Commitment (2 page)

Running. She was running on a concrete treadmill, her feet pounding the pavement, and her breasts bouncing higher and higher with each step. She hooked an arm around her ribcage in an effort to stay the worst of the jiggle and glanced over her shoulder.

The cartoon turkey pursuing her gobbled, its wattle wagging like a Cocker Spaniel’s tail. Her breath hitched. A stitch tore into her side. Her knees threatened to buckle. He was gaining on her. She sped up, tossing her breasts over her shoulder like a Continental soldier and broke into a sprint, determined to make the bird eat her dust.

Her gaze fixed on a shadowy bundle on the doorstep of her salon. The turkey gobbled a warning. She clutched her aching ribs, running as fast as she could. Daring a backward glance, she spotted the plastic turkey baster clasped in his feathered fist. She stumbled over the lump on her welcome mat, falling to her knees in front of the plate-glass door.

The squirming, squalling baby someone left on her doorstep stilled. He stared at Maggie with placid blue eyes. The infant giggled when the turkey gobbled again. She reached for the tiny bundle. The baby smiled, those indigo eyes locked on Maggie. Then his rosebud lips moved and the annoyingly smug voice they used in those disturbing E-trade commercials came out.

“Hey, Ma.”

A bell rang and Maggie jumped, dropping her wine glass into the rapidly cooling water. “
Wha
?” Merlot swirled among the waning bubbles. Her cell phone hummed again, the short ring-ring burst of a British telephone-inspired tone jolting her back to reality.

“No more wine.” The plastic casing slipped in her damp fingers. She fumbled with the buttons. “Hello?”

“
Mags
? It’s Tracy.”

She blinked, stunned to hear her old friend and former roommate’s voice. “Tracy?”

Tracy Sullivan chuckled. “I know it’s been a while, but surely you haven’t forgotten me entirely.”

Pink-tinged bubbles popped. Maggie fished the empty glass from the tub and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping a slippery arm around her legs and curling into a ball. She lunged for the plug. “Trace. Yeah. Hi. Hi! How are you?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

She stared at the swirling eddy of water draining from the tub. “I’m, uh, wet. I was just getting out of the tub.”

“Oh. Well, I won’t keep you. Actually, I’m surprised to find you home. I thought maybe you’d be out, being Friday night and all.”

“Saturdays are busy for me, so I like to stay in on Fridays.” The fib rolled off her tongue so easily Maggie almost believed it herself.

“That makes sense. Listen, I’m sure you already have plans, but I’ll ask anyway.” Picking up the nervous edge in her old friend’s voice, Maggie frowned. “I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner some Saturday night.”

“Saturday night?”

“Any Saturday,” Tracy said in a rush. “Sean goes out on Fridays to play poker, and I get Saturday nights to myself, and I was thinking it’s been a while since I saw you—”

Maggie jumped at the chance. “Forever. How’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be great for me.”

“I have a three-thirty facial. I can hop the Metra and be out there by about six. Can you pick me up at the station?”

“Definitely.”

“Great. I’ll check the schedule and give you a call before I board.”

“Great.”

Tracy’s stunned tone made Maggie smile. She stood, and pinkish rivulets of water streaked down her bare body. “I’ll probably need a margarita by then.”

“A margarita sounds perfect,” Tracy answered with a wistful sigh.

Plucking the turquoise bath sheet from the towel bar, she wrapped her body in its plush cotton decadence. “You okay, Trace?”

“I’m great,” her friend replied with a shade too much enthusiasm.

The Tracy Sullivan Maggie knew and loved wasn’t a natural enthuse…enthusiast…whatever. “What’s going on?”

“What? Oh, nothing. I just…It’s been a while.”

“A long while,” Maggie confirmed. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s just the same as it has been.”

The obvious evasion tugged the corners of her mouth into a frown. Her friend wasn’t normally an evader, either. Fred unfurled his portly frame, rose from his comfy spot on the bathmat with a languorous stretch, and sank his claws into the top of her foot.

“Ouch! Dammit, Fred!” She clutched the towel to her bosom and danced off of the mat, shooting a scornful glare at her abuser.

Tracy laughed. “You still have Fred?”

“The stupid cat’s too mean to die,” she grumbled. The man in question stretched his ample bulk then sat up, curling his ginger tail around his feet.

“He’s got to be close to twelve now.”

Giving her feral feline wide berth, she reached for her robe. “Yep. I got him when you were pregnant with Erin.”

Tracy’s smile carried through the phone. “Yeah, I remember. He was so cute.”

“Yeah, well, he’s old and fat and foul now.” She cinched the belt on the bathrobe, sucking in her gut and glaring at the pumpkin colored tabby. Maggie spared the mirror a glance and winced. She ran her hand over the knot of auburn hair and narrowed her green eyes to slits. “
Kinda
like me.”

If nothing else, her grumbling complaints scored a genuine laugh from her friend. “You aren’t old or fat, and you could never pull off being foul.”

Her hand fell, her fingers curling into a loose fist as the warmth of Tracy’s laughter trickled through her. She sighed and closed her eyes. “I can’t wait to see you, Trace.”

“We’ll catch up on everything tomorrow. Call me from the station.”

“I will. See you tomorrow.”

She dropped the phone into the deep pocket of the robe with a sigh. Fred wound his plump body around her legs then gazed up at her, his emerald eyes wide and innocent. Unable to resist, she bent and gave the beast a scratch behind his ears. He stretched to meet her caress, exposing his snowy white bib.

Maggie yanked the clip from her hair, shaking the tangled mass free as she straightened. Orangey-red curls tumbled around her shoulders. The deep
vee
of the ankle-length chenille robe revealed the pale skin of her chest. She searched her reflection in the mirror then spun away, stalking toward the kitchen in a quest for more merlot.

Pulling a clean glass from the shelf above the sink, she yanked the cork from the bottle on the counter. Ruby red relief swirled into the goblet. She tipped her head back and downed the glass in two long gulps.

Maggie caught her reflection in the polished chrome toaster. “Crap. I’m beginning to look like my damn cat.” She set the glass on the counter and hung her head. “And I’m talking to my toaster.”

She gave the toaster a shove. “You’d better not keel over too. I’m not going back to the kitchen side of the store. It’s too damn dangerous.”

Fred meowed piteously and hopped onto the counter. She shooed him down, snagged the bottle and trudged her way toward the cramped living room and her nightly date with Letterman. Fred claimed her lap the minute she flopped down, blocking the bottle on the coffee table. She threaded her fingers through soft ginger fur and smiled. “Saving me from myself again?” The cat blinked lazily and kicked his motor into high gear.

Maggie blew out a breath, let her head fall back against the cushion, and blinked at the ceiling. “I love you too, you fat lump.”

Chapter Two

“Never in my life have I ever met a man more scared of commitment.”
Mehgan
Barlow’s glare cut through the gloomy ambiance of the trendy West Loop restaurant.

Tom Sullivan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just don’t think I need new blinds.”

“I’m not talking about the damn blinds!”

He watched as angry color rose high in her cheeks. Angry, aroused, embarrassed, or agitated—he loved the way women wore their emotions like a second skin. Stifling a sigh, he glanced at the nearby tables attempting to gauge exactly how many people would witness the demise of his latest attempt at a relationship. The stunning blonde across the table from him refused to flinch. A part of him admired her for it. Actually, he admired a great number of things about
Mehgan
, but predictability wasn’t one of them.

“
Mehgan
…” He leaned in closer, hoping the pale glow of a single votive candle would be enough to help convey his sincerity.

“Exactly where do you see this relationship going?”

He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “At the moment? I’d say it’s going down the toilet.”

“What do you want from me?”

The ardent plea in her voice pinged his heart but failed to penetrate. “I want what I said I wanted all along.”

“A
relationship
.” Somehow her tone imbued the word with more sinister portent than the poor thing deserved. “What does that mean to you?”

“It means
this
,” he said, waving an impatient hand between them. “We enjoy each other’s company—”

“In bed,” she spat.

“And out, hopefully,” he conceded. “We care about each other, listen when the other has a crappy day, laugh at each other’s stupid jokes….”

“And that’s it,” she concluded in a flat tone.

“Isn’t that all anyone wants, really?”

Her jaw tightened. Those perfectly glossed lips thinned into a hard line. “I want more than that.”

His head began wagging before his tongue could catch up. The waiter appeared with their
entrées
. He stared at the paper-thin slices of beef tenderloin, mandatory dollop of couscous, and artful drizzle of unidentifiable sauce and wrinkled his nose. He eyed
Mehgan’s
miniscule sliver of salmon. A Filet-o-fish could kick its ass, but if he got lucky she’d storm out without touching her food. It didn’t look as if dessert would be happening, and Tom knew he’d be hungry again in an hour. Their waiter faded into the gloom, but
Mehgan’s
angry glare shone like a beacon. The sooner he kicked it into gear, the sooner he could eat.

“This is all I have to give.”

His standard answer tripped right off his tongue. Her corn silk hair slipped from her shoulder when she ducked her head, masking her expression. It was all he could do to refrain from brushing it back. He wanted her to see him clearly.

Angry tears brimmed in her big brown eyes when she glanced up, and a surge of relief coursed through him. Anger and disappointment were his expertise. He cleared his throat, the well-worn ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech running through his head.

Before he could open his mouth to utter the usual platitudes, his soon-to-be-ex pulled her napkin from her lap and balled it in one fist. “People are right about you,” she hissed in a trembling voice. Tom opened his mouth to ask who, but she pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her feet. “You’re arrogant, condescending, and completely…misogynistic.”

Tom shook his head, a spurt of anger bubbling up in his throat. The first two he was willing to own, but the last was completely wrong. He hadn’t lied to her or led her on. He made a point of being very careful with the women in his life.

“I never—”

The protest died on his lips when she spun on her stiletto and stalked from the restaurant. His gaze fell to the teeny, tiny portions on his plate. He swiped the pad of his forefinger through the saucy swirl and popped it into his mouth. Cognac instead of red wine. Not bad. When the waiter appeared, surreptitiously reaching for the abandoned salmon, Tom grunted, “Leave it.”

The young man backed away, smoothing nervous palms over the long white apron tied at his waist. “Can I get you anything else?”

He speared a half-dollar-sized medallion of beef. “Just the check,” he muttered before popping half of his dinner into his mouth.

“Very good, sir.”

Both meals were history in six bites. The waiter placed the leather folder on the table and Tom pried a credit card from his wallet, slipping it inside without a glance. He knew there was no use in checking the total. He’d never be able to read it in the dim light, no matter how hard he squinted.

Twenty minutes later, the door of his Lincoln Park condo slammed behind him. Tom winced and tossed his keys into the chipped dish one former girlfriend or another had ordered from the Pottery Barn catalog and shipped directly to his door. The fact that he couldn’t recall the dish’s benefactor meant either his memory was slipping, or he really was everything
Mehgan
accused him of being.