Enlisted by Love (19 page)

Donald gave her an adoring look. Ordinarily, Greta appreciated adoring looks, even felt they were her due. Unfortunately, when she gazed into his eyes, all she could think was,
Hello, anyone home
? It was vexing. She wanted very much to like Donald. They had a great deal in common. In addition, he was attractive and employed, both plusses in her book. He was a good dancer — and didn't require her to dance the Texas two-step. He enjoyed courting her — taking her places he thought she'd like, flattering her with compliments, sending flowers regularly, and bringing her little gifts. These exemplary qualities had the effect of making him only somewhat more tolerable than Tess's mutt Rufus.

There was no reason she should not enjoy Donald's company. He was always decorous and polite, never demanding or bossy. This had the effect of leaving her cold from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

She'd been optimistic that with patience he would grow on her — until tonight. He had taken her to Zen Zero again, with the vacuous remark that it was “their” place and their one month anniversary.

Anniversary of what?
she wondered. There was nothing between them to celebrate, so what was she doing, sitting here bored out of her mind? Waiting for Donald to become something he wasn't? That was a bad bargain for both of them.

“Did I tell you about my golf outing last Sunday?” he asked and then and there she decided to break the news to him. Immediately, instead of waiting for a better time. They had not ordered their meals yet, so she intercepted the waiter and paid for their drinks. Donald protested, reaching for his wallet, and she said, “I can't ask you to pay the tab after I tell you we're not dating anymore,” she explained. She didn't like to add insult to injury. Donald hadn't been offensive or ungentlemanly. His only failing was that he bored her senseless.

It took him a moment to catch her meaning. She saw the light dawning in his eyes. He blinked. Then he opened his mouth and closed it several times, like a gasping fish. He wouldn't be pleased to know that that would be the last impression she had of him. Her belly clenched as she waited for his response. It wasn't his fault she couldn't appreciate his finer qualities, but she knew better than to try to offer explanations at this stage. If they'd been dating seriously, for a long time, she would have felt obligated to try to describe what had gone wrong, but she knew from experience that saying anything now would only invite him to try to change her mind, which she wasn't going to do.

Without a word, he gave her a nod, then stood stiffly, dropped his napkin to the table, and walked outside. The restaurant door jangled closed behind him, as if he had tried to slam it but it hadn't cooperated. He stood outside the front window for a moment, then strode down the sidewalk away from the restaurant.

Her shoulders slumped in relief. She glanced at her watch. She'd give him a few minutes to get in his car and leave. She'd driven separately instead of letting him pick her up because a late afternoon client meeting had run long. Now she was glad she'd avoided the awkwardness of asking him to drive her home or having to call Tess and ask to be picked up. With a jolt, she realized that she had never let Donald pick her up at her house. She always liked having her own car at the ready, a convenient way to escape. It required a lot of energy to always have a Plan B and it sometimes squeezed the spontaneity out of her life, but it made her much safer.

She glanced at her watch again. There. That had given him enough time to go away. Now she wouldn't run into him on the sidewalk or in the parking lot. If she did, then it meant he wanted to confront her deliberately, and she had the pepper spray in her purse for that eventuality. She got to her feet, then shrugged into her coat. She unclasped her bag and dug out her car keys.

“Greta!”

She turned. Of course. Ian. He was just what she needed now. She narrowed her eyes at him. She hadn't seen him come in. Had he witnessed the entire episode between her and Donald? Probably.

“Are you leaving?” he asked. Innocently, as if he hadn't watched her kicking Donald to the curb.

“Yes,” she said.

“I'll walk you to your car.”

“You don't need to do that.” She could kick Ian to the curb, too. The problem was, he never quite
went
.

“I don't mind,” he said. Which was not the point, she felt. The waiter approached with his takeout meal, and Ian turned to pay for it. While he was distracted, she shouldered her bag and pushed her way out the front door. Glancing both ways — did she really think Donald was going to spring out at her and beg her to take him back? — she tightened her fingers on the strap of her bag and headed to the parking lot on Sixth and Massachusetts. It was just a few blocks north. The evening was cool and she pulled her coat close around her as she walked.

“You are a contrary lady,” a voice next to her ear said a little breathlessly.

She jumped a little but didn't lose her grip on her keys. She said in an unruffled voice, “I told you I would be fine.”

“I know you could fend off a riot of Iraqi insurgents single-handedly,” he said. “I just thought you might like some company.”

Her pointed silence was not lost on him. He laughed and said, “Okay, point taken. However, I parked in the lot on Sixth, which is where I believe you're headed. So I can either walk with you or keep a respectful three paces behind.”

“I prefer the three paces behind,” she said, fully expecting he would ignore her, but he abruptly fell back until she was ahead of him by a yard or two. That was more annoying than him walking next to her and gabbing at her. She felt ridiculous knowing he was watching her. On the other hand, conceding was exactly what he wanted her to do. Did she want to let him win? She sighed. It didn't have anything to do with winning or losing.

Did it?

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You are an extremely trying man,” she told him. “Come ahead.”

Ian smiled, a warm smile that shouldn't make her feel good, like she had done the right thing, but it did, and that was irritating, too. He didn't seem to hurry, but lengthened his strides until he was next to her. “You sound like Michael's mother,” he remarked.

“I'm turning into Michael's mother,” Greta said without thinking, folding her arms over her chest.

Ian didn't respond right away.

Provoked, she snapped, “You're supposed to say, ‘That could never happen to you, Greta.'”

“I hate to break it to you,” Ian said.

She stopped at the corner of Sixth Street, fuming. It was true she was turning into Mrs. Manning. She tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the cars to pass through the intersection. Unfortunately, she didn't know how to change things. When the traffic was clear, she walked across the street to the parking lot, Ian by her side like a faithful retriever.

“Not that there's anything wrong with Michael's mother,” he said virtuously.

Greta shook her head, trying to dislodge her negative thoughts. Maybe if she ignored them, they'd go away. Maybe if she ignored him, he'd go away, too. She reached her car, then went around to the driver's side. “I don't want to turn into Michael's mother,” she muttered, unlocking the driver's side door.

“I can see why. Very awkward all around.”

She smacked him on the arm. “You know what I mean.”

She felt his nearness, the warmth of his body blocking the cold wind as he opened the car door for her. He was big but he didn't seem threatening to her. But she was a fool and she had believed that before. What made her think this time would be different? What made her think she'd learned anything that would allow her to choose wisely?

“Kiss me,” she said before she could stop herself.

“What are you up to?”

She had never been quizzed before by a man she'd asked to kiss her. Of course, she'd never asked a man to kiss her before. “Trying not to turn into Michael's mother. Kiss me.”

He leaned down, touched her lips gently with his.

“Stop,” she said against his mouth.

He lifted his head. “Okay.”

She knew his eyes searched her face, though she couldn't quite meet his gaze. “How does that help you not become like Michael's mother?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. Now she was confused. He'd been very gentle and stopped when she asked, but —

“Are you kidding?” he asked. His voice was cheerful. “It's not really a great hardship to kiss you, Greta.”

“I have to go,” she said, feeling breathless. “I'm sorry, I got carried away. I'm not a tease, Ian. I just — ”

“Got carried away. I know.” Now she met his gaze. The look in his eyes was unreadable.

“I'd better go,” she said miserably. He touched her cheek as she turned to get into the car.

“I don't think you're in any danger of becoming like Michael's mother anytime soon,” he said, and then turned and walked away.

“How's it going with Greta?” Tess asked. It was Sunday afternoon. Ian was trying to watch a football game with Michael, but he should have known better than to think he could watch a football game here without getting the third degree from Tess.

“I have no idea,” Ian said, swallowing a slug of root beer.

“What does that mean? I thought you ran into her on Friday. Downtown.” She had, in fact, given him the intelligence that Greta had another date with Donald at Zen Zero. She had just casually mentioned it, and he had just as casually filed the information away, both of them knowing full well he intended to show up so that she would be forced to compare deadly dull Donald with Ian. Who was not deadly dull. He couldn't quite figure out what Greta thought of him.

“Ian?” Tess nudged him with her elbow.

“I did,” he said. “I did indeed run into her on Friday.”

“And?” Another jab of her elbow. “Did you get a sense that she was — uh, softening towards you?”

Where was Michael when a man needed him? Tucking Belinda into bed and telling her the story of Noah's Ark. He knew that because Belinda had begged for it on her way to bed.

And of course Tess had taken the opportunity Michael's absence presented in order to corner Ian.

Was Greta softening toward him? She'd said,
Kiss me
. Which had seemed promising at the time. Not so much at the moment.

“Oh, yeah,” Ian muttered.

“What happened?” Tess demanded. “You can't just leave me speculating.”

He eyed her. Yes, he could. He could take his root beer and leave. He could watch the rest of the game in his own house. In his very own Barcalounger. The one Greta had bought as a gift for him. It hadn't shown up on an invoice, anyway. She probably didn't want there to be any proof that she'd actually bought it. She had purged all record of it. He smiled at the thought. Tess grabbed his shoulder and shook until his teeth practically rattled.

“Spill!” she demanded.

“What did she tell you?” he countered.

“She refused to talk about it.” Tess subsided on the sofa cushion. “So that's a good sign.”

“That's a good sign? How can that be a good sign?”

“It is,” she insisted. “You're making progress.”

“Progress.” Ian shrugged. If you made progress in infinitesimal increments, so small that they could not be detected by the naked eye, could it truly be considered progress? He took another swallow of root beer.

“What happened?” she nearly shrieked.

“I kissed her. She said, ‘Stop.' So I did. Then she left me standing in the parking lot.”

“She what?” Tess demanded. “What?”

“How can I explain it to you?
I'm
still trying to figure out what happened.”

She frowned. “I don't understand her.”

“Me either,” he said.

A pause. Then he said, “Now what?”

“I have no idea,” said Tess, biting her lip. Then an unexpected smile transformed her face and Ian said, “What?” He wasn't sure if he should be encouraged or afraid.

• • •

Michael had barely finished the furniture in time. At the last possible moment, Ian had decided to host a dinner party on Saturday. Greta had agreed to attend after he'd mentioned that he'd invited Tess and Michael, but before he'd informed her that they'd declined owing to previous plans. Which made Greta mighty suspicious — what previous plans? — but by then she couldn't very well withdraw her acceptance. She consoled herself with the knowledge that it would be a good way to do some networking. When guests asked who did the interior design, as they inevitably would, she'd have her business card ready.

But of course there had been delay after delay in completing the project, so Greta found herself putting the final touches in the dining room half an hour before the party was scheduled to start. She'd just sent the electrician on his way and now the lights were working. She wasn't going to take bets on how long that would last, but she'd laid in a supply of candles and matches.

She glanced at her watch. The movers still hadn't turned up with the last bench for the dining room table, but they'd called and promised they were en route. She'd made a frantic phone call to Michael earlier, who had promised that while he had hurried to finish the bench, he had not rushed the job and it would not collapse in the middle of the meal. Her subsequent calls to him had gone directly to voice mail, which was annoying but also very sensible of him.

Goodness, she was nervous, as if it were
her
dinner party, the first she'd ever thrown.

The caterers were already in the kitchen. The living room, which had been ready for a week, looked lovely. But of course it was a dinner party, so it was the dining room that would be on display, and the dining room wasn't finished yet. And she wasn't ready either. She took a deep breath. She'd brought her dress, knowing she'd be cutting it fine and that she probably wouldn't have time to go home and change, then come all the way back across town. It would only take a moment to change. It would all work out fine, and if it didn't she would blame the failure on Ian.