Just Her Type (34 page)

“You don’t know that.” Kendra shifted her weight
from one foot to the other. “You
can’t
know for sure, but
I
know where my
heart and head are these days. I wouldn’t have come to you after all this time
if I didn’t know or if I still had doubts. I’ve never felt this way about
anybody. Never missed any of the others as much as I’ve missed you. But I
had
to wait. I
had
to be sure. I had to take a few beats, stop pinballing from one
serious relationship to another, and give myself a chance to work out some
other things first. I know the most I can hope for is your curiosity, maybe?
And that the daring side of you might be willing to take another chance,” her
voice pleaded as she looked him the eye. “And I don’t expect you to forgive in
an instant. It will take time. What you said that day we broke up was true. I
had so much fear. I’ve learned a lot about myself since then.
 
I never told you all about the things I
was desperately struggling with. And no, it’s not all wrapped up with a neat
little bow. I doubt it will ever have a neat little bow, but I’ve made peace
with that. You can’t control other people or their actions.”

“True. You taught me that.”

“You can only control your reactions. My
perspective is different. Better, I think, as I continue to work through my
complicated relationship with a family member.”

“Your mother?”

“I have two, but I’m referring to Vanessa. The
relationship itself hasn’t changed but how I view it and
her
have changed. The way I deal with her has changed. At first, I
thought I had to pretend this didn’t matter, you know. I had to come off
strong, I am woman and all. I had to act like I had it all together, all the
time, but I didn’t. I was a mess inside.”

“Oh, Kendra,” Dominic said, shaking his head. “Who
has it together all the time?
 
I
didn’t. I still
don’t
have it
together all the time. Like just a minute ago when I wasn’t letting you finish
a sentence. It’s not automatic. I still have to check myself.”

 
“I had
to be one up, or at least
act
one up,
you know.”

“One up. Oh, man, you know I can tell you a thing
or two about that,” he said. “And if we’re going for complete honesty here, at
times our relationship did become a bit of a power struggle. And I was set on
claiming victory, controlling the pace, taking the reins. I thought I knew what
was best for both of us so I pushed.”

“Complete honesty?”

 
Dominic nodded.

“Boy, did you ever,” she said. “You pushed. And
pushed some more.”

“And I’m sorry about that.”

“We both had our, um… Wait, I’m supposed to be
groveling, aren’t I?” she said with a small smile.

“Make room for me right down there with you. With
time apart, we’re more clear-eyed. There’s blame to go around.”

“But back to the one-upping, those strong
competitive tendencies—”

“They are not going anywhere,” he said. “We’re
competitive people. I actually admire that in you. Your spunk.”

“Same here. It can make a relationship fun and
exciting, but only in small doses.”

“It’s crucial to know where to draw the line.”

“I agree,” she said. “But I need to say something
else first. I’ve wanted you from the start, but what I know for sure is now I’m
comfortable with wanting you. There’s a big difference. And I’ll do whatever it
takes if you’ll give us another chance, if you’re still available. Are you?”

Dominic could not go another second without
touching her. He placed his hands on each side of her face still cool from the
elements. “Can’t you tell? I still love you,” he said, his voice dropping low
as he drew her in his arms and swept her off her feet. “And I never gave up on
you or us, dork-a-dingus that I am.”

“You’re my dork-a-dingus,” she said tenderly, eyes
misting. “So we start again?”

“I say…” He paused dramatically as if he actually
had to ponder the question, “Hell, yeah! There’s no winning for me without you,
baby.”

“Same here!”

“So let’s drink to that.” He spun her around and
then placed her back on her feet.

 
“At
the pub down the street? We can talk some more, hash out things, spell out the
new rules of gameplay, catch up on what we’ve been up to while we knock back a
few beers. Is it okay to tweak the fairy tale a bit?”

“I know how much you love revisions.”
 
He grinned.

“I love this revision.” Kendra ran her fingers
along his buzzed head. “Sexy.”

“But do you really want to go out?”

“Well, it
is
all warm and cozy here.”

“And I have a stash of your favorite micro-brew.
Let’s crack open more bottles. I have a head start on you.” He took her hand,
led her toward the living room, and pointed to two empty bottles on his coffee
table. “We can crank up the jukebox with all the sappy eighties love songs you
can stand.”

Dominic stopped near the sofa. Was he dreaming? He
closed his eyes and tipped his forehead against hers, still not believing she
was here and in his arms again.
 
“As
long as I know you want this. You want us.” He opened his eyes and studied her
face.

“I want us,” she said without hesitation. “I do. I
want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. So what do you say we
put the love conquers all back in?”

“There is something to be said for genre
conventions after all.”

“I love you, Dominic Tobias. I didn’t know what to
do with those feelings at first. But now, I’ll never get tired of saying it.”

“And I’ll never get tired of hearing it, Kendra
Porter.
 
But,
big
but
here—”

“What?”

 
“I
promise,” Dominic lifted one hand to take an oath, “no pressure. No mad dash to
the altar, no rush to pop out fat babies. We take it one day at a time,
enjoying life and each other.”

“I’m a tough negotiator. As long as the wedding
and those fat baby are still on the table.”

“Absolutely on the table.”

“Hey!” Kendra plucked at his faded T-shirt as if
she just noticed it. “I wore my Love Nest Ninjas T-shirt, too, for luck. It’s
under this sweater. Spooky synchronicity intact.” She looked around him and
pointed to the enormous crossbow leaning against a wall. “Hey, cool! New piece
of art?”

“No comment,” he said dryly.

They shared a long kiss, ushering in a fresh
start.

When they parted, Kendra sniffed. “What’s that
smell?”

“The pizza!” Dominic rushed to the kitchen with
Kendra on his heel. The smoke detector sounded. He turned off the oven, the
alarm, and then reached for the phone to contact his security monitoring
service.

 
Kendra
removed colorful squares from her coat pocket and shoved two at him.

“What are these?” he said after ending his call.

“Potholders.”
 
Kendra patted her bulging pockets.

“So you dole them out like business cards?”

“I’ve made so many. And it’s Christmastime! I gave
some to the guy who runs the taco truck near my apartment building, two nuns on
the subway on my way over here, and three teen boys I just saw outside. They
looked at me as if I’d sprouted two heads.
You
get a potholder! And
you
get a
potholder! And
you
get potholder!”
she aped Oprah and laughed.

How Dominic had mourned the loss of their silly
fun.

As Dominic removed the charred pizza from the oven
and dropped it on the stove top, he took a closer look at her handiwork. “So
you
made these?”

“I did.” Kendra beamed.

“Nice work.” He meant that as he admired the
orderly stitches.

“Much better than that heinous sweater, huh?”

“Hey, watch it. I love that sweater.” Dominic put
the potholders aside and moved until he had her back in his arms. “Damn, how
I’ve missed you. Missed us, like this.” He nipped at her lips.

“And I missed your cornucopia of corn, among other
things,” she said between kisses echoing through the room. “I ruined your
dinner.”

“Not your fault I was too distracted to set the
timer.” More smooches.

 
“You
were obviously hungry,” she said of the incinerated pizza. “Look at the size of
that thing.”

“Yeah, I am very hungry,” he whispered, easing her
hand downward. “Feel the size of this thing.”

“Oh, my.” She stroked his hardness as Dominic
slipped his tongue inside her eager mouth. He parted her coat and clutched to
her bottom for a decadent grind against her hips.

Kendra wrapped her hands around his neck and
moaned, almost surrendering to the kiss. “Hey!” Her eyes snapped open. “What
about your pitch slam?”

“What about it?” he asked, keeping her in his
arms.

“I have one more. A man and a woman rekindle their
romance, engage in their most hedonistic fantasies, and take their love and
devotion to one another to startlingly new heights, one day at a time.”

“Epilogue?”

“Happily ever after.
Duh.
”

Dominic grinned. “Oh, so you believe in those?”

“I do. Because of you. My one and only.”

“Hmmm. What about that all-important black
moment?”

“In the past,” Kendra purred and tugged him toward
the stairs leading to his bedroom. “But there’s plenty of action.”

“Oh, yeah? Sold.”

The End

If you enjoyed Dominic and
Kendra, check out Mitch and Jaimie.
 
Here’s an excerpt from
The
Flirtationship.

Chapter
1

Jaimie MacKenzie wheeled
her weathered Ford Focus onto Shangri-La’s driveway, half expecting to see
naked people dotting the surrounding green.

Instead, a smattering of birds, squirrels, and
insects reveled in the warmth of a late-May morning. Her car crawled ahead as
her heart rate accelerated. Nestled on acres of virgin forest and verdant
meadow, Shangri-La Naturist Retreat appeared to be a world unto itself.
 
A half-mile and a lush row of Ohio
Buckeyes separated its vine-threaded entrance from Interstate-275 and the rest
of civilization.

Jaimie was going in—until reality
drop-kicked her square in the gut: she might have to get naked!

After the forty-minute orientation tour,
Shangri-La rules required that all visitors strip down if they chose to
participate in Shangri-La activities or mingle with Shangri-La guests.
 
The unseasonably hot spring day,
reminiscent of July, hardly made dropping trou more appealing. Why couldn’t
Reuben Richardson have more conventional pastimes? Golfing, fishing, water-skiing,
heck, even big-game hunting, and bungee jumping were preferable to what awaited
her beyond the five-foot-high electronic gate encircling Shangri-La.
 
Dread settled in her stomach, but a
determination to focus on the positive kept the car rolling forward.
 
Richardson was as good as hers. Maybe
she’d timed her arrival just right.
 
With a flick of her wrist, she checked her watch again.
 
Richardson, scheduled to appear at noon,
should arrive in exactly...seven minutes.
 
She’d wait five before alerting the staff. That would buy thirty-eight
minutes for snooping around fully clothed. That is, if she could ditch her
Shangri-La guide.

At the speaker on the driver’s side of the narrow
gravel path, she announced herself and glanced around, surprised by the nearly
full parking lot on a workday. Obviously nudists or rather naturists— the
preferred term—didn’t have 9-to-5 jobs.
  
After the gate parted, she entered
to claim one of the few open parking spaces.
 

Tucking a small reporter’s notebook inside her
oversized fanny pack, she made her way toward a canopied area as instructed by
the posted signs.
 
Soon a golf cart
with an elderly driver rattled and putt-putted as it approached. The man, who
wore nothing but a bath towel cinched around his waist sarong-style, navigated
the cart. It idled in front of Jaimie.

Unnaturally white teeth, tube socks, and sneakers
glowed against a backdrop of sun-roasted skin.
 
“Climb aboard!” the old man bellowed,
before whisking her toward the administrative office.

“I’m Bernie Herman, but everybody calls me
Pops.”
 
He smiled, tipping his sun
visor.
 
Look Ma, No Tans Lines!
gleamed across the bill in bold iridescent letters.

Jaimie found her voice and a weak smile. “Uh, er,
nice to meet you, Pops.”
 
Unsure how
thoroughly he’d secured his towel, she kept her gaze on the gravel path before
them or his silvery blue eyes.

“You picked a great day for an orientation
tour.
 
One of our new members is due
for a dedication ceremony.
 
I’m sure
you’ve heard of Reuben Richardson.”

Had
she
ever!
 
“The Ice Cream King, right?”
  
The words eased off her lips,
though his name sent her adrenaline rampaging.
  
Reuben Richardson—the man
behind this madness!
 
She had become
obsessed with the eccentric multimillionaire after promising to deliver his
exclusive to
the
Corrinth Examiner.
An editor at the award-winning daily newspaper had practically promised her a
job if she could pull this off. With the newspaper industry in
upheaval—suffering from shrinking advertising dollars and print
circulation—new reporting positions had been scarce. This paper, however,
wanted to beef up its digital edition by hiring an additional reporter.
 
A full-time staff position at
the
Examiner
would mean
kissing
the
Butler County
Bee
goodbye. Hacking for the rag of a weekly had taken its toll.
 
At
the
Examiner,
she could tackle bona fide journalism and
cozy up to a fatter paycheck. Those extra bucks would go a long way to ease the
strain on her family’s finances.

She’d made up her mind to go after Richardson,
undeterred by the equally determined pack of print, radio, digital, and
television reporters who had done the same and failed over the years. Neither
Richardson’s power nor infamous distaste for the media had intimidated her.
 
He might have parlayed his granddaddy’s
two-truck milk delivery service into an international ice cream empire, but his
life story was just another puff piece. Hardly a notch up from the Porta Potti
scandal she’d exposed on page 1 of
the
Butler County Bee
after last year’s Veterans Day parade. But
Richardson was a means to a desperately desired end.

The scoop required savvy investigative reporting,
well-placed sources, and even her undercover tag—
Lynn
, her middle name.
 
No Bond Girl panache there, but at least she’d never made the
cover-blowing mistake of not answering to it.

Undercover tactics were one thing.
 
No-cover tactics were another.
 
The possibility of infiltrating a
compound full of
 
people who enjoyed
“social nudity” just
 
to get close
to Richardson had never occurred to her until earlier that morning, when she’d
discovered he would appear at Shangri-La at noon.
 
She’d jumped at the chance to get a
crack at him. Who knew when she’d nab another hot tip?

Pops broke her reverie. “Shangri-La’s brimming with
a lot more excitement than usual today. A man as successful as Mr. Richardson
should give the place an air of respectability.”

The administrative office, housed in a
dome-shaped, burnt orange stucco building circled by purplish puffs of barberry
shrubs and large leafy hydrangeas, popped into view in the clearing just
ahead.
 
The driver bounded out, and
skirted the grill of the cart to the passenger side, extending his hand to
assist Jaimie. “Trudie, the manager, is inside.
 
Hope you enjoy your visit.”
  
Pops took off toward the group of
towel-clad people playing volleyball on a vast square of sand a few feet away
.
Yes!
 
Jaimie hadn’t been as
happy to see so many towels since Kmart’s last white sale.
 
She hadn’t encountered one butt-naked
person yet. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. A brassy blonde with dark
roots waited at the door.
 
So far
so good.

The woman wore an over-sized
Shed Your Threads
T-shirt that reached mid-thigh. “Nice to meet you, Lynn,” she said with a
Kentucky-fried drawl and extended acrylic talons for a shake. “I’m Trudie. We
spoke on the phone.”

“Hello.”
 
Jaimie scanned the surroundings. Those in the office did mundane tasks,
wearing more terry cloth—tied wrap- or sarong-style. A petite brunette
with a Betty Boop tattoo on her left shoulder answered the ringing phone at the
reception desk.
 
A sunburned guy
with a screwdriver in hand and a tool belt swinging low over his towel-covered
hips tinkered with an old Motorola in the corner.
  
In the recreation room to the
right of the lobby, Jaimie heard tinkling laughter and the staccato click-clack
of two chubby young women engaged in a vigorous table tennis match.

“Have we met before?”
 
Trudie asked, cocking her head to one
side. “You look familiar to me.”

“No, I don’t believe we have.” Jaimie’s cover
would be blown if Trudie made the connection to the head shot published along
with Jaimie’s newspaper columns.
 
Donning some sort of discreet disguise, at least an understated wig, in
the future might not be a bad idea.

“So, you’re thinking of joining Shangri-La?”
Trudie lifted a clipboard and pen off a nearby counter.

 
Still
uneasy about misrepresenting herself, Jaimie avoided making eye contact as she
served up one of many fabrications necessary to get the job done. “Sounds like
fun.”

“Have you ever been to a naturist retreat before?”

“No.’’
 

Trudie quirked a penciled-in brow as if she could
see right through her. “Why now?”
 

Jaimie evaded the woman’s hawkish gaze and feigned
interest in the cheesy watercolors of nude people adorning the wood-paneled
walls.
 
“I’ve always thought I’d
enjoy the freedom of being unencumbered by this.”
 
She plucked at her blazer and the
polyester tank top underneath.

“You can always walk around in the privacy of your
home without clothes. Why join a naturist retreat?”

Jaimie hesitated a moment too long. Did she really
expect to just waltz in and poke around without someone poking back?
 
Forced to look the manager in the eye,
she replied, “Well, true, but…but… here, um, there’s no indoor
confinement.
 
I’d love to feel a
soft breeze and the warm sun on every inch of my skin.” She gestured toward one
of the watercolors. “Like the happy folks frolicking in these pictures here.”

Trudie went through the motions of a smile,
clearly unconvinced.
 
“We’re a
family resort. All sorts of good solid citizens of the community are members
here—young, old, doctors, lawyers, teachers, housewives, even business
tycoons. The atmosphere is clean and respectable. We can sniff out people who
come here looking for…for…something other than what goes on here, if you know
what I mean.
 
There’s tennis,
volleyball, swimming, hiking, camping, and wholesome parties and get-togethers
that all ages can enjoy. This is not nor has it ever been a swingers or singles
club.”
  
Trudie hit Jaimie with
an accusatory glare.

The manager had obviously misinterpreted nervous
energy as something lascivious. Jaimie squared her shoulders.
 
She was a class act. Didn’t she look the
part in her navy business suit?
 
Her
skirt grazed her knees with unrelenting appropriateness and her tank top barely
skimmed her curves.
 
She’d button
her jacket if she didn’t require quick access to her bulging fanny pack.
 
Instead, she dropped her hands and
bristled at the woman’s nerve.
 
But
indignation would not get the best of her.
 
“I understand,” Jaimie said, keeping the edge out of her voice. “Sounds
like just the sort of place I’m looking for!” She smiled with as much sincerity
as she could muster to ease Trudie’s suspicions. It worked. The stern lines of
the manager’s savagely tanned face softened.

Jaimie touched the wax daffodils in a vase on the
reception counter. “Speaking of activities…Mr. Herman, uh, I mean Pops
mentioned that there was something special going on today.”

“Ah yes. Reuben Richardson, one of our newest members,
donated a beautiful bronze fountain to the grounds,” Trudie said. “We’re having
a special dedication ceremony as soon as he arrives.”

“Isn’t he here already?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s been detained by
business.
 
He promised to get here
as soon as he could, though.”

Jaimie chewed her bottom lip.
 
Of all the dumb luck. She checked her
watch and the wall clock that ran five minutes too fast.
 
Its tick resonated through the room like
a time bomb. The countdown had begun.
 
Thirty-five minutes until strip time!
Gah!

“As I told you on the phone,” Trudie explained as
if reading her thoughts, “you’re allowed to keep your clothes on for the guided
tour, but if you want to stay longer to take part in the festivities you’ll
have to disrobe.”
 
She moved to a
shelf, her flip-flops slapping the ceramic tiles.
 
She removed a folded white square and
held it out for Jaimie’s inspection.
  
“You’ll be given a towel like this one.
 
Shangri-La rule number one, no bare
bottoms are to touch any of the furniture, for sanitary purposes, of course.
And besides, flesh sticking to vinyl can be dreadfully unpleasant in this
heat.
 
Rule number two, the towel is
usually for sitting, but we’re making an exception today. Mr. Richardson
requested that we all cover up for his wife’s sake. It seems Mrs. Richardson
hasn’t wrapped her brain around the Shangri-La concept just yet. Poor dear,
probably has deep-seated body image issues. She’ll come around eventually.
 
But in the meantime he really wants her
with him at the dedication ceremony. So today, and today only, you may fashion
a wrap with your towel. Soon as Mrs. Richardson departs
after
the ceremony, it’s business as usual.’’

Jaimie nodded, relaxing her grip on the towel. All
the creative twisting and knotting in the world wouldn’t make it adequate
coverage.

 
“You
can leave your towel here for now, but should you choose to stay, I’ll go over
the rest of the regulations before you’re set loose on the grounds.”
 
Trudie waved at a short, balding man
passing by.
 
While his frame was
slight, a belly bulged over his towel wrap. He had spindly legs with bony knots
for knees and boat-like feet tucked in chunky Teva sandals. “That’s Lars
Washington, one of our oldest and most generous members.”