Amy closed her anthropology textbook with a satisfied thwack. She pushed away from the study carrel in the library stacks and knuckled her lower back, twisting until her vertebrae snap-crackle-popped into alignment. No matter what Professor Dillard threw at her tomorrow night, she was ready. She hoped. While she stuffed reams of notes into her backpack, her friends and coworkers’ voices played like a symphony in her head, heavy on the percussion.
Get your degree, Amy. You put that jerk of a husband through school. He dumped you, and good riddance. It’s your turn now. Go. Relax. Meet some new people. Intelligent people. Not the riffraff that comes into the diner. Have a fling.
Right. As if she had time to meet any of these intelligent people. Most avoided her like she was some kind of plague-ridden alien. Like age was contagious. Good heavens, she was only thirty-five. She zipped her pack. So what? No matter what her friends said, she was here for an education, not a social life.
Whoever said adults going back to college made the best students obviously hadn’t had to work enough hours to feed two kids, pay for someone to watch them while she went to night classes, and still manage to find time to study. Aside from carryover credits, nothing from the two years at junior college in her former life helped in her current classes. If she remembered anything at all, it was way out of date.
She’d crammed as much as she could, and for the first time this semester, felt like she didn’t need to keep her textbooks open behind the diner’s counter, reading paragraphs between orders. And, blessed miracle, she had a three-day weekend off from work.
Three days. All to herself. Only her exam tomorrow night, then nothing until Monday.
Tomorrow was a teacher workday at the elementary school, and Roger had already picked up the girls. Jerk of a husband he may have been, but he loved his daughters. Together, she and Roger had created something wonderful, and neither was going to let past mistakes hurt their children. When Roger said he’d be there, he was. Better than the stories her coworkers at the diner told about last minute cancellations, unkept promises, and just plain no-shows. The pure joy in their daughters’ eyes—and his—when he’d picked them up made her wonder if the fates had decreed she and Roger would get together for the sole purpose of creating Jessie and Elyse, and once done, would move apart.
She started making plans. Selfish plans. Soak in a hot bubble bath? Enjoy a glass of wine? Dare to watch a chick flick or read a sizzling romance? Be totally decadent and paint her toenails?
She rubbed her neck, trying to relieve the tension of hours bent over books, and glanced at her watch. Hours was right. Good grief, it was almost eleven. She wriggled into her parka and shouldered her pack. If she hurried, she might make the last bus. She’d have to. With a grand total of three dollars and twenty-eight cents in her wallet, cab fare was out of the question.
She wrapped a scarf around her neck, tucked her hair up into her knit cap, and bolted down the stairs, clutching her anthro book to her chest. The elevator was powered by tired gerbils on a treadmill in the basement, and she could run the three flights in half the time it took for the elevator to get down, even if she had the amazing good fortune of a car waiting at her floor.
Across the lobby at full tilt, then down the library’s cement stairs to the sidewalk. But she hadn’t considered the weather. While she’d been lost in the tribal customs of indigenous Australians, someone had had the nerve to dump at least two inches of snow on the ground, much of which had turned to ice. Halfway down, Amy slipped and landed unceremoniously on her bottom. She scrambled to her feet in time to see the last bus pulling away from the stop.
Stamping her foot did nothing but let her know she must have twisted her ankle in her fall. Dammit. Telling herself that at least she wasn’t paying a sitter did little to assuage her frustration. A long walk on a cold night was not in her plans.
“You all right, ma’am?”
Amy started at the sound of a deep male voice. Muggers wouldn’t ask you if you were all right. They certainly wouldn’t call you “ma’am.” Still, her heart pounded a little faster. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” She squinted into the street lamp that kept her unknown companion in shadow. Six feet tall, at least, she guessed. He extended something in front of him. Her anthro book.
“I think this is yours,” he said. Nice voice. Hint of a southern accent, maybe. That would explain the “ma’am.” She reached out and took the book from his hand.
“Thanks. Can’t afford to lose this.” She maneuvered around under the light to get a better look at him. A little older than she expected. Lines etched around his eyes. Friendly eyes. Blue. Like his parka. Stop that. She’d been out of circulation way too long. Give her someone who said “ma’am” instead of “dude”, and her hands start sweating.
“Anthro 110. Dillard, right?” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, and I have a midterm tomorrow and need to get home.” She worked her pack off her shoulders, zipped the book into the outer compartment. Somehow, it didn’t bother her when he helped her slip the pack back on.
“Relationships. That’s the key,” he said.
“What?” Okay, now that was a bit much. They hadn’t even exchanged names yet.
“On his midterm. He’ll ask at least six questions about how the different tribes look at relationships. You know, a mother’s sister is an aunt in our culture, but in some tribes she’s just as likely to be considered another mother.”
“Oh, yes. Relationships. Thanks. I guess I’ll have to review some more. How do you know he’ll ask that?”
“TA’d his class last year.”
“Ah. You’re an anthro major, then? Grad student?”
“Yes. Should have my doctorate in two more years. If I can squeeze in all the classes with my work schedule. Might take longer. Been at it long enough, a few more years won’t matter.”
“Good luck. I know about working and classes. I can’t get in more than two a semester. I may never graduate. Almost guaranteed if I don’t get home and go over those relationships again. Thanks for the advice.” She stepped away, gritting her teeth when her ankle protested.
“That was the last bus, you know.” He stood there with his hands in his pockets. “It’s cold, too.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I need to get going. I’ve got a long walk.”
“I’m Greg.”
“Amy.” She gave a sigh of exasperation. “Look, Greg, it’s been nice chatting, but like you said, that was the last bus, and it’s cold, and I need to study. Maybe I’ll see you around campus.”
“I have a car. It’s in the west lot.” He smiled.
She smiled back, and when she limped because her ankle hurt and he put his arm around her waist, she leaned into him. As they walked to his car, she shoved aside thoughts that screamed romance novel cliché—heroine sprains ankle, handsome hero comes to the rescue, and they fall in love and live happily ever after.
Damn, she’d fallen down half a flight of stairs and was lucky she hadn’t broken something. People fell in real life. Even twisted ankles. Still, she tested the joint, pleased when it accepted her weight. She inched away from Greg’s support, her mind discarding the romance novel clichés and grabbing the suspense novel clichés instead. The stories where the heroine blindly follows the murdering maniac—the one with the disarming smile and friendly blue eyes—into disaster.
“Ankle feeling better?” Greg’s mellow voice pulled her out of her personal story hour.
“Yes, thanks. If I’d known the weather was going to change, I’d have worn boots, not sneakers.”
By now, they’d reached the perimeter of the west parking lot. Amy scanned the half-empty rows of cars, trying to pick out which was Greg’s. Something sensible. An SUV, probably. Not new. Black. Mud-stained, maybe a couple of dents or dings.
His hand at her back was gentle. She accepted his touch. Polite, guiding—not possessive.
“Over here,” he said. He led her to the edge of the last row, where a lone blue c
ar sat under a light pole.
“This is yours?” she asked, aware her voice expressed her awe at the sparkling, well-maintained Chevelle SS.
He shrugged. “Is now. Was my grandfather’s. When he died, my grandmother kept it.”
“But she only drove it to church on Sundays, right? What is it, a sixty-six?”
“Good eye. You into cars?”
“Not really. My family had a dealership a long, long time ago. I kind of grew up on the lot.”
“Well, this one came at the right price. Maintenance isn’t so bad, but gas is a killer.”
“I can’t believe you actually drive this.”
“I keep telling myself to sell it and get something more practical, but it’s got too many memories on board.”
He opened the door and she slid in, running her hand over the smooth seats. She relaxed a little. Anyone who cared that much about his car wasn’t going to do anything that might get it all bloody.
“Where to?” Greg asked.
Where to was the question of the century, all right. Home, for another lonely night? The bubble bath and pedicure lost some appeal. His place, for goodness knows what? Right. Like she’d ever done anything that stupid. Not even when she’d met Roger.
She met his gaze, and his lazy smile, so unassuming, loosened something inside. Loosened. Didn’t untie. Be sensible.
Nevertheless, the words poured out. “I know it’s late, but maybe a cup of coffee? My treat, if you’ll give me a couple more pointers about Dillard’s midterm. My GPA needs the boost.”
He twisted the key in the ignition and the car purred to life. The seat vibrated beneath her.
“My notes are at my place,” he said. “Maybe a couple of drafts of Dillard’s old exams, too.”
When she didn’t respond right away, he smiled again.
Whoa. Between the smile and the bottom massage from his V-8, sensible was getting harder to hang onto. “Umm…” was all she managed before he backed out of the parking slot.
“I make a lousy cup of coffee,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “But I’ve got a pretty good memory. Any favorite coffee places?”
Relief, with just a dash of disappointment, flooded her. She almost blurted out the name of the diner where she worked before common sense took over. All she needed was a million questions, not to mention another million unfounded rumors, if she walked in off-duty with a man. A good-looking man.
“Whatever’s open,” she said. “I’m not fussy. I drink plain coffee, black, but at this hour, it’ll be decaf. Don’t need those fancy frou-frou concoctions.”
Moments later, they sipped coffee from thick mugs in a booth at Denny’s. Greg asked to see Amy’s notes, and she spread them on the table. Without asking, Greg simply got up and slid in beside her, reading her notes, commenting here, highlighting there, inundating her with his clean, masculine scent everywhere.
Study date. No! Study session. Not a date.
Before long, Amy stopped noticing when the waitress refilled their mugs, only that they never seemed to be empty. A crumb-filled plate perched near the edge of the table. She ran her tongue over her teeth, tasted cinnamon and nutmeg. Apple pie? When had she eaten the pie? And only one plate. Had they shared pie? That brought it back to date, didn’t it?
Later—much later—when they stood outside her apartment door, because, of course, he insisted on seeing her safely inside her building, she tried for a casual smile.
“Thanks for the help,” she said. “I think I’ll pass the midterm.”
“You’ll ace it,” he said. “I’m positive you will. How about a late supper afterwards, to celebrate?”
“Or drown my sorrows. Sometimes I freeze during exams.”
“Relax. You know the material. Remember. Relationships.”
“Right. Uncles and cousins and aunts, oh my.”
When he laughed, she tilted her head up. His kiss was gentle, a mere touching of lips. She opened to him, and his tongue delved deeper. He tasted of coffee and apple pie. They’d definitely shared. Her pack clunked to the floor. Her hands entwined in his hair, pulled him down to her. He cupped her buttocks, brought her close enough to feel his arousal.
With a sigh, he released her. “You need to rest, which means I need to leave. Now. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Pick you up at nine.” He waited long enough for her to fish her keys from her purse. When her fingers trembled and she missed the lock, he covered her hand with his warm, strong one and slotted it for her. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open a crack. “Good night, Amy.”
Inside, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it. She listened as his footsteps faded down the hall.
From the kitchen, Rupert, the family cat, padded to Amy’s feet, mewing.
She sank to the couch and patted her lap in invitation. “I know I’m late. But it was a study session. Not a date.” She scratched Rupert behind his ears. His cat-motor rumbled through her. “All we talked about was anthropology. Honest.” Rupert kneaded her thighs. “Okay, we kissed. Once. And it was hot. But a date means talking about personal stuff.”
Which, she thought, would happen tomorrow night, and he’d find out she had two kids and a failed marriage, and he’d be on his way.
Stop it. All that talk about relationships has your mind in overdrive. One study date—session—doesn’t mean a relationship. He’s nice, he’s definitely hot, and his kisses curl your toes. Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe you do need a fling. Recharge the batteries and you’ll be fine for another two years.
She put Rupert on the floor, checked his water, and went to bed. Grateful for the luxury of not needing an alarm for the morning, she closed her eyes, falling into dreams of indigenous tribes filled with tall natives with blue eyes and friendly smiles.
♥ ♥ ♥
The next evening, relaxed from a late-afternoon bubble bath, Amy sat on the bus, wriggling her freshly-painted toenails in her boots. Fuck-me red toenails. She didn’t remember buying the polish, but when she’d found it buried in her collection of pale pinks and creamy corals, she couldn’t resist. Not that Greg would ever see them, of course. But she’d know they were there, and that was all that mattered. Maybe she wouldn’t go as quite as far as fling, but she’d had her grand awakening last night. Time to get out of her rut.
During the exam, she imagined herself in the booth at Denny’s. She heard Greg’s calm voice, not feeding her facts, but making her think, draw her own conclusions. The words seemed to write themselves as she filled in her exam booklet. And when she hit the section on relationships, she felt a smile stretch across her face. Maybe Greg was right. Maybe she was going to ace this one.
She dropped her exam booklet on Professor Dillard’s desk.
He added it to the pile, squaring them. “Thank you, Ms. Kellar. Enjoy your weekend.”
Her face warmed, and she wondered if he knew anything. God, Greg had been Professor Dillard’s Teaching Assistant. Did they talk? Afraid to meet his gaze, she gave him a polite thank you and strode up the aisle and out the door. In the hall, she paused and peered in both directions, half-expecting Greg to be waiting. No. He’d said nine, which was over an hour from now.
Arriving at the bus stop as the bus was pulling in, not pulling away, added another layer to Amy’s good feeling. She climbed aboard, flashed her pass at the driver and found an empty seat in the back.
When the bus wheezed to a stop at her block, it was all she could do to refrain from skipping the rest of the way home. She took the stairs two at a time to her third-floor apartment. The key slid into the lock like butter. The squeaky-creak when she pushed the door open sounded like music instead of setting her teeth on edge. She dumped her book bag on the floor and hurried to change for dinner with Greg, still avoiding thinking of it as a date. Moms didn’t date.
With the radio in the bedroom blaring Jimmy Buffet, she rummaged through the cluttered vanity drawer in the bathroom and found her curling iron. While it heated, she spri
tzed herself with perfume, dabbed on some foundation—was she that pale?—and took a deep breath. At this rate, she’d be exhausted before Greg even got here. She forced herself to slow down. Get dressed. Sit. Read.
At precisely eight forty-two, according to the display on her VCR, the doorbell rang. Early was good. Waiting was the pits. Amy put down the book she’d been staring at and tried to wipe what had to be a stupid grin off her face. She smoothed her skirt and went to open the door.
Roger stood there, flanked by Jessie and Elyse, their overnight bags in hand. “Don’t you answer your damn cell phone? Or check your messages?” he snapped.
His tone demanded answers, and Amy reverted to form, providing them without thinking beyond the moment. “I was taking an exam. I forgot to turn my cell back on.” She swiveled her head and saw the blinking light on the answering machine.
“I don’t have time now,” Roger said. “If you’d checked, you’d know that I have to fly to New Jersey.” He glanced at his watch. “Now.” He bent over and hugged and kissed each daughter. “Thanks for understanding. We’ll do something extra special next time, okay?”
Glad that there didn’t seem to be any resentment on the girls’ faces when they said good-bye, Amy watched Roger race down the stairs. Jessie and Elyse pushed past her, dragging their cases toward their room. Moments later, they returned.
“Can we watch TV?” Jessie asked, displaying a DVD case. “We were going to watch with Daddy, but he had to go.”
Amy sank to the couch. This was her life. Nothing ever went according to plan. “What’s the movie?”
“Pippi Longstocking,” Elyse said.
Amy turned over the case. One hour, twenty-one minutes. “I’m not sure. It’s pretty late to be starting a movie.”
“Please, Mommy. No school tomorrow.”
They’d already had one disappointment tonight. “All right. But get in your jammies first.”
When the doorbell rang a minute later, there was no smile on her face.
Greg stood there, wearing neatly pressed khakis and a button-down blue oxford shirt. She followed his eyes as they did the same, taking her in. She’d chosen a simple brown skirt, a long-sleeved yellow sweater that hinted of cleavage without revealing much, and leather dress boots.
“You look good,” he said.
“You, too.” God, how dumb.
“How was the exam?”
“I think I did okay. Thanks so much. Last night really made a difference.”
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. She wondered if he was thinking about the studying or the good-night kiss.
“Glad to help. You ready? I’m starved. I thought we’d do a little better than Denny’s tonight.”
“Umm … I think … I mean, something’s come up, and I can’t make it. I need to stay home.” She cast a quick glance into the living room, but the girls hadn’t reappeared yet.
He eyed her again and frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
She realized what it must look like. She wasn’t dressed for a night of hanging around her apartment. He must think she had another date.
Just then, Jessie and Elyse scrambled into the room, dragging pillows and blankets, already arguing about who would be in charge of the remote. Amy sighed. “My daughters. They were supposed to be with their father this weekend. Plans changed.”
He didn’t speak, and she rushed to fill the void. “I just found out about it about three minutes ago. He dropped them and dashed off. We’ve been divorced for three years. I was going to tell you, but I thought I could have one night being just me, you know.”
“Maybe we can finish this inside instead of out in the hall? Unless you don’t want your kids to see me.”
“No, that’s not it. But—you don’t want to leave?” Amy stepped back and Greg followed.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, I sort of left out the fact that I had kids last night. That wasn’t totally honest.”
“We didn’t talk about anything but anthro last night. I figured tonight we’d do all the autobiographical stuff. If having kids was a stopper, I’d have asked about it before inviting you to dinner. Maybe you should ask me a couple of make-it-or-break-it questions, in case you don’t want me around.”
Amy knew her face was glowing like a Hawaiian sunset. “No. I think we can take things as they come.”
“Good.” He crossed the room and crouched to the floor where the girls had settled into their blanket cocoons. “Hi. I’m Greg. Can I watch, too?”
They giggled in unison. “Okay.”
“I’ll sit on the couch with your mom, though,” he said. “I didn’t bring my pillow. Is that all right?”
More giggles and a couple of head bobs.
Greg joined Amy on the couch, sitting close. He put an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened for a moment, glanced at the girls who were engrossed in the television. At six and eight, they probably wouldn’t read anything into it. She relaxed and leaned into him, taking in his spicy aftershave, his broad chest, and steady heartbeat.
“Want me to call for a pizza?” he asked.
“Pizza! Yippee!” Squeals of delight from the floor “No peppers!” Jessie added.
“I guess that’s a yes,” Amy said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And if you’re not aware of it yet, kids are endowed with super hearing, so we’re just going to watch the movie.”
Greg mimed zipping his lips, and squeezed her thigh. He pulled himself up and looked around. “Phone? I’ll order the food.”
“Kitchen,” Amy said. “Number’s on the fridge.”
One hour and thirty minutes later, the girls were off to bed. Amy tucked them in, kissed them, and enjoyed the swelling in her heart as they snuggled under the covers. Greg had gathered the pizza debris and was wiping down the kitchen counter. She hovered in the doorway a moment, not sure if the pang in her chest was a residual from her good-nights, or brand new.
Greg had arbitrated remote disputes, rationed pizza, and laughed in all the right places when the girls talked back to the movie. She’d tried one or two dates after Roger had split, but they’d always been awkward and uncomfortable. Greg simply took over, making himself part of a foursome, not an outsider.
He rinsed his hands, dried them, and faced her. “What’s next?”
He was the champion at asking the questions of the century. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
He grinned. “You mean when I rang your doorbell or right now? Because they’re exactly the same, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Amy chuckled. “Right now, and realistically.”
“There’s some wine left. Another glass?”
She nodded. He poured, then walked toward the living room. She followed.
“You were great with the girls,” she said. “A natural. Should I be asking you where you got your experience?”
“I’m the youngest of five. I was practically born baby-sitting for nieces and nephews.”
“So, that means—?”
“If you’re asking do I have any of my own, the answer is no. Have I been married? No again. Why? I’m not sure. I saw what my parents, my brothers and sisters had, the way they fell in love. I guess I’m waiting for that to happen to me.”
“I thought I loved my ex. Actually, I know I did. But it wasn’t the same for him. I didn’t expect a fifty-fifty relationship, but one day I woke up and realized that ninety-ten wasn’t the way to go. All we had was the kids, and they’re happier with us apart.”
“They seem well-adjusted.”
“Tonight—he’s never done that before. He’s always been a rock for the girls.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “Never mind. The only connections Roger and I have anymore are sound asleep in the bedroom.”
“Sound asleep?”
She nodded. “Out like the proverbial lights.” Her heart thumped until she thought he’d hear it.
He took a sip of wine, then
set his glass on the coffee table. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day.” His fingers wrapped around hers. Transfixed by his gaze, she was only peripherally aware he’d taken her glass and set it beside his. He leaned toward her a fraction. “May I?”
There was no misinterpreting what he wanted. Or that he saw the answer in her eyes, because he didn’t hesitate to press his lips to hers. She invited him in, teased with her tongue. He accepted, probed deeper, and their tongues entwined in a frenzied dance. His taste—wine and pizza. His scent—masculine and spicy. His hands cradled her face. Pulled her closer. A calloused finger traced her jawline. She intercepted it, kissed it, nibbled it.
Soft moans—his or hers? Rapid breathing. Definitely hers. And his.
His large, warm hand in hers, shown to her breast. Her small hand in his, placed at his groin. Straining against each other, as if they could squeeze inside each other’s skin. The universe shrank to a corner of her sofa.
And expanded enough to pull away. A very important part of her universe, sound asleep or not, demanded a moment of rational thought here. “Stop. Please.” She barely heard the words herself, hated to utter them and put a halt to the ecstatic dizziness. He heard, because he obeyed.
Panting, he released her breast. “Wow,” he said after several long seconds.
“I’ll see your wow and raise it to intense. But too fast. Too soon.” She glanced in the direction of the girls’ room.
“I understand.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t say I like it, but I understand. I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Can we talk? Or just sit here? I don’t want you to go—but I can’t do this. Not yet. I thought I needed a fling. A battery recharge. But—”
His breathing evened. “But?”
“But if I did—I don’t know if I could—if you’re fling material.”
“So you’re saying I’m not good enough?”
“God, no. I mean, God, yes.” She lowered her head to her hands. “I’m not saying this right.”
“I’m not going anywhere for a while.” He gave a half-chuckle, half-snorting sound. “I think if I had to walk right now, it would kill me.”
She let her gaze flicker to the bulge in his pants. And smiled. “What I think I’m trying to say, is that this was supposed to be my all-for-Amy weekend. No kids, the midterm behind me, and I don’t have to be at work until Monday. I was going to veg—total couch potato. Bubble bath, trashy novels, a few chick flicks. But then I met you.”
“So I ruined your perfect weekend?”
She heard the teasing in his voice and picked up both wine glasses. She handed him one and went on. “No. You just expanded the horizons a little. So now, I was going to do all the Amy stuff, but I was going to have a fling.”
“A fling.” He nodded, all seriousness. “So I’m a fling.”
“No. Not after tonight. A fling means no strings, and if we’d kept going, I don’t think I could deal with the aftermath.”
Greg leaned into the corner of the sofa and pulled Amy into him. With his arms wrapped around her, he nuzzled her hair. “Aftermath?”
“You know. A weekend of sex, and then you go off to your life, and my girls come home and I’m back to mine. With some nice memories, but not much else.”
“So I was supposed to be your boy toy for the weekend?”
“Stop it. My brain and my mouth aren’t connected right now. Yes, I thought it would be a one-night stand—maybe two, because it was a long weekend. But I can’t put you into that pigeonhole anymore. If we … you know—”
“Made love?”
“Yes. If we did, it would have to mean more than a weekend for me.”
“Do I get a turn to talk here?”
“Please. I’m tired of the taste of shoe leather.”
“You’re not a one-night stand, fling, quickie, or anything remotely related in my book, Amy. I would be honored if you would allow me the pleasure of courting you and your daughters. Slowly, at whatever pace you deem appropriate.”
“Can you be back here at eight tomorrow morning?” Once the words left her mouth, Amy knew she’d taken an irreversible step toward silencing her internal voices.
He sat up. “I can. Why?”
“I promised the girls we’d go out for pancakes tomorrow. Will you join us?”
“I’d love it.”
“You think you can walk yet?”
“For you, I’d cross the Serengeti, pain and all.”
“How would Professor Dillard classify this kind of a relationship?” she asked. “I don’t recall reading about one like it.”
“Special.”
She lifted her wineglass. “To relationships.”
Out of Sight
Sometimes being invisible is a good thing. Or is it? Alone with a captivating colleague, Sandra deals with the reality of her marriage and herself.
♥ ♥ ♥