Trouble Won't Wait (8 page)

“You shouldn’t come here dressed anymore,” he informs me.

Teasing, I raise my brows. “I can’t really run around
un
dressed.”

“You know what I mean.” He’s moved away, and I follow to the kitchen, where he has steaks ready to grill. Cool, I’m starved! I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but maybe he’s upset with me for dressing suggestively. It’s just jeans, not even tight ones. Just jeans, but I knew when I came here he would notice the difference, and I
wanted
him to.

I follow him out to his patio, which is sheltered by a deck above. Snow is flying all around, but not hitting here. He’s serious about his grilling–I can tell by the wide selection of tools and their covered rack mounted on the wall. Below the tools stands a shiny stainless steel behemoth of a grill. The steaks have been marinating, and the aroma makes my mouth water. He places foiled potatoes on the grill beside the steaks, watching me from the corner of his eye.

“You sure have a lot of alone time for a lady with two kids and a…” He clears his throat as if forcing himself to behave. “Husband.”

“I ditched an in-law get together. Refused to go.” I’m smug when I say it, proud of the stand I took. I mentally wrinkle my nose at his calling me a lady. It sounds like what a little kid would call me. I don’t know, maybe lady is a romantic term. Could be a Texan word. “My life’ll be on schedule again tomorrow when the kids are back in school.” Which means I won’t be hanging out in his house anymore, probably a good thing if I want to avoid adultery.

I’m sorry I won’t be seeing Adam as much, but I do need to get back to my writing. A deadline looms in the not-so-distant future. I’m learning the hard way that deadlines don’t help me. They stress me out and then I have a hard time imagining, letting my brain loose to weave the story. My plots peter out when I’m stressed, which will probably be most of the time for the next, say, six or eight months. How long does a divorce take, anyway?

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

I can’t exactly tell him I’m worrying about writer’s block, since I haven’t told him I’m a writer. “I’m hoping you have sour cream for those potatoes.”

“Yeah, right.”

Guess I didn’t have that
will work for sour cream
look on my face.

“I’ve got wine, and I know it’s not too early for you to drink. Want some?” Drawn-together brows tell me Adam is not pleased I didn’t come clean with him. Conversely, I’m not pleased he can tell I’m holding out. Isn’t there a class at a college or something, maybe an online tutorial, to teach people like me to lie? I don’t like lying, but sometimes knowing how would sure come in handy, and I really suck at it.

“I rode my bike this morning before I went down to the office,” he tells me, as he’s pouring chablis. “I happened to see a huge vase of red roses going in your front door.” His mouth is a thin line of restraint when he pushes me my glass.

“Were you spying?” I snap.

He looks at me with his lips pressed together. “
No
, I was letting you know why I thought you were avoiding me earlier when I saw you walking home. So you didn’t think I was a jerk.”

Now I feel bad for flying off the handle. I calm my voice to answer. “It would take a lot more than red roses to make me forgive Mike for what he’s done. I may be a push-over about some things, but don’t ever think I’m that soft.” I’ll never be soft inside again, after what Mike’s done to me. “If I had it in me to forgive him, I doubt I would’ve been out flirting with a stranger on Thanksgiving Day. Despite the way I’ve behaved, or
misbehaved
with you, Adam, it’s not my style. I’ve never so much as kissed another man during my marriage. Never wanted to.”

His brows raise suggestively, reminding me I kissed
him
.

Rolling my eyes, I tip back my glass and drink deeply. “Before you.”

It would be dangerous to tell him everything is different with him. And maybe I
would
have flirted with him when I met him, even if Mike hadn’t screwed up. There’s something about Adam, a feeling, a compulsion I can’t seem to resist.

I really hate being cross with him, but this is such a difficult situation right now. He’s going to be worrying every day and night that I’ll cave and take Mike back, that he’s seen the last of me. And I’ll resent him not trusting me, but why should he? All he knows of me is I’m married and sneaking around to see him! It’s a waiting game of epic emotions.

“I never kissed a married woman who wasn’t my wife, before you,” he reveals.

My jaw drops and he makes a speedy exit to pull the steaks from the grill. He was married before? Of course he was. How could a guy this hot still be single? I never asked about that when we were playing the tell-me-about-you game Friday. I saw no ring on his finger and left it at that.

He returns and plates our lunch, and I’m still struggling to keep my cool. I finally have to ask, “You’re not married
now
?”

His stone-cold glare tells me I’ve offended him.

Okay, he’s single. That’s a relief. Hah! Only one of us is bound legally and morally to someone else forever. Then, when we’re both at the table with our food, “You’re divorced?” It would be nice if he’d fill in the blanks.

He looks off out the window, then shrugs his shoulders as if it’s the first time he thought of it that way. “Yeah.”

There’s no way I’m speaking again, until he finishes explaining.

He figures it out, and continues. “She was a girl I’d known since we were kids. Our families still bump elbows now and then. She decided she was bored with me and moved on. Now she’s married into a Georgia family with
old money
. Sugar plantations and all that.”

“Bored with you, huh? What, are you some kinda corpse in bed?” I’m already laughing when his eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “A joke, sheesh. ‘Old money,’ you say? I think you should know, I come from a family of CTMF money.”

He smiles when he asks, “CTMF?”

“Checking the Mail For.”

His dimples come out to play, but it’s his eyes that light up his face, and my heart. How could anyone get bored with him?

“So what was the duration of this colossal failure to keep Ms. Old Money entertained?”

“Just under a year.”

“Shit, you must be
really
boring.”

He reaches below the table and grabs my foot, pulls off my shoe, and starts tickling. How do guys sense ticklishness? I’m extremely ticklish, virtually everywhere, which he soon discovers when I fall off my chair and he kneels and pins me, tickling my ribs with one hand, and my knee with the other.

I’m trying to wiggle away, but laughing so hard, thoughts are hard to keep coming in a steady thread.

He throws one leg over and sits on me, and stops tickling, giving me time to catch my breath.

“Take it back,” he commands, knowing he, The Tickler, exerts one hundred percent of the power over me, The Tickled. He tickles me a bit more, to play up his position of control.

“Okay!” I gasp.

“Okay what?” He’s gonna make me say it, so I decide to be obnoxious and embellish.

“I take it back. I’d
never
be bored with you. How could she look at your dimples and be bored? If you were mine, I’d do nothing but gaze, awestruck, into your eyes all day. I’d become a shut-in because I couldn’t quit kissing you long enough to leave the house.”

The triumphant, self-satisfied smile he was wearing has faded, and he’s looking very serious now. All my other silly, sappy taunts melt away from my tongue. His face lowers toward mine, and I want him so much it hurts.

In a raspy, sensual voice I seldom have–maybe lying on my back is giving it a nicer timbre–I repeat my question from Friday. “You wanta be my revenge?” It halts him, like I’d hoped. Not because I wanted him to stop, but because I want him to be more than my revenge.

He stands and offers me a hand up, which I accept warily.

Will there be more tickling? The power may have gone to his head.

“Eat your steak, smartass.” The words are stern, but they come with a playful yank of my hair. The rest of the meal is fun and sweet, and, we both know, all too short. He tells me he has a younger sister who fell victim to his tickling nearly every day of her childhood. She lives in Denver with her husband.

After the steak and potatoes are gone, Adam pulls out a cheesecake. His eyes sparkle at my obvious pleasure. I’m thrilled with the cheesecake, naturally, but even more pleased he remembered it was my favorite. His thoughtfulness is as sweet as the dessert.

Before I leave, I scribble my email address on a notepad near his phone. With a “Bye, Ferris!” cast over my shoulder, I drive home in high spirits.

Chapter 5

Mike and the kids return home with a Christmas tree roped in the back of the truck, and we spend the afternoon and evening digging out ornaments, hanging lights outdoors, and finally trimming the tree.

The kids are exhilarated with holiday cheer. Grandma took them on an early shopping spree and bought them each a new outfit. This, in spite of her being low on funds. Now that the house is decked out for Christmas, they’re really pumped up.

It’s work convincing them to settle down at bedtime, but at last they turn in. Ben makes a reluctant promise to read, rather than watch TV until he’s sleepy. Rachel is already curled up with the fourth Harry Potter tome when I kiss her goodnight.

Mike is sitting on the sofa with a very small, silver box. He looks as proud as a physicist must be when presenting his new discovery to the crowd at the Nobel convention.

I walk past him to the kitchen to get farther away from the kids’ rooms. He follows, deflated, because I’m not jumping for joy over his peace offering. He places the box on the counter and pushes it to me. “Come on, baby. Just open it.”

His eyes plead, and he did call me baby. He needs me so much. My hand fidgets with the drawer in front of me while I struggle with pity and seasonal goodwill, and most of all a deep, abiding love for my husband.

Wham! The badass side of me purposely slams the drawer on my finger to wake me up. Success. I’m fuming.

“I don’t want it, Michael,” I snarl. Mad works well for me.

He slides the top of the box off and pushes a ring box at me. Since I refuse to touch it, he opens it to reveal a huge diamond on a platinum band.

I drag my bedazzled gaze away. “You should be saving up right now–you’re gonna need it for
alimony
soon!” Any other woman would take the ring and then still divorce him, but not me. I have to screw myself as hard as he did, I guess.

Mike may be hurt, but his resolve has taken only a light bruising. “Baby, one day you won’t be so mad at me anymore, and this’ll still be here for you. I won’t give up on you, no matter what.” He kisses my forehead, and leaves the room, humming
Mandy
.

He got to me, because I’m crying when I go downstairs to my office, pajamas in hand. Son of a bitch. Why does he have to drag this out? Why do I? Why can’t I cut him off in my mind and let go of that love? I should hate him all the time, not only when I remember, well,
that thing
he did.

* * * *

My inbox has several messages from friends, and one from “Ferris” at a GasKo address. I smile as I read it.

Axl
,–cute, huh? Like in Guns-n-Roses

Hope you’re lonely tonight. I know I am. I’m thinking of getting a cat.

Does your month start yesterday, or when you first go to counseling? Let me know, I’ll be counting down.

Email me anytime. I always have my laptop.

I’d sure like a picture of you–hint.

Crazed,

Ferris

Crazed
, I think to myself, as I’m crawling into the spare bed to sleep. Crazed.

* * * *

Monday morning, as I return from walking Rachel to school, Mike calls to tell me we have an appointment the next day with a counselor. How on earth he managed to get in so fast, I can’t guess. He sends me three text messages before noon saying he’ll “luv” me “4Evr.” Ugh. I methodically delete each without reply.

My mom calls and we visit like always, and I make sure not to tell her a blessed thing that truly matters in my life right now. She and my dad have taken up golf since they came into money–right after the natural gas wells went in on their property–so she has lots of silly golf anecdotes for me.

“Honey. Why don’t you and the kids come down and visit over Christmas break?” she asks.

“I’ll think about it. But December is crazy for Mike’s business. All the houses are on deadlines, because everybody wants to move in by Christmas.” The truth is, I’m not even considering going to Phoenix, but I can’t crush Mom like that.

Mom sounds bummed when she says goodbye, but what can I do?

I email Adam before doing my work.

Ferris,

What kind of cat?

I’ll call it a month when Christmas is over.

I’ll look for a picture, how about one from high school? Kidding.