and small balcony. He was as cool, together, and refreshed as if he’d had eight hours of sleep.
The sonofabitch.
Len’s eyes snapped shut. Last night had all been a major mistake. She knew no more about him today than she did yesterday. To boot, she’d slept with a complete stranger.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“How Amazing Kreskin of you,” was her cool reply, though every muscle in her body was coiled with tension.
Adam leaned over her desk, gripping the arms of her office chair to pull her against the fake wood. “You’re thinking last night, and early this morning, I might add, was all a big mistake, and it’s something you’re never going to do again.”
Okay, so he did have Amazing Kreskin-like properties. Len kept her lips clamped shut, but her eyes were wide open, soaking up every last inch of his tailored suit and his thick, slicked-back dark hair.
She made an extra effort to continue to keep her eyes open when vividly remembering that hair, mussed and falling over his forehead, while they rolled around some surface or another. When she spoke, it was measured, and meant to puncture his haughty smile into oblivion. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about you at all.”
Adam’s lips formed an amused upward tilt. “Let’s clear something up. First, your friend is safe from me, if that’s what’s troubling you in the cold light of day. I gave some thought to the accusations you launched at me at the village the other night, and it occurred to me you might have buyer’s remorse today. I don’t know your friend and I’m not a spy for this Finley guy. That said, don’t kid yourself into believing what we did won’t happen again, Len. It will. I’ll call and you’ll answer,” he said with some more amusement and Neanderthal arrogance woven between his words.
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