Melt Into You (5 page)

Oh yeah.
And
being dragged into a nearby office for a more private make-out session at Giada’s insistence.

Because, Damon told himself further, a man’s definition of true love had to be flexible. Right now, his definition included whispered terms of endearment in a language he didn’t entirely understand, a stand-up quickie in a sunlit, out-of-the-way vacant office ... and a woman who screamed when she came.

Hey, everyone said love was a many splendored thing. Who the hell was Damon to argue? If
this
was love, he was in.

Chapter 4

June 2007
San Diego

Natasha’s first clue that her day might not go well was when she felt her battered Civic swerve sharply sideways. A weird clunking sound came next. Then, as she cautiously pulled into the breakdown lane on I-5, she felt her car dip ominously.

A minute later, staring at the blown-out treads on her left front tire, Natasha frowned. This was why everyone urged her to spend some money on a new car. Given her escalating salary at Torrance Chocolates, she could—technically—afford to buy herself something a little flashier, or at least a lot more reliable.

But as Natasha popped open the trunk and wrestled out her trusty jack from beneath her three-year-old son’s beach towels, playground ball, spare bottles of water, and sandcastle-building toys, she knew she wouldn’t do it. Not only was she reluctant to spend money unnecessarily—especially now—but she also knew she felt too sentimental about her car to give it up.

With grumpy forbearance, she eyed her Civic. The paint was scratched on the driver’s side rear door. That had happened on the day she’d started working with Damon and Jimmy. Damon had generously given her some additional up-front vacation days (“The honeymoon should last at least as long as the sunburn,” he’d insisted with a grin while shooing her out of the office), and Natasha had been so eager to meet up with Paul afterward and share her good news that she’d almost taken out one of the support beams of their apartment complex’s covered parking structure.

Instead, she’d merely splintered the support beam. A little. Which, as Natasha had later explained to her landlord (and mother-in-law), Carol Jennings, had been a blessing in disguise. Because the termite infestation that had been discovered during the beam’s repair would have cost
thousands
more to deal with if it hadn’t been uncovered until later.

Fortunately for Natasha, Carol had seen things her way. From that day on, they’d gotten along famously, too—which was saying something, given everything that had happened since then.

After getting out her spare tire, Natasha ran her fingers over a crunched-in spot on the bumper. It was only noticeable if you looked closely, so she’d assured herself it didn’t need fixing. That particular ding had happened on the day she’d come home early from a business trip—just over four years into her marriage—to find her husband naked with a model in his artist’s studio, indulging his “creativity” in new and unexpected ways.

Natasha had been so shaken by Paul’s infidelity—especially in light of the way
she’d
selflessly set aside her own attraction to Damon and devoted herself to her family—that she’d backed out too fast from her parking space and collided with the car adjacently parked by Paul’s favorite “muse.”

Natasha had offered to pay for the damage, of course. But Paul’s luscious, doe-eyed, twentysomething Mexican muse—freshly in town from Cancun, where she and Paul had met
during Natasha and Paul’s honeymoon
—had refused to accept (also, of course). But Natasha still thought the incident qualified as poetic justice. She also figured it was smart to remember life-altering events like that one, which was another good reason not to have the dent fixed.

Sometimes people needed reminders to stay strong.
She
needed a reminder that her own judgment could be flawed. She’d trusted Paul. He’d betrayed her by scampering off to be with his alluring “muse” full-time (strictly for the sake of his art), leaving Natasha to raise their toddler, Milo, on her own (with a little help from hands-on Super Grandma, Carol), and Natasha had realized, too late, that her heart could feel as broken as her poor beat-up car did. If she ever felt
sure
she could trust herself again, she’d promised herself after that, she would fix that dent. In the meantime ... she was getting by okay.

Like her life, her Civic was imperfect. But she’d worked a lot of hours—at a variety of part-time retail wage-slave jobs—to pay for that car, Natasha reminded herself as she crouched beside it to work the jack. She’d been
proud
to put down her own money on it. She’d been proud to slip behind the wheel, inhale that new-car smell, and know
she’d
accomplished buying it all by herself.

No one in her family had ever owned anything but used cars; Natasha had blazed the new-car trail. Her parents, who still lived in the nearby working-class community of El Cajon, had been beside themselves with pride. They’d even taken snapshots of her striking a cheesy pose beside her Civic like an auto show model. Just the memory of those pictures made her smile.

As much as her beleaguered marriage did, her Civic proved that Natasha didn’t give up on things easily. Her car had taken her to classes at UCSD, to friends’ houses, and to the mall, she reflected as she finished changing the tire while cars whizzed past a few feet away. It had taken her on road trips, on beach runs, and all the way to her life-changing interview with Jimmy Torrance. Today, she remembered wryly, it was supposed to have taken her to the launch of the hot new Apple gadget, the iPhone.

Damon was
dying
for an iPhone. But since he was in Italy working on the Bandini Espresso deal, and the gadget was only available in the U.S. for now, Natasha had volunteered to stay behind—which she tried to do as often as possible, for Milo’s sake—and score one for him. As she gave the last lug nut a final spin, then jacked down her Civic, she kind of regretted doing so. Most likely, Damon was enjoying himself right now. He usually was. And she ... well, she just needed to get on with it.

Natasha’s second clue that her day might be less than spectacular occurred when she finally arrived at the Fashion Valley Mall, made her way toward the Apple Store, and realized, with a sinking heart, that she could barely
see
the Apple Store.

The whole mall was thronged with lined-up customers, gadget devotees, gawkers, and even local media. She spotted a B-Man Media crew getting the scoop on the regular networks. She saw bystanders filming with camcorders. She heard ... was that
cheering
?

It was. Following the sound, Natasha looked across the open-air mall. To the delighted shouts of the people waiting—some of whom looked as though they might have
slept
in line last night in sleeping bags, like those
Star Wars
fans on the news—dozens of Apple employees marched over to open the store.

It was mayhem—
ridiculous
mayhem. Being there was like being a wallflower at the prom, standing on the sidelines, then seeing the king and queen and their court making their grand entrances. No one else mattered. With their clean-cut looks, minimalist T-shirts and pants, and ID badges, the Apple Store employees had the only keys to the candy store. All eyes were locked on them.

People surged forward. Suddenly in real danger of being trampled, Natasha stepped back. Damon had warned her that it might be tricky getting one of the launch-day iPhones, but this was absurd.

“I thought you were kidding,” Natasha murmured as she was pushed back a little farther. Far,
far
beyond her position, the store’s doors opened at last. The crowd literally went wild.

Oh boy. If she was supposed to cope with this, she needed coffee first. She, unlike Damon, wasn’t typically surrounded by eager yes-men—not to mention willing yes-women—who wanted to serve coffee to her in fine china with biscotti on the side.

Groaning in resignation, Natasha beelined toward Starbucks. By the time she got a little more caffeinated, things would probably have settled down somewhat. If not, then at least she’d be better able to cope with it than she was right now.

But then, digging in her laptop bag for cash to pay the barista, Natasha encountered the bundle of mail she’d stuffed inside to sort through. She had, at a minimum, expected to kill some time at the Apple Store. As a single mother, she’d mastered the art of being prepared, too. But as she browsed through her bills, junky postcards, and magazine subscription offers while waiting for her extra-hot, no-foam, triple soy latte, she spotted one particular envelope ... and her whole body went still.

Staring at the letterhead on the envelope, Natasha felt the world around her receding. The other customers turned invisible. The hubbub in the mall went mute. The cutesy slang employed by the baristas fell away, replaced by an indecipherable hum. Everything blurred into nothingness as Natasha’s third clue that her day wasn’t going to go well invaded her consciousness.

No, Natasha realized as her fingers started to shake. It didn’t just invade her consciousness. It didn’t simply make the world seem unreal and far away and inconsequential. This time, her burgeoning bad day reared back, gave her a nasty smile, then kicked her in the teeth. Because inside that envelope could be only one thing: Natasha’s official, fully finalized, now-it’s-really-happening set of divorce papers.

Numbly, she clutched them. Somehow she’d expected this to feel different. She’d expected ... something other than this.

“Triple latte?” the barista said. “Is this one yours?”

Startled, Natasha glanced at the friendly redheaded woman across the bar.
Nothing
was hers anymore, she thought in a daze. Not the future she’d expected, not the predictable day she’d had planned ... nothing. She shook herself. “Um, yes. I guess so.”

“I have an extra shot back here if you want it.” Sympathetically, the barista nodded toward her espresso machine. “You look as though you could use it. Tough day already?”

Trying to rally, Natasha raised her envelope. “I just got my divorce papers. We’ve been separated for a while now, but ... I guess everything’s finally finalized. It’s really official.”

“Oh. Wow.” The barista peered at her. Decisively, she took back her latte, added an extra shot of inky, crema-topped coffee, then replaced the lid. She nudged it toward Natasha, then shook her head. “Sorry. Not exactly your lucky day, huh?”

Natasha gave a helpless laugh. If Damon had been born under a lucky star,
she’d
been born under a gloomy, gray, rain-spitting, thunder-crackling, cartoony cloud of misfortune. Her “lucky” lottery-ticket numbers never won. Her Civic broke down at the worst possible times. Her excursions to the beach brought rain, her surfing forays meant wipeouts (no matter how many lessons she took), and her bad-hair days were legendary. It probably wasn’t possible that she was genuinely unlucky and doomed to haplessness. But sometimes it sure felt that way.

The best part of her life was Milo. Her son, as adorable as he was, didn’t officially qualify as a lucky charm.

“If one lucky day is all we get, I think I missed mine,” Natasha said wryly. “It must have sneaked past when I wasn’t looking.”

“Well, maybe it’ll come around again. You never know.” The barista grinned encouragingly. She nodded at Natasha’s envelope. “Besides, you’re probably better off without the bastard anyway. Right?”

Better off without Paul?
Truthfully, Natasha had never thought of it that way before. She’d spent so long putting his needs first, tending to their relationship the way her neighbor, Kurt, looked after his prizewinning begonias, making sure her husband felt valued and respected and loved. Even after they’d separated, she’d considered Paul’s feelings and needs.

In fact, Natasha reflected, she’d done more caretaking of Paul than his own mother had lately. Carol, after years of giving her “artsy” son a pass for his misbehavior, had quit making excuses for him. In the interest of making sure she could see Milo—and help Natasha with babysitting—Carol had given her a standout deal on rent and a lot of support, too. They’d worked out a really friendly, mutually caring relationship.

Staring again at her divorce papers, Natasha reconsidered.

Better off without Paul?
Could it be true?

“Maybe I am!” Natasha said with a sudden burst of defiance.

This wasn’t the fifties. She wasn’t a hopeless housewife with no job, no future, and no prospects for fun. She could date again. She could find someone new. She could be happy!

It wasn’t as if her divorce finalization had come as a surprise. Technically speaking, Natasha had known those papers were on their way. She just hadn’t wanted to think about them.

She’d had a lot of good reasons
not
to think about them.

But now ... “Thanks for the coffee. And the pep talk!” Mustering a smile, Natasha stuffed away her divorce papers. She dropped a generous tip in the jar, then used her amped-up latte to salute the barista. “Today, that was just what I needed.”

As if punctuating her statement, her cell phone rang. At the sound of her saucy new Beyoncé ringtone, Natasha smiled a little more widely. Paul
wasn’t
“Irreplaceable.” Not to her. Not anymore. Just like Beyoncé had in the video,
she
could move on.

But first ... “Hello?”

“Tasha?” Amy Huerta’s panicky-sounding voice crackled over the connection. “Thank God you’re there! I’m freaking out.”

“Amy?” Instantly concerned, Natasha cradled her cell phone. Balancing all her things, she moved to a quieter corner of the coffee shop. She set down her belongings. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Jason. And Damon.” Amy gulped back a sob. “And Wes and Giada and the
Tifosi
girl! It would have been me, too, if I hadn’t been in the bathroom when it happened, but I was, so—”