Wishes and Stitches (18 page)

Chapter Thirty

I
n the drugstore, Naomi stood in the aisle that thoughtfully provided a one-stop shopping experience for every nether-region over-the-counter experience possible. Condoms, spermicide, jelly for before. Pregnancy tests for the oops after. For in between, douches (Naomi shook her head in disapproval), yeast infection treatments, and a whole range of sanitary supplies—pads, pantiliners, and tampons. All the down there corralled right here.

She looked over her shoulder in each direction. Naomi knew Zonker, the pharmacist, pretty well from phoning in prescriptions. She'd overheard a rumor once that his unfortunate nickname came from an ill-fated college experiment with psychotropic drugs, but had never known whether to believe it or not. He always looked presentable at work in his scrub whites, but she had seen him once at Tillie's on a Saturday morning wearing a Deadhead shirt, so there might be something to it. He did seem a little dizzy, but then again, he was married to Margie, who staffed the counter and was a well-respected member of the Baptist church. She never wore anything lower cut than a turtleneck. Naomi certainly couldn't see her taking anything more than an ibuprofen every once in a while, let alone allowing Zonker to listen to Jerry in her house.

And dammit, if there was any other place to buy condoms within a thirty-mile radius, she would. But this was a rush job. She hadn't been able to grab them from the supply cabinet before she left—Rig had been in there, and she'd rather have died than reach around him. She'd already been home to change, and now she was on her way to his place, and if she'd spent any time thinking about it, she'd have done those the other way around. It would have looked more innocuous to be caught buying condoms while wearing the street clothes she'd worn under her white coat than it did while wearing a low-cut red silk blouse, short skirt, and red high heels.

She looked around again furtively. Good. Still no one in sight.

God, there was a dizzying array of choices. Racks and racks of colors, types, and styles. Should she buy extra large, with the intention of flattery? She struggled to figure out how large was extra large. No way was she riding a horse with a loose saddle.

But then again, Rig was above average. Naomi felt a rush of heat between her legs at the thought, and then the same rush hit her brain.

She was going to sleep with Rig. Again.

And Naomi didn't think she'd ever been this nervous about sex before. What was wrong with her? She forced herself to pick up and examine a matte black box. Was this supposed to be the manly purchase? Black so no one would think he was buying tampons, which came in the pink and yellow boxes? Good grief.

It was just sex. Enjoyable mutual stimulation, after which she'd grab her bag and head home, satisfied, primed for sleep.

Right.
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she squeaked.

Pick a box, any box. How about the one with the ribs? Naomi honestly couldn't remember if she'd ever used condoms made “for her pleasure,” and her eyebrows lifted as she read the copy. Really? Now, she knew a woman's insides were sensitive, but structurally speaking they didn't have as great a number of nerves as did other places, like fingers. How on earth would a woman be able to feel minuscule ridges made of an uber-thin, flexible membrane?

She picked up another, cheaper box, and held them together for comparison. The ribbed kind was four dollars more than the regular box. Screw that.

She flushed. She
was
going to screw that.

“Excuse me, do you have any idea where I'd find laxatives?”

Naomi jumped and wheeled on her heel and, to her extreme horror, found herself face-to-face with Frank Keller, Rig's father. While she was holding a box of condoms in each hand.

To his credit, he also looked unnerved.

“Well, dammit,” he said. “I thought you worked here. I don't have many secrets, but talking about my bodily functions with pretty ladies is something I prefer to keep on the down low. But
look
at you.” Frank took a step back. “You're all dressed up! Let's forget what I asked you about. What are
you
here for? I thought Jake said you and Rig were hanging out tonight.”

Dumbstruck, Naomi looked at her full hands. They might as well have been lit up with a flashing sign that read
Sex Sex Sex!

“Ah,” said Frank. “Well.”

Naomi nodded, feeling as red as the fire extinguisher on the wall behind Frank's head.

“How 'bout we pretend that we never saw each other right here. But I do have a question for you.” He ducked his head. “How about we meet on aisle three? Nothing embarrassing about candy.”

He turned his back, heading away, giving Naomi time to hang up both boxes and take a deep breath. Good God.

In aisle three, Frank held up a bag of miniature Reese's peanut butter cups. “I like 'em better tiny like this. More flavor.”

“Ah,” said Naomi, still trying to figure out if there was any way in hell she could just disappear. “So what was your question for me?”

Rubbing his knuckles over the top of his bald head, Frank said, “Well, you see, I've got heart trouble. Nothing major, just a little ticker damage from a heart attack I had about five years ago. Had another one six months or so ago.”

“How are you feeling right now?” Please, Lord, don't let him fall out in the pharmacy right before she had a date with his son.

“Nah, don't worry about that. I'm fit as a fiddle. Scratch that, I don't like fiddles. Screechy. I'm fit as a banjo.”

“Are you under a doctor's care? Your son's? Do you carry nitroglycerin with you?” Naomi asked.

“That's the thing. Pederson was my doctor, and I never really liked the guy anyway. I refuse to let Rig treat me because then he'll tell Jake, who worries like a little girl stuck on top of a jungle gym. My nitro's expired. I need some more. Just to carry with me.”

“And . . .” She was going to make him say it.

“I thought maybe you'd write a 'scrip for me.”

Naomi didn't say anything. It was an outrageous suggestion. She didn't just prescribe medicine that a patient said he needed without seeing a chart, a history, without running tests.

“Come on. It's not like I need OxyContin or something. Cypress Hollow doesn't have a big black market for nitro. And I'm just a little worried.” He patted his shirt pocket. “The pills I carry here have been expired for more than a year.”

“But . . .”

Frank shrugged expressively. “Eh. I know. They're probably just fine still, huh? Yeah, that's what I thought. Thanks, kid.”

Naomi drew in a heavy sigh. “You're something else, you know that?” She rummaged in her purse for the emergency prescription pad she always kept with her. She'd never had to use it before.

Frank perked up, his shoulders going back. He ripped open the bag of Reese's and took out a mini wrapped chocolate. As if she'd heard it from across the store, Naomi saw Margie's head peek around the end of the aisle. She stared disapprovingly at Frank, who ignored her while Naomi finished scribbling her signature.

His mouth full, he said, “You're the bee's knees, kiddo.”

She pulled off the sheet and waved it under his nose. “I'm only giving you this if you promise to come see me this week.”

He snatched the paper and kept chewing. “Gotta be a time when Rig's not there. I'm not going to worry him, or worse, Jakey.”

“Give back the prescription.”

Sticking it in his pocket, he nodded. “Fine, fine. I'll come in.”

Naomi shook her finger, feeling like an ineffective schoolteacher as she did so. “You better. Or I'm going to tell on you to Rig.”

Frank's grin swept over his gray stubble, brightening the dark eyes that reminded her suddenly of Rig's. “You might be good for him, you know that?”

“Wh-what?”

“I saw you two in your house that night he knocked your father all over the ground. I saw something there. You both got some loneliness, I think.”

Naomi would bet she'd been lonely longer than Rig had. And if she didn't get rid of Frank, that wouldn't change anytime soon. She needed those condoms. Any condoms. She waved her hands as if shooing a chicken. “Go on, take that to Zonker.”

He held out the bag of chocolate. “Want one?”

She couldn't help laughing. “You haven't even paid for that yet.”

“Planning ahead. I'm always planning ahead. By the way, those ribbed ones are for crap. Don't bother.” Naomi gasped as he trundled down the aisle. “Have fun, Doc!”

Five minutes later, her plain old vanilla condoms purchased from a scowling Margie, Naomi had planned ahead, too. Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if she shouldn't have picked up some nitro herself.

Chapter Thirty-one

A
s Rig slid the take-and-bake meat lover's special into his oven, he wondered what the hell had gotten into Naomi.

Not that he was complaining. Any woman who looked at him like she did, well, that was okay by him. The way she'd shaken down her hair in reception—he'd gotten hard just looking at her. And then, when she'd looked down at the front of his jeans . . .
That
was the confident Naomi he'd met in Portland. Gone was the tongue-tiedness, gone were the nerves and the impression that she was hiding something, keeping a secret that he didn't understand.

Hell, if she wanted to play, he'd play. He'd had dalliances with women in the workplace before, and while they hadn't been anything really special, he knew he could handle it. Lisa, the lab tech who did most of his processing when he was on the rigs, she'd been nice. And after it was over, they'd still been friends. And Patty, at the hospital during his internship—well, they'd made good use of the broom closet when the janitors were off cleaning. The women in his past were nice. Simple. He'd been lucky, he knew. Well, Rosie had been uber-complicated, but that might have been the problem with her.

Rig didn't know if anything was simple with Naomi. She sometimes seemed nervous as a cat in the rain, and other times, with her patients, she came across as assured, calm. Friendly. In control.

Which was the real Naomi? Who was she when she closed her bedroom door? When she was really, truly alone? Why was it that he suspected that somewhere, under those jangled nerves of hers, there was a roaring fire in a hearth banked against winter?
That
was the danger of her. Rig wanted to uncover that heat, but at the same time he was terrified of finding it, terrified that if he did, he wouldn't be able to walk away. Not that he was going to get hung up on her, he reminded himself. Just the opposite. Type A was Rig's blood type, and that's about all he understood about it. She was too driven to be with, he could see that a mile out, not that he was looking. For anyone.

The doorbell rang, and he set the timer quickly. Fifteen minutes, and they'd eat.

“Hey, you,” he said as he opened the door and let her in. “Come in,” he tried to say, but his voice choked on the words.

Damn. Naomi wore a loose red shirt cut with a low V that flowed when she moved, showing off a nice little peek at the top of her cleavage, and a black short skirt that moved with her in the best way. And red fuck-me heels. He'd known those legs were under there, but now that he saw them again, all naked like that . . . Rig wanted to put both hands on either side of her face, draw her in for a white-hot kiss, then run his hands down . . .

He had to get a grip.

Naomi smelled perfect, too, of a sweet, light perfume, something that went right to his head and made him dizzy.

“Welcome,” Rig said as she looked around. He saw it with new eyes—he was tidy most of the time, but he'd never quite gotten around to unpacking all the way. His table and chairs were out, so there was somewhere to sit, but the tiny one-bedroom apartment didn't have room for much more than a small, two-seater couch that his brother had stored in the garage, and a TV that he never watched. Boxes were still stacked in the small hallway, full of stuff that he'd packed away before he went on the rigs, junk that had been in storage all these years. Finally he could start going through them, but he hadn't been motivated to start yet. He'd lived without whatever was in there for this long, so why bother now?

“Still settling in?” she asked.

“Sort of. Pizza should be ready soon.”

“Smells good in here.” She brushed the top of a stack of books with her fingertips.

It did smell great, the scent of the pizza warming had just filled the room. This was going to be a good night, even if he wasn't quite sure what was going to happen.

“So,” she said, turning to face him. If he got a little closer to her, he might be able to look down that awesome shirt, just the tiniest bit.

And that's all it took to feel thirteen years old again.
Cool your jets, man.

“Come sit in the kitchen. I've got a table in there. You want a beer?”

“Do you have wine?”

Shit
. He should have thought of that. “No, I'm sorry. Fresh out.”

“Beer's fine, then.”

Rig handed her a bottle, and she drank from the neck, a long pull. He loved looking at the line of her throat.

“So,” he said. What was this feeling? Was it really nervousness? Rig was both amused with himself and chagrined. Nervous. Sheesh. The metal table legs wobbled as she put her bottle down, and he straightened one so that it wouldn't collapse altogether. “Sorry about this. It's old. It was my dad's, but my brother didn't have room for it at his house.”

“I like it. It's kitschy.” Her smile was more familiar as she said it—she looked more like the woman he'd taken out on his bike.

“About the dance . . . ,” he started.

“Thank you for backing me on it,” Naomi said. “I can't believe I'm going to do something with the town. Something real.”

He shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “It'll be a better way to get people into your center than putting out those dusty old brochures, those ones that tell people how to wash their hands. Why do you
have
those in there, anyway?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I agree that they're boring,” She met his eyes, and his gut knotted in that way that kept happening when she was around. “And I hate boring. That's not me.”

“Yeah, I've already picked up on that,” he said. “I wouldn't call you that.”

“What
would
you call me, then?” It sounded so much like a line a girl would say in a bar that he almost laughed. But she was serious. Naomi gave the smallest, sexiest smile he'd ever seen. She leaned forward infinitesimally and he felt himself drawn to her like iron to her magnet. Her green eyes were flecked with bits of hazel brown and tiny sparks of yellow. He wanted to lose himself in them. And the way her mouth was tilted up like that . . . He was going to kiss her and embarrass them both if she kept this up.

“Interesting,” Rig said, his voice gruffer than he'd meant it to be. He stood and checked the pizza even though he knew it still had some time to go. Leaning back against the counter, he was as far as he could physically get from her and still be in the kitchen.

Naomi frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don't . . . get you.”

She grinned, that loose, easy smile, and he couldn't help smiling back at her. “I get you, though.”

“You do? Tell me.”

Holding the bottle against her cheek as if she was hot, she said, “You like women. You have one in every port. Or on every rig, as it were.”

He frowned. It wasn't true. “Where would you pick that up from? Have I given you that impression?”

“No,” she said, sliding that heated gaze over him again. “But it would be all right if you did.”

“It would be okay if I was a user like that? That's not cool.”

She looked surprised, as if she'd lit a candle and hadn't expected him to blow it out.

“I'm not, by the way,” he continued. “A user.”

“That's . . . fine,” Naomi said, her voice breathy. She fiddled with the old napkin dispenser that had come with the furnishings. She popped a napkin out, folded it, then unfolded and refolded it again.

So she was nervous, too.

Good. It wasn't just him.

She uncrossed her legs and stood, going to the window that looked into the side yard. Shirley's flowers bloomed in planters, spilled from boxes. “It's gorgeous out there,” she said. “Do you spend time in the garden?”

He nodded. “It's a good place for a book. And I hung a hammock out there that's good for pretending to read while you're really on the way to napping.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him in what seemed like surprise.

“Yes,” Rig said. “I read.”

“Sorry.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I just see you as the kind of guy who, if he's not working, he's out working on his motorcycle—”

“We've already established how bad I am at that.”

“Do you have it back yet?”

“I got it taken to the garage. They haven't gotten back to me on repairs yet. They're a little slow.”

“Oh.” She touched the glass with the tip of her finger, as if testing it. “But yeah, I see you being outside.”

“Not reading.”

“What do you read?” she asked. It sounded curious, not challenging.

“Everything. Mostly I like to pick up old—”

“Wait,” Naomi said, turning to face him. It felt like she'd made a decision, but he didn't know what it was regarding. “Let me guess.”

Rig cocked an eyebrow. “You won't get it right.”

“Old Louis L'Amour westerns. And John D. MacDonald. The ones you can get by the bag at used bookstores.”

He gaped. She'd gotten it exactly right. “Did you—I must have some lying out?”

“Nope.”

“At the office? Did I take any there?” He thought for a second. “No, I didn't. The one I'm reading is in the bedroom, and that's where I put my boxes of books. How did you do that?”

“Even if you're not outside working on your bike, you're still a man's man. Tough.”

“Would a man's man be pleased that you said that? Would he preen like this?” Rig lengthened his neck and bugged out his eyes.

She laughed. “You're not going to read science fiction—too close to the science at work, too cerebral for relaxation. You're not going to read romance, obviously. And most current crime novels are probably too long to carry comfortably in a pocket, which is where I'm guessing you sometimes carry your books. The smaller, older paperbacks are perfect for that. I personally love the westerns, and I like the older romances, myself, the regency ones. They tuck into just about anything, even a small purse or the pocket of my white coat.”

“You're good,” he said. “And you're exactly right.”

She dropped into the chair again and propped her elbows on the table. “I've read every single Louis L'Amour, everything he ever wrote. What's your favorite?”

“I'll do better—I'll bring out the box.”

Ten minutes later, when the oven beeped, Rig barely heard it. Old western novels littered the table and they pawed through them, exclaiming and holding them up. If this was a way to have a date, Rig fully approved. Why hadn't he ever done it this way before?

Because no woman had ever understood his penchant for thrifting old books, or his need to stop at every yard sale in case a rare John D. MacDonald was lurking in the bottom of a box of DVDs. Sure, he read some new stuff, plenty of it when he was in the mood, but nothing beat drinking a beer in the hammock, reading a yellow-paged western until the book dropped out of his hand and his eyes slid shut against the sunset.

He pulled out the pizza, sliced it quickly, slid a few pieces onto plates and put one in front of her.

“It's not fancy,” he said, “but it's good.”

“The best,” Naomi said.

It
was
good pizza, his favorite in town so far, and Naomi seemed to agree with him. She put away slices as fast as he did, three in under fifteen minutes. Most women said they liked pizza and then claimed to be full after one slice. He'd never understood that. He and Naomi barely spoke around the pepperoni, but damn, it felt good just being near her.

After they'd killed the medium pizza, Rig handed her a second beer and took one for himself. They moved into the living room as if there was a plan.

There wasn't. He wished he had one.

“Now what?” he said. “We're supposed to be talking about the dance, right?”

She nodded, slowly. “Yep.”

He thought about kissing her. He wouldn't, though, even if she looked so good he could barely take his eyes off her. That red shirt was so silky, moving with her like water clinging to her skin.

“Right.” He coughed. “Like I said, I know you can rent things like soda fountains—and if you tell me a couple of your favorite restaurants, we can get it catered.”

“I like that.” Naomi sank into the small couch, putting one arm over the back, crossing her legs so that those heels, and the long, curved line of her leg, were all he saw.

Standing, feeling awkward, Rig said, “What else do we need?”

“It's just drinks and food, right?” She waited a beat, her green eyes locked on his, long enough for Rig's pulse to speed up. Then she went on. “Easy. You and I can handle the drinks section—we can make a big sign that says—Oh! ‘The doctor is IN.' You know, like the booth in Charlie Brown?”

Rig laughed. “That's good.”

He sat next to her. It was really the only place in the small living room to sit. He
had
to get real furniture at some point; there just hadn't been a reason to do so until now. He was careful not to brush her knee, but he felt the warmth of her body near his, smelled the sweet light perfume, and got that strange zooming rush in his blood again. If it weren't completely inappropriate, if she hadn't made that clear last month, when she'd shaken his hand while saying good-bye, Rig would kiss her. Right now. Hard.

“ . . . a list?”

“Excuse me?” He'd lost track of the conversation at some point.

“Should we make a list?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He'd misread her in the office. Misread her badly. Pizza and beer was very friendly. It was what pals did. Coworkers.

Did pals lean their knees against each other like they were doing, though? He'd thought it was an accident, that she'd pull her leg away any second, but it stayed there, resting on his. Just that lightest touch was enough to render him speechless. He hoped he didn't have to say much more than that “oh,” because it was possible he'd forgotten how to speak English.