Scrambled Babies (31 page)

“That good, huh?” Paeton said hollowly.  She was supposed to feel relief.  But all she felt was a sudden emptiness at the thought that Steve Kaselman was exiting her life—for good.

If he didn’t call, would she have the courage to call him?  And even if she did, would it change anything?

#

Paeton stood unsteadily, trying to make her finger punch the first button for his phone number.  Her heart was in her throat.  It was ridiculous to be so tense about it.  She had a ninety percent chance of getting Greta anyway.  She had been standing there for at least five minutes.  The girls were out with Rosa, so no one could see her equivocation.

Ring!

It was her cell phone calling her from a table across the room. She stood frozen. Three people knew her cell phone number: Rosa, Fred and—him!  She knew it couldn’t be Rosa.  She never had an emergency she couldn’t handle.  Paeton knew Fred was keynote-address speaker at today’s Romance Writers of America conference.  The person on the other end had to be— 

She couldn’t move.  The cell phone crouched on the table like an ugly, sleeping spider that had been rudely awakened.

Ring!

She moved slowly toward the phone, her mind jumbled, doing her best to rehearse an aloof response if she managed the courage to answer it. 

Ring!

She hung over the creature, steadying herself. 

Ring!

She saw the caller ID—it was him! One more ring and it would go to voice mail. She lifted the phone shakily to her ear.  “Hello?”

“Paeton.  Hi!  It’s me.  Sorry I didn’t call.  You probably didn’t know it, but a fellow sportscaster died in a car wreck, and I’ve been doing double duty.  I—we needed some quality time to straighten this thing out, and I simply didn’t have it.  I hope you’ll forgive me.”  He paused briefly.  “By the way, I saw the show last night.  From what I’ve read in the papers, things look positive for both of us.”

Paeton started to respond but decided against it.  Straighten things out?  Could they ever straighten anything out?

He didn’t wait for her to speak.  He continued talking very fast, not letting her get a word in.  That seemed to be his plan.  “You know, I started thinking that all I do is make you angry.  So maybe there is nothing to work out.  Maybe we need to call it quits.  But it’s been so wild, I figured we owed it to Destiny to trumpet our laying down of swords.”

He hesitated, waiting for a response.  This time, even had she wanted to, Paeton was too shocked by his words to respond.  She had to find a place to sit.  Her head was reeling.  She hadn’t dreamed he would ever be the one to end the relationship.  Or whatever it was they had.

When she remained silent, he continued.  “So, call it closure.  Call it act three.  Call it just for we-really-didn’t-have-any-old-times-to-call-it-for-old-time’s-sake sake.  I don’t care what you call it, but will you have dinner with me one last time?”

Was he being silly?  Serious?  Is he calling it quits?  He wants to go out to dinner?

Once again, he knocked her off balance.  She loved it when he did.  She hated it when he did.

“Please?  You’ll feel guilty forever if you deny me this psychological need.”  He paused again for a response.  Getting none, he persisted.  “Come on.  You’ll be responsible for the mental destruction of the world’s greatest apologizer if you don’t have dinner with me.”

Yes.  He was.  He was flirting like crazy.  He was teasing like crazy.  She could envision his wheedling smile as he coaxed her to accept.  He never had any intention of calling it quits between them.  He had gotten her guard down.  He had caused her confusion.  That rotten, no-good—now she was mad!  He doesn’t call for a week and then dinner?  She’d burn in hell before she’d accept!

And why should she?  The TV show had indeed been a great success.  She had been making great progress on the screenplay—at least fifteen pages.  SMACK had lifted the boycott.  She was a shoo-in for National Single Mom of the Year.  Everything was right with the world.  Except she was dying to accept Kaselman’s invitation to dinner, and she’d be damned if she would ever talk to the man again!

“Paaae-ton?  Come ah-on.  Chez d’Paris?”  His voice was sing-songy.  Playing with her.  She felt a grin begin to break her frown.  “Okay, I can feel you’re very close to accepting.”  He paused.  “Paeton?  You’re still there, right?  Or am I talking to myself here?”

As aloofly as she could through her smile, she answered, “I’m here.”  She was going to make him suffer.

He was stumbling.  “Good.  Good.  Uh, Paeton, okay, here are my rules of behavior.”  Now he wasn’t quite so sure of himself.  She finally had him going. 
Good!  Let the little snot squirm some! 

“I won’t openly wince when you refer to me as Kaselman.  I will say please and thank you.  I will make no move to touch you, except maybe offer my hand as you leave my automobile.  And I will—”

“Okay.”  She couldn’t hold out any longer.

“Excuse me?”

“I said okay.  What time Saturday?”

“Uh, Saturday?  Uh, of course.  Uh, how about, how about, uh, how about eight?”  Now he was stuttering.

“Eight is good.”  She hung up.

As soon as she put the phone down—whoosh!—she felt as numb as she had on the plane discovering Ryan.  She sat down clumsily.  Why did she accept?  She knew he would never marry her.  But Steve Kaselman was her obvious undoing.  Her nemesis.  Her worst nightmare. 

And she couldn’t wait until Saturday, eight o’clock!

#

Across the table was her most dangerous enemy—Steve Kaselman’s eyes!  When she accepted the invitation for dinner at Chez d’Paris, she knew she couldn’t avoid those eyes all night. 

“I’m glad you decided to let us celebrate our winning the series, so to speak.”  Steve held high a glass of  Rothschild 1968.  “I would like to propose a toast.”  Paeton lifted her glass as well.  “To the two people who put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

Steve put his glass out to click Paeton’s.  She held hers back.

“I’m sorry, Kaselman, but I don’t understand.”  She used his last name in an effort to keep the upper hand.

Steve winced, but followed up with his inimitable smile.  “Scrambled babies.  Scrambled eggs, get it?  No more scrambled babies?”

Paeton laughed, shaking her head.  “You do have a weird sense of humor sometimes.”  She clicked his glass.

“Now you make a toast.”  She made no response.  “Please?  Just a little one.  Do you realize we beat the scumbags?  We got the world to love us again.  There’s nothing stopping us now!  We’re the winners.  The good guys won for a change.”

He waited.  Paeton knew her heart was vulnerable.  She chastised herself for accepting his crazy invitation in the first place. 

Neither of them spoke or moved.  At first she couldn’t look at him. 
For heaven’s sake, Paeton!
  She straightened her spine
.  Don’t be so intimidated! 
By god, she would be in charge again!  She had fought and won, and she deserved some pleasure on her own terms.

Paeton decided to comply with his request for a toast.  In her newfound bravado, she slowly raised her glass and her eyes to meet the marvelous demons of too-tight-vest.  “To the good guys.  To the winners,” she offered.

Then, unexplainably, something extraordinary came over her.  It was a heat she had never felt before.  It started at the bottom of her back and surged up to the back of her neck where her hair stood on end.  She heard planetary music, and she saw in those demons the purple magic-marker heart, and inside it the scrawled graffiti.  It read “Paeton + Steve,” not simply “P + S” as it had really been at the airport.  She felt her heart swell with the same inscription.  She felt as if her heart might explode.  She heard herself say in a full, strong voice, “To us!  To Paeton and,” then her voice broke, “Steve!”

She had called him Steve!  Paeton could see they were both amazed.  Steve’s arm was frozen, his glass to hers.  He never relinquished her eyes.

An eternity passed.  They lowered their glasses but not their eyes.  Suddenly, she was back at the airport.  She was sharing butter pecan.  She was everywhere she had ever been when she and Steve caressed each other’s eyes.  The Rothschild 1968 went everywhere too.  Her breasts felt full and heavy as her breathing began to move to the rhythm of the soft violins in the background.

Then, just as suddenly, just as rudely, she was back at the lake and
shacking up!
  She felt a hard clump as she put her wine glass down.

“May I take your order?”

Their server was standing at the table, pad in hand, bringing her to reality. 

Steve held up his hand as Paeton started to scan the menu.

“We’ll have the Chateaubriand Oscar.  Medium rare.  And please prepare the chocolate soufflé for two.”  Steve was staring at Paeton the entire time he was ordering.  “What do you think?  Let’s make it a ‘C and C’ evening.”

“Excuse me?”  Paeton was still wrestling with the conflicts raging within her regarding Mr. Steve Kaselman. 

“Calories and cholesterol.”  He laughed a little too heartily.

Paeton knew his forced buoyancy was the result of the lingering discomfort with the outburst at the lake about shacking up.  But she found herself laughing too.  In truth, she had no choice but to join him whenever he laughed.  His laugh was almost as infectious as his eyes. 

The point?  Keep a lid on her natural urges.  Because Paeton was beginning to understand that she had no choice about anything when it came to Steve Kaselman.  She was convinced of that now.  She might as well face the fact that for good or for ill, everything about Steve was seductive. And the “winning,” as Steve had put it, gave her a rush of abandon.  But, she convinced herself, as long as she kept up her guard, what was one night off her diet—or on Steve Kaselman? 

“Damn the torpedoes!”  She held her glass high again.  “Here’s to calories and cholesterol!”  Their glasses and their eyes touched once more. 

The entree was heavenly!  When all was cleared and the table readied for dessert, she fought off an urge to put her hand out on the white linen for Steve to take.  She denied herself that risk.  She was sure his hand would seek hers, and she didn’t trust her reaction in the euphoric state she found herself.

But Steve turned the tables when he put his hand across to her.  She watched with wonder as her hand rose from her lap to rest on his, their fingers entwining.

The soufflé arrived.  Their consumption of the chocolate delight was a sensuous treat. They had gone the whole route, splashing pitchers of heavy cream over the lavish, sinful dish.  Paeton heard mingling laughter and groans of pleasure as they lavished tantalizing spoonfuls into each other’s mouth.

Dessert fully consumed, Paeton rested back in her chair, congratulating herself.  She had flirted with the danger of being with this devil of a male and had emerged unscathed.  She was completely through dinner without having had this case of erotic dynamite explode, even if the fuse had burned far too close for comfort. 
A taxi ride home and I’ll be safe in bed—alone!

“Ever been to Ricki’s in San Francisco?”  Steve’s eyes glinted mischievously.

“No.  I don’t know San Francisco very well.  I’m an East Coast girl.”  He was up to something.  The problem was Paeton felt all too ready to accept.

Steve jumped up and whispered hoarsely, “Let’s go to Ricki’s!”

Paeton almost tipped over backward.  “Right now?” she responded, shakily.