Austensibly Ordinary (19 page)

“You and me.” Now I was avoiding his gaze, which I knew was leveled in my direction and as sharp as a laser.

“What about us?” he asked quietly.

My heart was beating quickly now, and I wanted to just blurt it out, but at the same time I wanted to sound casual and confident.

“About the potential for more between us than just . . . Scrabble.”

I fiddled with the tiles in front of me, switching, rearranging.

Now his voice was low and tight, and I wondered how mine sounded.

“More, as in . . . ?”

And then I couldn't take it anymore—I just wanted to know. Businesslike and matter-of-fact, I scraped my chair back, stood up, and leaned into Ethan, pausing once, just barely touching, before laying my lips determinedly on his.

I hardly had a moment to gauge the situation before Ethan's competitive spirit fired to life, and he had reached over, hooked his finger in the belt loop of my jeans, and tugged me toward him.

My mouth opened in a gasp of surprise, and that was all it took for my little experiment to become a full-fledged project.

And then we were egging each other on, pushing each other's buttons, looking for a reaction, craving attention.

My lips rasped over his jaw and down his neck. His hands skimmed softly over my waist and then shifted down to settle firmly, possessively on my hip. I was done imagining—I was literally ready to tear his clothes off.

With considerable effort, I pulled myself away.

“Come upstairs,” I murmured, feeling flushed and light and happy.

He stood, laced his fingers with mine, and tugged, leaving the Scrabble determinedly behind.

With each stair, my pulse beat out its encouragement, and by the time we reached the door and slipped inside, it was all I could hear. Until Ethan spoke.

“There's no going back after this.”

“No,” I agreed. “But you said it yourself: We could be friends with benefits.”

“Hell yeah, we could,” he said, grinning.

“And we should probably find out . . . just see . . . whether there's anything there . . .”

I fully recognized how ridiculous this sounded, coming only moments after our spontaneous interlude on my mom's back porch, given the fireworks we'd started, but as justifications went, I thought it worked.

Ethan evidently agreed, seeing as we launched at each other at precisely the same moment. He had me backed up against the wall beside the door, clinging to him like a monkey, hoping his touch would quell the fluttery little shivers coursing over my body.

I slid off his glasses, feeling very Lois Lane, and then tugged up his shirt, pressing my (slightly chilly) hands against the planes of his stomach. He winced, which made things down there feel even sexier and had me biting my lip in hot anticipation.

He was busy himself, unbuttoning the cardigan sweater I'd thrown on to go out this morning and unhooking my jeans, but now he paused, stripping off his shirt and looking me over.

“I pegged you for lacy underwear,” he said.

I glanced down at myself, blushing.

“If I'd known the day was going to go like this, you can bet it would have been.” As it was, I was standing in front of him in white cotton, feeling slightly less sexy.

“Then I'm glad you didn't know, because I like this,” he said.

He was charming me, slowly and deliberately, and like it or not, it had me wondering how many other women he'd looked at in just this way.

And then I looked at him—I mean really looked at him. The man could have been Mr. November in a fireman's calendar! For all I knew, he was, although probably not in a fireman's calendar . . . maybe in a spy geek calendar.
How could I possibly have missed this?
It didn't matter, because I didn't intend to miss a thing right now.

Before we could attack each other again near the doorway, I pulled him along into my tiny bedroom, pushed him backward on the bed, and climbed up to straddle him.

He reached his hands around to cup my ass, and I leaned over him, propping myself up by my elbows.

“Ve haf vays of making you talk,” I teased.

“I bet you do,” he agreed. “But I have a question of my own.”

“Ask away.”

“How spontaneous was this?”

“Oh, very,” I assured him. “My intention for the evening was to make up, and maybe engage in a little merciless teasing.”

“Has this ever crossed your mind before?”

I sat up straighter and looked him shyly in the eye. “Maybe a couple of times—in a vague, nebulous, it'll-never-happen kind of way. What about you? Did I just totally blow your mind?” I grinned.

“Not as much as I expect you're going to,” he admitted, “but you definitely took me off guard. You want secrets? I've been imagining this for a while now.”

“Since when?”

“Since the first time I saw you smile—a real, can't-hold-back smile.”

“You're kidding!” I said, pushing myself up.

“I'm not,” he said, matter-of-factly, bumping out my elbows with his and reaching his hands up to cup my face and bring it down to his. “I hope you're worth the wait,” he said, all dimples. And then he flipped over on top of me and all thoughts of teasing fled.

W
e were lying splayed out on my bed, playing footsie, when someone knocked. Someone being my mother.

“Cate? What happened out here? It looks like you two just lost interest in the middle of the game.”

I sat up guiltily, glancing over at Ethan, who was smiling at me, one arm folded behind his head.

I felt suddenly, flamingly self-conscious and yanked the sheet over myself, daring not even to look at Ethan's naked body in my bed.

“We got hungry,” I called. Ethan squeezed my hand, and the shivery chills were back again. “Ethan went to get a pizza.”

This got a reaction out of him. I shrugged and made wild eyes at him.

“Why didn't you just order one?”

“Home Slice doesn't deliver, and we needed a little space,” I said, racking up the little white lies as Ethan shifted his bare leg to press up against mine. “We had a little tiff,” I added, hoping this would explain the condition of the table.

“So are you licking your wounds in there?” she pressed.

I closed my eyes, not wishing to see the amusement that was certain to be written plainly on Ethan's face.

“Something like that. I'll be down in a few minutes to clean things up,” I promised. “It's a little chilly, so I'll come in when I'm done and we can wait for Ethan inside,” I added, hoping to give Ethan a clean getaway.

“Maybe you should bring the pizza back up here and spend the time making up,” she suggested softly, as if talking to herself, but loud enough to make sure I heard. Thankfully, the next sounds I heard were her footsteps on the stairs.

I shut my eyes and bit back a smile, before turning to look down at Ethan. “So I guess you heard all that.”

“Most of it. And I vote with your mom—let's bring the pizza up here. Hell, let's get a pizza delivered—I don't need the time to lick my wounds.” He tugged me back down on top of him and cupped my hip through the now-tangled sheets. “So what do you think?”

I stared down at him, baffled. “Are you looking for a critique?” “Not exactly,” he said. “I'm more interested in your feeling on doing this again.”

“Right now?” Damn if the man
wasn't
a superhero!

“I'd prefer it if you'd give me a few more minutes,” he said wryly. “Let me rephrase. How do you feel about keeping the ‘benefits' option open?”

“Good,” I told him, considering. “Very good.”

“I'd kind of hoped you were going to need a little more convincing,” he said. Judging by his expression, he wasn't referring to a well-constructed argument.

“Why don't we just call it catching up?” I suggested and fell into him all over again.

 

We decided the story would be that Ethan came back with the pizza and we ate it alone in my apartment. In reality we ate squeeze cheese on Ritz crackers, red grapes, and Nilla Wafers with milk, sort of a postcoital picnic. And afterwards we lingered at the door, knowing that things would be different once it was opened.

“So . . . can I tweet this?” he asked with a face that couldn't hold a serious expression.

“Only if I can tweet your alter ego, Double-oh Chavez.”

“Secrets all around, then, huh?”

“Secret handshake? Pinky swear?”

“I trust you,” he said, running a finger down my cheek, sending a shiver up my spine. I offered up a wobbly smile. “See you at school, Cate.”

I watched him walking down my stairs, his dark hair silvering in the moonlight, and thought of Cary Grant . . . and Hitchcock's
North by Northwest.
Ethan was sliding almost effortlessly into every conceivable, dreamy role my imagination had conjured over the past couple of weeks: superhero, government spy, Cary Grant charmer—even, it seemed, Mr. Knightley.

I watched him sliding through the shadows until he disappeared from view, and then I shut the door, the weekend now officially at an end. Tomorrow I would return to normalcy.

But what was normal, anyway? Not much since Cat had sidled into my life, followed closely by Gypsy Jane and Agent Chavez. My head suddenly hurt, and I moved to the couch, planning to throw over the journal tonight in favor of a little mindless television.

The second I dropped, my phone rang from the bedroom, so I pulled myself up again to catch it before it went to voice mail.

“Hey, Court, how was your weekend?” I asked, staring at my much-rumpled bed with its froth of white sheets.

“Lovely,” she said. “Sexy too.”

“Are we still talking about your weekend?” I asked dubiously, suddenly aware that those adjectives could rather adequately describe my own weekend.

“We are,” she said mysteriously.

“What a coincidence,” I countered, equally mysterious, “mine too.” I dropped down onto the bed, considering how much to reveal.

“Want to come down here tomorrow after work, and we can trade stories?”

“Accepting your invitation doesn't in any way compel me to participate in any ghost-hunting activities, does it?”

“No. But I may make you tag along. Goggles are optional.”

“Maybe you could just hit the highlights right now,” I suggested, hoping I could make my decision based on the preview.

Courtney waited a beat before answering, no doubt wondering if this would play to her advantage.

“Okay. Remember the guy from the elevator? The not-so-amateur ghost hunter?”

“Yeah,” I said warily.

“We went out last night, and afterwards he let me play with his equipment.”

“What?!” I blurted. I came up off the bed with a guilty start and stood waiting, desperate to hear the rest.

“His ghost-hunting equipment, Cate.”

I honestly couldn't say if this was an improvement over my original assumption, but it was clear I was going to need to suit up again (the goggles were a must for preserving a modicum of dignity) to get the full story.

“See you tomorrow around six-ish,” I said, not yet ready to share my own equipment story.

When I hung up I opened today's e-mail from Pop-up Culture and skimmed over it again. I had no idea how Syd and Company had pulled this off, but it was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I didn't plan to miss it. Each time I'd canoed on Lady Bird Lake, I'd gazed longingly up at those houses, imagining the views of the Austin skyline to the east and the winding path of the lake to the west as it flowed down from the Hill Country.

I hit Reply and quickly typed in my info, my finger hovering over the box to specify “number attending.”

I sank back down on the bed, Ethan back in my thoughts. If things were normal, I'd RSVP for the two of us and check with him later. But things weren't normal—we might as well have been in the Twilight Zone for all I could grasp what was going on. Besides, if Ethan and I had merely upgraded to friends with benefits, then that meant that we were just casual, and that I could attend this dreamy weekend brunch with bona fide single status.

But it would be loads better if I could turn “single” into “couple.” It couldn't hurt to give Mr. Tielman a call. . . . could it? There'd been no mention of love, romance, or exclusivity; it had been like make-up sex, no strings attached.

Before I let myself consider that analogy too carefully, I slid out of bed, darted into the living room, and rummaged through a disarray of lollipop sticks and their crinkly-wrapped heads to find my secret phone. Before I could second-guess my strategy, I dialed his number, retrieved from voice mail, and readied my voice.

“Hello, Jake, this is Cat Kennedy. I had a little idea of how we could wrap up our twenty questions without interruption. . . .” I felt a twinge of guilt, thinking of Ethan. “I've just RSVP'd to the Pop-up Culture brunch this Sunday. If you'll be there, come find me.” I waited a beat, and then decided to leave it at that.

I smiled giddily to myself as I dropped the phone back amid the candy, stirring the mix until its trim black case slipped out of sight.

I told myself I could ignore even the smallest twinge of guilt. I was unarguably unattached. Ethan and I were undisclosed and uncommitted, and the fact that I'd promised to drag Dmitri along with me to meet Syd was barely relevant. He was an operator, not likely to hang around with me when there were “pretty people” and Austin Movers and Shakers in the crowd. So I was good.

I settled back on my bed and picked up my real phone, now officially committed. I typed “2” in the RSVP box, entered my credit card number, and hit Send. It was done; I was going; and I had no reason to feel guilty. Ethan would understand, and Jake didn't need to know the backstory.

I quickly texted Dmitri the details of our brunch date, suggesting we might want to ride separately, just in case. I thought it best to keep my options open.

Slipping under the covers, I curled in on myself and tried to imagine how this evening fit in with the sudden whirlwind of crazy in my life.

 

 

Was it possible that Gypsy Jane was familiar with Alicia Silverstone's portrayal of Emma and had been trying to hint around the fact that I might want to give Ethan a second look? Well, subliminally, it had worked like gangbusters.

But as much as our little experiment had brought the wow factor, bubbling over like a homemade volcano, it hadn't exactly left me with the feeling that the landscape of our friendship was irrevocably changed. While it might be true that we couldn't go back, going forward into unknown territory wasn't necessarily a foregone conclusion. It might be that fate had dealt the two of us a really good friendship . . . with the occasional bout of requited lust.

Maybe we'd just hover comfortably right where we were.

Or maybe this evening's little trial run would blow up in our faces, burning the both of us beyond recognition. . . .

Promising myself I'd dial down the drama, I groaned dramatically and buried my face in my pillow. And I tried not to think about any of it.

 

Luckily I woke on my own, because setting an alarm clock had been the absolute least of my concerns. I hadn't gotten around to removing my makeup either, but I thought the raccoon eyes paired nicely with my tangled wreath of hair. Groaning again, this time for entirely different reasons, I staggered into the shower and mentally prepped myself for the day ahead. Or attempted to. By the time I stepped out of the shower, I still wasn't entirely clear on my strategy. I think I'd decided to keep Mom in the dark, keep Ethan at arm's length, and keep Courtney from playing with any foreign equipment.

I waffled over jotting a little note to Gypsy Jane and finally gave in despite the certainty that it would mean lounge coffee instead of a vanilla latte. It had to be done. My entries of late had been entirely self-focused, and Gypsy Jane had consequently homed in on my own little romantic situation. If I was going to keep up with a little matchmaking on the side, I needed to get her back on track. I needed an alternative for Sportcoat.

 

 

Satisfied, I smiled down at the journal, tipped it shut, and tucked it into my carryall along with another ninja-style ensemble for tonight. I'd check for any new advice on my off period.

 

For a Monday, the day was particularly surreal. As I was pulling the door to my classroom closed on the first bell of the day, Ethan shoved a foot in the door, handed me my favored coffee drink, and let a silent message flash in his eyes. But it remained indecipherable. After that I saw Ethan in the hall, in the lunch line, even in the lounge, and other than the secrets banked in Ethan's dark eyes, we behaved like perfectly normal, respectable high school teachers. But when the final bell rang, we turned, like werewolves at a full moon.

Suddenly we were horny and irresponsible.

An after-school visit to the computer lab to ask about my sluggish Internet connection turned into a fumbling free-for-all in the shadows. We kept it PG-13, but just barely. Afterwards, Ethan boosted my connection speed and we parted ways. It couldn't have been more casual. And yet, by the time I reached my classroom, I was definitely feeling it: some sort of delayed reaction to my bout of risky business with Ethan. I dropped shakily into my desk chair and dragged the journal out of my bag, just now remembering it. I needed to focus on something other than Ethan and certain recent developments. . . . Gypsy Jane clearly did not have my back.