Kiss Me Goodnight (2 page)

I flicked a smile at her in assurance. I know I’m a little messed up, but isn’t everybody? Laughing is certainly not the weirdest thing I could do, and I usually come off as confident and independent, or at least I try to. As you’ve seen, I’ve brazened out a few situations in my time and later, from the comfort of my sofa, wondered what the hell had come over me.

“Hey,” Mr. Hotness protested, but he didn’t sound mad. His voice carried above the din—a scratchy, melodic cadence that would sound sexy in the dark. He could give my Davey a run for his batteries. The glare he directed at the boy held too much amusement to be effective.

The boy shrugged and darted toward the back of the place with a mischievous grin. His smile and the gleam in his eyes matched his father’s, and I saw a replica of the tween heartthrob Mr. Hotness must have been.

He got in line. More people came in. The seats across from me opened up, and I stared out the window, watching the traffic whiz past. I’d sworn off married men, especially those with children. That was just another reason to halt my nefarious activities. You might argue that I had no proof he was married, but the fact that I was attracted to him was proof enough. My radar is seriously fucked up. At least it matches the rest of me.

The woman to my right stood, as did her friend, and once they left, I was officially flying solo. There was no one left to camouflage the fact that I was
sans
company.

The thing is, I’ve never minded eating alone. No need for small talk, and I hate talking to people as they check their phones. Nothing tells me I’m unimportant like watching someone LOL to a text while I’m trying to uphold my end of the conversation.
Hello
, people! In person should count for something.

Within minutes, Mr. Hotness appeared on the other side of my table, blocking my view of the road. I was struck by his teal eyes. I hadn’t expected them. The color seemed too bold to be true on the surface, but when I looked more closely, I saw flecks of blue and green. His midnight hair, longish, falling over his forehead and curling at the ends, made their color stand out even more.

He smiled—a friendly one, not a wanna-fuck one. “Are these seats taken?”

I wouldn’t have minded seeing the wanna-fuck one, though he was clearly with his son, and blatant flirting, even if he was divorced, would be crass. I didn’t see a Mrs. Hotness or a ring anywhere, but men this yummy didn’t stay single for long. And again, the fact that I found him attractive spoke volumes. I might be seeing his face tonight in place of Davey’s. Sorry, Davey. Oh—maybe Mr. Hotness and Davey together, both of them focused completely on me. That fantasy bore further exploration.

I shook my head. The thought of those lips wrapped around pink parts of me banged around in there, but eventually clattered away. I did not give him an inviting smile, though I was tempted. He oozed sexy badness, and whoever says they don’t have a weakness for that has a serious case of the pants-on-fire syndrome.

The boy slipped behind the row of occupied chairs and stopped next to Mr. Hotness. He came up to the middle of his father’s chest, and I estimated his age at about twelve. That one threw me for a minute as I did the math. Mr. Hotness looked like he was in his mid-twenties, about my age. The numbers worked out if he’d started out as a teen father. I’d made my share of mistakes, so I didn’t judge.

The kid grinned at him. “Hey, old man. Where’re we sitting?”

“Here.” Mr. Hotness set down two drinks and pulled out a chair. “Go ask Audra for—Oh, never mind. I’ll get it myself.”

The boy sat down, and his father disappeared. The woman who replaced him was no larger than the boy. She was blond and cute, two things I am not. Even in a baggy shirt and leggings, she and her rosy glow managed to attract more than a few glances.

For a moment I had no idea why I was feeling guilty. I hadn’t done anything except plan to imagine his face and those broad shoulders hovering above me in the privacy of my bedroom.
Imagine
, not invite. Fantasizing is not a crime. However, reporting a theft that hadn’t happened is a crime, and the more I thought about
that
, the guiltier I felt.

I shifted and focused on my food. If I hadn’t been so hungry, I might have taken it and left. The weather was exceptionally nice. But I know my limitations. I wish I could walk and eat, but multitasking like that is dangerous for someone like me.

So, when he returned, Mr. Hotness took the seat next to me. His scent—spring wind, clean, a little spicy with a hint of soap—hit me first. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and inhale his goodness. His arm brushed mine when he slid his chair closer to the table. He flashed an apologetic grin. I caught it from the corner of my eye, but I didn’t acknowledge it. The muscles in his arms were well-defined, strong without being bulky. And his skin was warm. I tingled where he’d touched me.

Damn me.
Why can’t I just find a nice, single guy for once?

I ate, and they chatted. Apparently, the wife had been playing softball. Dylan—she called him that, so I went with it—and the kid had watched. They dissected the practice session. Every now and again, a part of him would touch me. His elbow or his arm came into contact with my arm twice. His leg bumped mine three times. It happened too often to be coincidental. If this was flirting, it was much too middle-school for me. But mostly I hated the way my heart rate sped up every time it happened. The atmosphere grew warm, and my nerves were starting to show. I felt another lie coming on.

I finished my lunch, gathered my trash, and reached for my purse without looking. My dexterity is iffy in the best of circumstances, and lusting over some woman’s husband while sitting so intimately close is definitely not an ideal situation.

Because my purse was still in my desk at work, I didn’t find it on the table. Instead, my wayward hand and frayed nerves knocked over the remaining half of my iced latte, and the river headed straight for his lap. My wad of six unused napkins wasn’t sufficient to sop up the mess before it waterfalled off the edge of the table.

Horrified, I turned to follow its path to the floor. Six inches to the left and the stream of coffee would have splattered on my feet. I would have greatly preferred that.

“I’m so sorry.” I grabbed napkins from the person on the other side of him and went to dab at the mess, but I froze when I saw exactly where it had pooled.

He looked at my hand, a slow, lopsided grin spreading across his lips and glittering from his eyes. He took the napkins, his fingers brushing against mine and generating more tingling. Why did this have to happen to me? I wanted lunch, not a dose of unrequited lust that turned me into a blistering idiot. I started shaking. My breaths came faster as I fought down a panic attack. I had to get out of there.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, squeezing the crumpled paper wrapper from my sub more tightly. I was close to losing it in a public place, something I’d successfully avoided for years. I needed to regroup. My hands itched, and I fought not to tell him I was legally blind.

He didn’t stop grinning. “It’s okay. No big deal.”

“Monty, go get more napkins.” The cute blonde leaned across the table and swiped at the place where the remnants of the pool dripped over the edge onto his lap. Yep, she was definitely a mom, well-versed in cleaning up these kinds of spills.

Monty ran for the counter. I fled to the restroom.

Nobody else was in there, and I was grateful. I was about to engage in a whole lot of hand-washing, and I didn’t need witnesses.

Six times, I promised myself. Only one set of six. I had crumbs on my hands, if not the wetness of coffee soaking through napkins.

And so I washed. Once. Twice.

A knocking at the door nearly derailed my concentration. “Hey, are you okay in there?”

It was him. He’d followed me to the bathroom. Why not his wife? That would have made far more sense—not that I’d expected anybody to come after me. It wasn’t like we were friends.

“Fine,” I called. “Just washing my hands.”

And then I had to start over. The ritual had to be perfect the first time, or I might as well flush away the rest of the day. I was on the third cycle when he interrupted again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

If I answered, I was going to have to start over. I ignored him.

“I’m coming in,” he said.

The door opened before I could decide whether I needed to freak out while washing my hands. This was my go-to compulsion. I couldn’t change my pace, draw it out, make it go faster, or it wouldn’t count.

Lying would have assuaged the stress, but after this morning, I was determined to stop. Again. Never quit quitting, right?

“Are you okay?”

I couldn’t look up, but I could see him in the periphery of my vision. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“I know. I was there.”

I heard his amusement. I counted the fourth cycle, breathing the word out loud to make it official. I needed him to stop talking to me. I couldn’t do two things at once, not correctly. I needed to concentrate.

“It’s okay, you know. I’m not mad. I’ve had worse things dumped on my lap. At least it wasn’t hot.”

I nodded, muttering, “I’m sorry,” and, “five,” the words piling on top of one another and threatening to ruin my ritual. I should offer to pay the cleaning bill, but I knew his clothes were wash and wear. That AFI shirt was vintage, though. It had the
Black Sails in the Sunset
logo and had to be at least fourteen years old.

He watched me for a blessedly silent moment, but then he put his hand on my wrist just as I started on number six. Good God, he ruined everything! I was going to have a meltdown in a public restroom standing next to a strange and utterly sexy man. Most men would’ve left at this point, even among of those crazy few who would have followed me in here in the first place. Not Dylan.

“Breathe.”

He had an authoritative tone I couldn’t ignore. I breathed. I finished number six. “I’m fine. I just need to wash my hands.”

He shut off the water and snagged several paper towels. “You washed your hands.”

And he’d ruined my ritual. I dried my hands and tossed the towels in the trash. “I have to start over.”

“You have OCD?”

It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to diagnose my condition, though most people would have chalked it up to quirkiness or lunacy. “Yes. Please leave. I need to start over.”

He didn’t respond to the desperation in my tone, and he didn’t seem fazed by my impending implosion. He kept his tone light and neutral, like a shrink would. “How about you try this instead: Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.”

Amazingly, I did what he said. I’d been in counseling—behavior modification therapy—for this. I knew the drill; I was just having trouble accessing the process. Or remembering to use it.

“That’s it. Another.”

I don’t know how much time passed, but the edges of panic receded and my shaking stopped. I opened my eyes to find him regarding me with a patient smile.

“I’m Dylan.”

If I’d had my purse, I would have taken the hand cream out and squeezed the perfect amount onto the center of my palm. “I’m Lacey. And I need to get back to work.”

My real name is Alice, but I hate it. When I arrived at my second-grade classroom and saw that my teacher had put “Alice” all over everything I was supposed to use, I threw a fit. I made my mother take me home because I am not Alice. I’m not a huge fan of Lacey—I’m not even sure how it’s a nickname for Alice—but at least it’s an improvement.

I pushed past Dylan, but he caught me, his hand hot on my skin. “Wait.”

I didn’t mind being touched. That wasn’t a trigger. I took a chance and looked into his teal eyes. “You do know this is the ladies’ room, right?”

His eyes lit. “
That’s
what the figure wearing the skirt on the door meant.”

Sarcasm is one of my favorite forms of communication. I couldn’t help it; I laughed.

He smiled. “You have a very nice laugh.”

“Thanks.” Reaching out, I fingered the sleeve of his shirt. It was a flirty move, and against my better judgment, I meant it to be. Part of me wanted to tear off his clothes and throw him to the floor. “AFI is one of my favorite bands. I’m truly sorry about the shirt.”

“It’ll wash.” That smile didn’t fade. He watched me touch his shirt.

Before things could get more awkward, I stepped around him and reached for the handle on the door. “Thanks for talking me down. I hope your shirt doesn’t stain.”

Chapter Two

W
HEN
I R
ETURNED
T
O
T
HE
O
FFICE
, I washed my hands six perfect times. Stress followed the water and white froth of soap down the drain. Nobody bothered me. Nobody ever bothered me at work unless there was a problem with their paycheck, which rarely happened now that I was in charge of the department.