Flirting With Temptation (19 page)
“Last year?” he asked, raising his brows enough that they disappeared beneath his sandy waves.
“Oh,” she said, understanding. “Guess I should have bought a new stash for this trip. I had that in my bathroom cabinet at home and figured I would use what I already had.”
“Tell me you at least throw away expired medicine.”
“I think Granny Gert cleans it out every now and then.”
“It’s amazing you’re still alive,” he muttered, but at least he was smiling now. Then he looked up and his eyes seemed to fixate on her, all of her, since they moved down the length of her and then back up again.
Babette glanced down, and realized that the sleepshirt she’d donned gave the impression that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She lifted it to prove she was. “I still have on my bikini.”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, she started to sit on the loveseat across from the couch, then remembered that she still had the sunscreen on, even if it hadn’t been strong enough to do its job. “I need to get a towel,” she said, leaving momentarily to grab one, then returning to find him waiting, and still holding her piña colada.
She spread the towel on the loveseat, sat on it, then curled her legs beneath her. “Can I have my drink please?”
He looked at the glass as though he’d forgotten he was holding it, then leaned forward and handed it to her. “It might not be the best thing for you to have at the moment,” he said, but she was already sucking on the straw.
The delicious concoction of rum, coconut milk and pineapple juice was heavenly on her tongue, and when she swallowed it, it warmed her up . . . everywhere. “Mmm, I’m not driving anytime soon, or anything. Why wouldn’t this be the best thing for me to have right now?”
“Because it makes you horny.”
She sputtered on the straw, swallowed way too much and started to cough. And, of course, hearing him say the word had the effect of making it real. “What?” she asked, and did her damnedest to appear as though she didn’t suddenly picture herself standing, dropping her bikini bottoms to the floor and taking advantage of him on that couch.
“Piña coladas make you horny,” he repeated smoothly, and she literally felt her center pulse when she heard the word. Or maybe it was the way he said the word. Or something. “Could be that it’s only when you have them on the beach. I don’t know, but I do know that they make you want sex. Badly. Things like that, a guy remembers. And that may not be the best thing for you right now, given my proposition.”
Proposition?
“Your proposition?” she managed, pretty impressed that she was able to say it, given her current horny state of mind, and get all of the syllables right to boot. She sipped more piña colada. It was good, after all.
“Yeah, my proposition,” he repeated, nodding slightly as he said it as though he were still formulating the idea.
She drank more. Swallowed. “What proposition?”
“You want me to give Kitty another chance, right?”
She nodded, though it wasn’t exactly that she wanted him to; she needed him to.
“You do know that she left merely a month before the wedding.”
Ouch. It sounded much worse when he said it than when Clarise had relayed Kitty’s stupid move. Babette nodded. “Clarise told me.”
“And her leaving proved a theory that I’d had a while back, and now totally believe.”
Okay, now they were getting somewhere. “Theory?”
“That it isn’t men who can’t commit; it’s women.”
“Women—can’t commit,” she said, and suddenly recalled all the times when they were dating that he’d proclaimed emphatically that he wasn’t interested in commitment. Clearly, his feelings about it had changed when he met Kitty, for some strange reason, since he had attempted to commit with her.
“Right.” He shifted on the couch to face her more directly, leaned forward a bit, then asked, “You’ve never had a serious commitment with any man, have you?”
“No.” Easy question, easy answer.
“In fact, have you ever really been committed to anything, Babette? Not merely men, but anything in general?” He held up a finger as though just realizing something. “You know, you’re the perfect example to prove my point. You didn’t commit to one degree, or one job, or one man.”
Unfortunately, she had the straw in her mouth when he threw that thorny statement out there, and she sucked in way too much piña colada. The brain freeze that followed smarted. She put one hand to her temple. “Ow.”
“Sorry, that was cruel.”
She shook her head. “That wasn’t it. I drank too fast.” She attempted to make it sound flippant, as though his words hadn’t hurt more than the brain freeze. “And what you said is true, except for the job part. For the past six months, I have been committed to one job, and I still am, which is why I want to make things work with you and Kitty.”
He nodded again, and she got the sneaking suspicion that he’d expected her answer. “That’s right, you have.”
“You said you had a proposition,” she reminded, because she was dying to hear what it was, and because she didn’t really want to talk about her commitment, or lack thereof, anymore. Unfortunately, his proposition brought that subject right back to the forefront.
“I do. You’re committed to your job as Love Doctor, right?”
“Yes.”
“And right now, in order to do your job, you need me to give Kitty another chance.”
“Yes.” So far, this was simple.
“Okay. I’ll talk to Kitty and see what she has to say . . .”
“Great!” Wow, that had been way easier than she’d thought. So she could get Jeff with Kitty, then she could get away from him, and away from all of the serious temptation that surrounded her every time he was around. She might even be able to keep from fantasizing about him with her, if she concentrated on the fact that he was back with Kitty.
“I wasn’t finished.”
Damn. “You weren’t?”
“Not hardly,” he said. “I’ll talk to her,
if
you prove that women can commit to something.”
“If
I
prove it?”
He nodded and smiled.
Babette suddenly felt very uneasy with where this “proposition” was headed. “How would I do that?” She took another sip of piña colada to prepare for his answer. And she was beginning to think he was right; piña coladas did make her horny. She kept picturing him on that couch, naked.
She looked away from him as he answered.
“How long are you down here, in Destin, for Kitty?”
“Two weeks total, but I’ve already been here for three days, and if you and Kitty got back together before my time ends, then I guess I’d go home early.”
“We won’t.”
She was secretly glad for that; she really liked the beach. “Okay.”
“Here’s my proposition: for the remainder of your time here, you remain committed to your job and nothing else. If you can prove to me that you can stay focused on that, then I’ll talk to Kitty.”
“Get back with her, you mean?”
“I’m not promising that, at all. I’ll listen to what she has to say, and then I’ll decide what will happen afterward.”
“And all I have to do is my job, which means talking to you about her, determining what feelings are still there, answering any questions you have about her and what happened back then, and conveying her thoughts, feelings and such to you. Right? Is that what you mean by committing fully to my job?” She could so do that, piece of cake.
“Not quite.”
As that slow smile spread back across Jeff’s lips, Babette felt the need for more piña colada. Holding her breath, she placed her empty glass on the end table and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s not just commitment that concerns me,” he said. “It’s the fact that women simply can’t be satisfied. They’re constantly flirting, constantly on the hunt. I’ve heard that it’s believed that males think about sex three times as much as females. Bullshit. You think about it all the time, and you act on those thoughts, ever so subtly, all the time.”
“Are you talking about women in general, or me specifically?” she asked, irritation skimming to the surface again. He did know how to push her buttons.
“Both.”
“That’s not true.”
“Okay,
that’s
what I want to see. You prove it, and if you do, then I’ll talk to Kitty.”
“Prove it—how?”
“For the remainder of the time you’re here, you remain focused on the job and you forgo the temptation to flirt with every guy on the beach.”
“I don’t flirt with every—”
“Babette,” he said sternly, and she snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. What was he trying to do to her?
“I’m supposed to be at the beach for two weeks and not even flirt? In order to prove to you that women can commit?” she asked, appalled at his audacity to ask her to do something so ridiculous. It wasn’t as though she was some teenager, flirting with everything that moved, or every male that moved. She could control the natural impulse. “That makes no sense.” Although in the back of her mind, she wondered if drive-by flirting counted. Because it came so naturally.
He stood. “Fine. That was my offer. Just tell Kitty that we’re finished. Case closed.” He started walking toward the door, and Babette gawked at his ass in those pants. Damn piña colada. Definitely would have to lay off them over the next two weeks, because she was accepting his ridiculous challenge.
“You’re on.”
He stopped with his hand on the door, waited a beat, then turned. “Not so much as an eye flirt, and definitely no returned whistles.”
He did know her. And there went drive-by flirting.
“Fine. And you’ll give Kitty another chance when I’ve done my part.”
“I’ll talk to her,
if
you do your part,” he said, then he left, and Babette wondered how she’d survive two weeks on the beach without whistling back.
T
here were eighteen holes on the miniature course, and Gertrude and Paul were on number seventeen, one that had a small pond as its main feature. So far, she’d asked Henry sixteen questions, and so far, he either hadn’t answered, or he’d said no. She assumed anytime she didn’t meet the requirement for a yes, that meant no, but since she really hadn’t decided that was the way it’d work before she started, she wasn’t totally certain.
She probably should have written down some rules.
Paul went first, putting his ball perfectly up a little rise along one side of the green and then nodding when it hopped over that mini pond as though it were a stone skipping across the top of a lake. The ball ended up near the hole, and he merely tapped it in.
“Okay, your turn, Gert.”
She forced a smile, put her ball in the same little notch Paul had used on the square rubber pad at the beginning; she guessed in miniature golf that the little square pads were kind of like the tees. Anyway, she put the ball there, then held her putter, and thought about what to ask Henry this time.
If I make it in two, I should call Rowdy.
Okay, so she’d asked Henry the same thing three times already, and varied it somewhat on other holes by asking if she should drive to Tuscaloosa, or if she should get Babette to call on her behalf. But every time, the ball, or Henry, or both, didn’t cooperate.
She putted toward that same riser that Paul had used to bank the ball over that pond, and to her surprise, her shot did exactly the same thing as his, popped right over the pond then landed even closer to the hole than his had.
Henry was about to say yes, and her pulse skittered at the reality. When she left the golf course, she’d call Rowdy and see about getting together for coffee. All she had to do was tap the little ball in the hole.
“Good shot,” Paul said.
Pleased with herself, and with Paul’s praise, she nodded, then stepped close to her ball and prepared to finally get a yes from Henry.
She tapped the ball, and it scampered toward the hole, then rolled all the way around the edge before flittering off to the other side.
“Man, that was close,” Paul said.
Gert bit back her disappointment and nodded. “Yes, it was,” she said, tapping the ball again and watching it drop in the hole. “Very close.”
They moved to the last hole, the most difficult one on the course, according to the information on the scorecard, and Paul, once again, made it with two putts. “Your turn.”
Gertrude decided that this time she’d ask Henry something totally different from all of the seventeen questions before.
Henry, if you think I’m being ridiculous and should forget this whole communicating with you thing, let me know. I’ll make it easy for you. I haven’t gotten a hole in one yet, and this is the hardest one. If I get one this time, then I’ll assume you’re talking to me and want me to come back here again and use the other games Paul bought. If I get anything other than a hole in one, then I’m going back home and will be content to live my life as I have. I really don’t need anyone else anyway. I have your memories, and I treasure those.
She put her ball on one of the notches in the rubber pad and didn’t worry that it wasn’t the same notch Paul had used. What were the chances of her getting a hole in one?
A hole in one, I’ll continue talking to you and trying to find out what you want me to do. Anything else, then I’ll stop being such a ninny
.
She eased the putter back, then tapped it fairly hard against the side of the ball.
Hole eighteen had a big hill at the beginning (or big for this course), so she couldn’t determine where the ball went on the other side. But Paul could.
“Come here, Gert. You’ve got to see this. Hurry.”
She quickly moved around the side to peer toward the end of the tiny lane, where the hole was on the backside of yet another hill.
“Hurry, Gert, I think you did it,” Paul encouraged and she continued her trek toward the hole and got there just in time to see her ball bounce off the back edge, then veer back toward the center . . . and drop in.
Paul cheered, and she gasped. He moved toward her and wrapped an arm around her. “You did it!”
“Oh, my, I did, didn’t I?”
Okay, Henry. I guess I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.