Can't Always Get What You Want (17 page)

WHAT? I’m blabbering total nonsense.

“…and, capillary response in the muscle tissues,” I inform him, solemnly. Hopefully that will cover up the fact that I’ve just made up a bunch of crap.

Brett regards me warily, as if he’s stuck in the room with a caged animal or crazy person. He may not be far off. Mere minutes ago I was attacking him on the kitchen floor, and now I’m under about fifteen layers of “
don’t touch me
” clothing.

Yup. Definitely crazy.

“Movie?” he suggests.

“Sure. You pick,” I say. The layers make it difficult to move, so I waddle over to the couch and plop myself down with a muffled thud.

Brett selects a movie and puts it in the Blu-ray player.

“What’d you pick?”

He gives me a secret smile, and settles his gorgeous behind on the couch beside me.

“Can’t tell you. If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

Ha—these layers are going to do that before you do.

Whoa, it’s hot in here. So much for showering off all the grime. I’m already a greasy sweat ball. Brett tries to wrap an arm around my shoulders, but can barely do so. And, if truth be told, I can’t even feel his arm around me.

I wipe sweat off my forehead.

“How are those circadian rhythms working for you?”

“What? Oh…that. Great, thanks.”

The movie starts playing
Mr. & Mrs. Smith,
starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

“I’d make a great spy,” I say.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Four things.”

“And they are?” he asks, laughing.

“One, I’m great at figuring out codes…”

“Word searches and Sudoku don’t count,” he counters.

“Two, I’ve read the entire Stephanie Plum series, so I totally know how to do stakeouts and stuff.”

“Who’s Stephanie Plum?”

I laugh. “Three, I’ve already perfected a fake Russian accent.”

“Only when you’re drunk,” he says with a smirk.

“And, number four, which is perhaps the most important of all, I look good in black.”

He cuddles me closer to him, and we resume watching the movie.

Oh balls! Sweat is dripping into my eyes. I roughly wipe it away, disgusted. Although this could work to my advantage. I’m probably grossing him out.

“You look a little sweaty there, 007,” he remarks dryly. “Perhaps your melatonin and capillary responses have worked their magic by now.”

What is he talking about?

Oh. My nonsense excuse about how these layers are going to help my muscles relax. I must have been more convincing than I thought.

Ha! That will be my fifth spy quality: convincing alibis.

He may have a point, though. It must be about ninety-bazillion degrees in here. Oh, to hell with it, if he wants to lust after my sweaty flesh, that’s his problem.

I shed off my puffer coat and snow pants, the threadbare pink robe and ratty wool sweater, until I’m down to the basic layer of T-shirt and shorts.

“Feeling better?” He grins.

I stretch, hoping that the blazing heat of my self-made sauna will have both A) made me lose five pounds and B) magically loosened the muscles in my neck and shoulders.

Crap. I still feel like I’m wound up tighter than a pocket watch.

I rub my neck, careful not to glance in Brett’s direction.

“Yep, feeling great.”

He exhales harshly and pulls me to sit on the floor between his legs.

Well, so much for trying to avoid physical contact. I suppose I shouldn’t actively try to avoid my sweet, wonderful boyfriend’s touch. Especially one with magic fingers.

Wow…how is he doing that? I’m melting right into the carpet.

I feel his stubbled chin run along my left earlobe, sending shivers throughout my body.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he hums.

I sit up a bit straighter.

“About what?”

“Soph, I took bio in high school. I may not be a nurse, but I know what melatonin is. And circadian rhythms, for that matter.” I can feel his body shivering with laughter.

“I…”

I have absolutely no comeback for that.

Crap. Crappity crap crap crap. I’ve been found out. A small giggle escapes my lips. And before I know it, I’m laughing full stop too.

“It was only a theory. It could have worked. Heat is supposed to relax tense muscles, you know,” I say eventually.

“Whatever you say, dear,” he says.

A thrill goes through me. Did he just call me “dear”?

“
‘Dear’
? How is that any better than ‘darling’?”

“I almost forgot about your challenge. Okay, how about…”

What kind of nicknames will he like? Hopefully nothing dumb like “snookums” or “cupcake.”

“…‘sweethe
art’?”

“Cute, but generic.”

“ ‘Sugar’?”

“Nah.”

“ ‘Muffin’?”

“Barf.”

Brett laughs. “No, you’re not much of a ‘muffin.’ Okay, how about ‘dingbat’?”

“Who are you, Archie Bunker?”

“ ‘Lambykins’?”

“Now you’re just Archie from the
Archie
comics.”

He strokes my hair.

“I always did like Betty more than Veronica.”

Yowza. That simple action makes my tummy do a weird little flip. I concentrate on the feel of his strong fingers working out the stress knots from my body. What a delicious feeling.

“Thanks for doing this,” I murmur.

“Anytime.”

I’m feeling relaxed.
Very
relaxed. And before I know it, I’m talking a bit more than I should.

“I guess it’s just all the stress from work. Nursing is so much harder than I thought it would be. I just feel so drained. Well, that and I’m a bit frustrated with life. I had all these plans, and now…”

“Now what?” he asks, while kneading my shoulders.

“Now, it’s too late. I’ve got bills to pay, and even if I had the opportunity to go back to school, I don’t know what I’d take. But even more than that, I’d just like to live a bit more. Have some fun, explore the world. Even my pantry is better traveled than I am.”

“Your pantry?”

“Yes! Have you ever looked at the labels in your pantry? Food comes from all over the world. Thailand, Guatemala, Brazil. It’s depressing that a can of corn has seen more of the world than I have.”

Doubt prickles my thoughts. Should I be talking about this?

I never talk about this stuff. Ever. It’s my private tirade, one that I never let people see. Part of me is desperately afraid that he’ll somehow think I’m ungrateful for all the good things I have. I have a roof over my head. A good-paying job. I live in a country where men don’t chase after me with machetes if I show my ankles.

Life is good.

How dare I be so arrogant as to be unsatisfied with the cards dealt to me? Ugh. How do I fix this impression Brett must have of me?

“Of course, every job has stress,” I backpedal. “And of course, I’ll probably travel someday. You know, once I pay off my student loan and stuff. And once the mortgage is down a bit.”

There. That’s sensible.

“Hmm.”

That’s all he says. Phew. Crisis avoided.

I eventually end up cuddled in Brett’s arms on the couch, sans puffer coat, and we watch the rest of
Mr. & Mrs. Smith
.

Despite my hormones screaming, “Jump him! For the love of God
jump him
!” we end the night with a kiss, and promise to meet later this week for a date night.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my arms wrapped around his waist as I look up into his eyes.

“Can’t tell you. That would spoil the surprise.”

Chapter 14

(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction

What am I going to wear?

This is my first real “date” with Brett. Meeting up for coffee and watching movies don’t count. Well, okay, they do count. But I don’t have to get really dressed up for those.

This sartorial meltdown has been going on for about two hours now. In the meantime, I’ve styled my hair into a mass of cascading curls, with the top layers artfully arranged into loops and twists. I’ve also finished my makeup, which took much longer than it should have. The dark circles under my eyes required a lot of TLC. Let’s just say that I’m still not sleeping well.

I can usually manage to get through the day without really thinking about Aaron. But at night, when I am still and quiet, it’s like my mind can’t help but open Pandora’s box. I toss and turn, my troubled sleep peppered with dreams about pale green eyes and forests at sunset.

Anyway, no time to think about that now.

Now, what to wear?

—

I eventually settle on a halter-neck, knee-length dress made of light, silky fabric. It’s a rich, navy blue color and, if I do say so myself, I look smoking hot in it.

A slight chill has settled over the air this evening. Perhaps it’ll rain? I hope not. I have a feeling that this will be “the big night,” if you catch my drift. I want tonight to be perfect.

What if tonight
is
the big night
? I’ve just realized that I haven’t…ahem, “landscaped” in a while. It’s not like I’ve had to show off to anyone in recent years.

Crap.

What if things do progress tonight? Will Brett judge my overgrown pubes? I have a sudden vision of me holding pillows over my groin and insisting that we do it in the dark. He’s picking me up at six, which means I have…only twenty minutes!!

Okay. Don’t panic. There should be some wax strips in the bathroom. Aha! Found some! The instructions are gone, but no worries. I’ve used home wax kits before. Piece of cake.

I don’t want to waste any time changing out of my dress and then having to put it back on, so I hike it up and stuff the front of it in my bra. There. Perfect. It won’t budge now.

I pull down my underwear and rub the strips vigorously to warm the wax. Why was I worried? This won’t take more than a couple seconds.

“Son of a BITCH!” I yell out.

I don’t remember them hurting
that
much. And now my pubes have a big bald spot in the middle, with bits of wax stuck around the perimeter.

Lovely. I might have sex tonight, and there’s a sticky, waxy rectangle framing my recent handiwork.

Awesome.

Ding dong!

Of course he’d show up early.

I heave a very disappointed sigh. So much for tonight being perfect. Well, maybe he won’t notice.

I hike up my panties, pull down my dress, and duck into my bedroom. I remember that it’s a bit chilly, so I pull out a luxurious red velvet wrap that was given to me a few Christmases ago but that I’ve never actually worn.

It offsets my navy blue dress perfectly.

Aaron always loved it when I wore red.

Stop it.

Okay, definitely can’t wear red tonight. It’s all I’ll think about all night if I do.

I hastily reach out for the first thing in my closet that will ward off the slight evening chill. It’s a fitted cardigan in bright yellow with understated beading down the front.

Perfect.

I run toward the door. Ouch! What’s pulling down there? Damn it! Leftover bits of wax have adhered to my panties, tugging with each step.

I should have just left it alone. Don’t fix what ain’t broke, as the saying goes. And who knows? Maybe Brett is one of those men who prefer healthy, natural…um, backwoods.

Anyway, don’t think about it. Mind over matter.

“Hi!” I exclaim as I open the door. My eyes scan him from head to toe.

Damn. He looks
gooooooood.

He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a crisp dress shirt that’s not tucked in. The top two buttons are undone. A gray pin-striped blazer completes the look. A hint of stubble reflects off of his jawline in the evening light. He looks downright edible.

An amused smile touches his lips.

“Did IKEA let you off early?” he asks, gesturing to my outfit.

What?

Oh…Perhaps navy and yellow wasn’t a good idea.

“Hardy har har,” I say, rolling my eyes.

He takes my hand and asks me to do a twirl in front of him. I happily comply. What girl doesn’t enjoy showing off her hard work? Minus the catastrophic wax incident five minutes ago, I feel like a complete star.

“You clean up well,” I say.

Brett offers his arm. “Thanks, babe. You look gorgeous. Shall we?”

Once we’re seated in his fancy black crew cab truck, I ask the question I’ve been dying to ask all day.

“Where are you taking me?” A nervous, excited edge is in my voice, making me sound a bit like a little kid. Should I be embarrassed by that?

I glance over at Brett, and he seems pleased that I’m so hyper.

Screw it—I’m done overanalyzing, wondering if I’m saying or doing the right thing. I think he likes me, just the way I am.

“Can’t ruin the surprise. Although don’t get your hopes up too much. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

He swallows hard, and darts his eyes back at the road.

Is he nervous? Maybe he thinks I won’t like the restaurant. Or is it something else? Maybe he thinks things will…you know, progress tonight too.

A while later, we arrive downtown and find a spot to park, not an easy feat on a Saturday night. My mind is working overtime, trying to figure out where we’re going.