“Define normal.”
He thought a moment. “How about we just shoot for no more yelling?”
I pondered. “Deal. Can I get out now?”
He shook his head. “I’d feel safer with the steel door between us for a little while longer. But maybe you could roll the window down a little more?”
“I can hear you just fine,” I mumbled, but rolled it down all the way. When I looked up, his face was mere inches from mine.
“With the window up, I couldn’t do this,” he whispered, then kissed me slow and sweet. When he pulled away, my lips wanted to follow, but I kept them safely inside the truck. “So you’re really this pissed off about onions?”
“I—” I started to yell, then clamped my mouth shut tightly and tried to think about what I wanted to say. “I was pissed off that your ex-wife couldn’t wait to tell me you didn’t like onions. And believe me, we’re talking about that. But what really pissed me off was that you left, and you never came back. You left me there alone—
“You weren’t alone—”
“I felt alone.”
He was silent outside the truck. I was silent inside the truck.
“I’m sorry that I left, and I’m sorry that you felt alone,” he said after a moment. “But you really hurt Missy’s feelings.”
“I don’t think that—”
“Let me finish.” He waited, and when I nodded, he went on. “You think divorced people should be arguing about things, but I think the opposite. We’d been friends since we were in seventh grade. We dated all through high school. She went with me to USC, and when I got drafted she was cheering me on in the front row. She was with me in Dallas, she was with me in the locker room the day my knee gave out, and she was next to me the entire time I was in rehab, training to get strong again.”
Shit. That was the definition of history.
“So why wouldn’t we be friends after we were no longer married?”
“Why aren’t you still married? It sounds like you two were perfect for each other.” I hated that my words came out as sharp as they did, but I had to know.
“Do you want the same things you wanted when you were seventeen?”
I flashed on that tiny apartment in the Bronx, cooking for Thomas and flinching when he told me I was a fat slob. Yet I’d stayed. I’d wanted it.
“No,” I said vehemently.
“We fell out of love—it happens. But just because we didn’t make it as a couple, I’m supposed to hate her?”
“She sure doesn’t hate you,” I mumbled, and suddenly there was a hand under my chin, tipping my head upward. And warm gray-blue eyes, staring deeply into mine.
“Is she a little dependent on me? Maybe. Maybe I’ve let her get too dependent. But it doesn’t bother me, and it shouldn’t bother you. There’s nothing but friendship between Missy and me. That’s it.”
I started to say something, but wisely bit my tongue. Because those eyes were burning into mine, almost in a hypnotic kind of way, and I wanted to see what he’d say next. Oscar was a man of few words, so when he used them, I liked to hear them all.
Good thing, too, because what he said next . . .
“In case you haven’t noticed, my attention is focused right now on one woman only. And she’s pretty much got me twisted up in knots, in all the best kinds of ways.”
“Twisted?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he breathed, his hands curving over mine on top of the window, his breath puffing against my face as he lowered his head down toward mine. “All twisted up.”
“Twisted up like . . . head over heels?” I asked, holding my breath. He thought a moment, then kissed me on the tip of my nose.
“Exactly like that.”
Oh. Shit. But as I waited for something like panic to set in, something else entirely happened. Warm fuzzies bloomed outward from my belly into my hands and feet, currents zipping out and back again. I tugged his face farther through the window.
“Don’t leave me again, okay?” I whispered, and he nodded, dipping his head down, running his nose along the side of my face, nuzzling into the crook just below my ear.
“Can I please get out of the car now?” I asked, sitting up higher on the seat, curling my legs underneath me and in the process, flashing him my thighs as my robe rose higher and higher. He started to nod again, but then thought better of it.
“How about I just take you home?” he murmured, beginning to drop tiny kisses all along my jaw, sweeping back along to the hollow of my neck. I shivered, and he took that to mean yes, yes get in this truck and drive me the hell home.
And he did.
I climbed all over him in the truck, sitting on his lap, straddling his lap, laughing as he drove while looking over my shoulder, right hand on the wheel and left hand fumbling under my robe. I kissed his neck, bit his ear, sucked on his jaw, and got my hand halfway down his jeans before he turned into his driveway and pulled me out of the cab and onto him. His hands were everywhere as he picked me up, this time not over his shoulder but tangled across him like he was wearing a Natalie sweater, legs wrapped around his middle, arms wrapped around his neck, my robe dangling from my elbows with my T-shirt up around my neck.
His eyes were wild as he devoured my skin, almost tripping up the front porch steps in his need to get me inside . . . to get me inside. And when we saw the basket of muffins nestled next to the front door, he kicked it aside, the front door banging open wide.
He fucked me on the stairs in the entryway, with his pants around his ankles and my panties torn from one thigh. He fucked me with the front door wide open, with the truck lights still on and the driver’s-side door still hanging ajar, the radio still turned on.
And the muffins stood alone, cold and untouched.
Chapter 18
I stayed in Bailey Falls all day Sunday, and Sunday night as well. I’d planned to get back into the city and get some laundry done, see my parents, get some work done, see some friends, but man oh man, when a guy like Oscar looks at you from across the room, and wants to figure out exactly how many times he can make you come by his tongue alone . . . time tends to stand still.
So I took the early train Monday morning, raced to my apartment, threw on the first clean anything I could find in my closet, and made it to work only an hour late. Well. Ninety minutes.
I walked quickly into my office, keeping my head down to sneak in under the radar, but when my coworker Liz saw me, she shrieked, “It’s not an urban legend! Natalie has returned!”
So much for under the radar.
“Hey, Liz, how’s it going?” I replied, smiling and nodding and trying like hell to get into my office quickly. There was something stuck to my back that had been itching the entire way uptown, and I’d been scratching since Twenty-second Street. I slipped out of my jacket, tossed it across the back of my chair, and waved her in.
“You’ve been spending so much time on this account I feel like I never see you anymore,” Liz said, looking at me pointedly.
“I know, it’s been crazy! But the campaign is coming along really well. You know how it is, really want to capture the essence of the small town, blah blah blah.”
“Speaking of blah blah blah, I heard a rumor that one of the campaigns up for grabs today is Wool, that cute little shop over on Madison that sells those insanely expensive sweaters? If it happened to come to me, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, if you know what I’m saying . . .”
“Shop on Madison, shop on Madison, have I been there?” I asked, trying to picture which one she was talking about. Shops tended to open and close so quickly in Manhattan; no one could afford their rent very long if their store wasn’t performing almost immediately.
“Sure, sure, remember we went there right after it opened? You hit on the sales guy who tried to sell us woolen dickies and ended up meeting him for a drink that weekend?”
&
nbsp; “The guy with the ears, right?” I dimly remembered riding a beautiful face with unfortunately large, floppy ears. I’d felt like I was on a ride at Disney World.
“Exactly, the guy with the ears. And his boss is the guy with the pitch, so when it comes up, if you could be looking in my direction, that’d be ever so groovy.” She blinked at me so innocently I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Ever so groovy?”
“Partridge Family marathon yesterday. I was this close to getting my hair feathered.”
“Jeez, I would have had to friend-divorce you—or at least take you to my salon. Which reminds me, I’m pretty sure I missed my last appointment with Roscoe.”
“Whoa, you missed an appointment with Roscoe? Hairstylist to the stars Roscoe?”
“That’s the one, and he gets pretty testy if you no-show on him. I’ve been avoiding my email all weekend; I just know I got one of those ‘sorry we missed you, but no one does this, so thin ice and all that’ emails,” I replied, scratching my back again. I did feel bad. Roscoe had been doing my hair for years, long before he became the stylist everyone was trying to get an appointment with. I also didn’t tell her that the appointment I’d missed had been the second in a row . . .
“I would kill for an appointment at his salon, and you’re blithely missing yours—what a life!” Liz said, shaking her head. “So, you’ll be on the lookout for that pitch today? Wool?”
“Why are you asking me? You know Dan decides that,” I said, twisting in my seat, trying to find the itch that just wouldn’t stop.
“Yeah, but you’re Dan today.”
“Pardon?” I asked, half listening to her as I grabbed a pen and tried to use that on my back.
“Dan is out sick, so you’re running the meeting today. Did you know that your dress is on inside out?”
“What are you talking about?”
“He sent an email last night saying that he’s out with the flu, and you’d be running things today and possibly tomorrow—”
The air left the room.
“He attached all the accounts for you to review—”
My entire body went rigid and cold.
“—and if you could make sure that Wool job goes to me, but don’t make it look like it was mine all along, you know, that’d be awesome . . .”
It was strange, being able to breathe with no air in the room. And I was breathing. Heavily.
“And you should fix your dress since the meeting’s in five minutes. See you in there . . . boss.” She winked and was gone.
No worries. No worries at all. I could cram a day’s worth of work reviewing these accounts into five minutes.
Actually, four. Because my dress is on inside out.
Bad week. Bad, bad, bad week.
Liz got the campaign she wanted, because I didn’t have a clue who else to give it to. I’d missed the email that Dan had sent the entire group, as well as missing the email that he’d sent just to me Sunday afternoon. In this age of smartphones and everywhere Wi-Fi, it simply wasn’t possible to lie to your boss about not getting an email. Unless you weren’t checking your email because you were too busy.
But when the tongue and the coming and then the fingers and the screaming and the oh my, that was unexpected but awesome, can you do that exactly the same way again . . . Things like phone chargers tend to go by the wayside.
So I refocused. I spent the week getting caught up on the work that was beginning to slip. Phone messages were falling through the cracks, my in-box was beyond full, and I might have missed a deadline on the T&T campaign.
Word got back to Dan that I’d been unprepared for the Monday meeting, and I had to sit in his office when he returned and listen to him artfully ask me questions designed to find out if anything was going on outside of the office that might be affecting what was going on inside of the office. Nothing had officially happened, except for one slightly late deadline. But I’d always delivered everything on time or early, and I was never behind on emails or phone calls. He seemed reassured—but there might’ve been a hint of What the hell is happening to my number-one account exec . . .
I buckled down, worked twelve-hour days, and by Friday I was back on top of the pile, work completed ahead of schedule. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d fallen behind, which for me was unheard of. Technically nothing was really late, because I routinely had my work done ahead of schedule. But for me, I felt very behind.
Oscar and I had been texting some throughout the week, in the few moments when I surfaced. I tried to keep my focus on work entirely, which was so hard to do when my mind kept flying up the Metro North to a town where leaves were crunchy underfoot, jack-o’-lanterns gave way to November pumpkin and squash arrangements, and my handsome farmer was sending me messages like:
I miss your mouth
I miss your taste
Get your great big comma ass back up here so I can bite it
Oscar was coming in for the whole weekend—a first! Technically he came into the city every Saturday—but this time he was spending the night.
Friday night I stayed at the office until nine thirty, then finally headed home. There was a new club opening that I’d RSVP’d to, and a birthday party being held at one of my favorite restaurants uptown. But by the time I climbed the subway steps, all I wanted to do was soak in a tub. And eat Malaysian takeout, which I did at eleven, while soaking in that tub.
The delivery boy said he’d missed me.
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, the stiff wind making my coat swirl as I made my way down Fourteenth Street. I’d told Oscar I’d arrive early, and my feet burned to skip across the market when I caught sight of his booth.
Carefully carrying two coffees, I moved through the throngs of early marketers to cut in line at Bailey Falls Creamery, which was already about twenty deep.
As I searched for Oscar, nodding to the salesgirls I’d actually come to know by now, I felt my skin begin to tingle. I smiled even before I turned.
“Thought you were coming early,” a deep voice said.
“Oh, I came early. At home, in my bed, alone,” I purred. “You should have been there—I was magnificent.”
His eyes narrowed as he imagined exactly what I’d been up to this morning. It was true, too. I was wound so tightly in anticipation of seeing him I’d taken care of business twice before heading to the market. I needed to take the edge off, but it’d only made me more excited to see him. Even now, as he stepped closer to me, I could feel my body begin to hum at having him near.
“I believe it,” he whispered, leaning down to place his mouth next to my ear. “I came all over my hand this morning, thinking about seeing you today.”
I shivered. He quivered. And all around us, people waited to buy cheese.
The day was long, but fun. I stood behind the counter and helped him take and fill orders, listened to his regular clients sing his praises, and watched Oscar shake off the compliments as though they meant nothing. I’d come to realize that he was genuinely shy and reserved, which sometimes came across as . . . well . . . being an ass.
“You need to be nicer to your customers,” I whispered, after one particularly uncomfortable moment.
“I’m nice,” he insisted.
“You’re dismissive and rude,” I insisted back.
“I don’t want to get to know my customers. Why is that rude? They like my cheese; I like making it and taking their money,” he said, tugging on my apron string. Thank goodness he didn’t insist on the hairnets when at the market. “Where is it written that to sell cheese I also have to be best friends with everyone here?”
“It’s just good business, Oscar. Plus, you’re adorable when you smile.”
“I’m adorable?” he asked. Six foot six inches, covered in tattoos and scars, with hands as big as a boule and arms as big as tree trunks. And now with the
same menacing look he used to give me when I’d approach him to buy his Brie.
“Yeah, you kind of are,” I grinned, tugging on his apron string.
Without meaning to, and most certainly without wanting to, he grinned back. Then he realized how adorable he might be, and away went the smile. He turned to the first person in line, an attractive woman in her fifties who was looking like she was shopping for more than Camembert. “What do you want?” he growled, and I had to turn away to stifle my laugh.
The woman looked head over heels. I knew the feeling.
I spent the day making change and wrapping up orders, chatting with the customers since Oscar wasn’t, asking them questions about what they liked and what they loved. Sort of informal market research. I went on a coffee run with him just before lunch, and found myself pressed against a giant bale of hay over by the free-trade sustainable green coffee roasting booth, getting felt up through my apron as he stole kisses.
When it was time for lunch, we headed down to the south end of the market to get sandwiches for everyone from the guys who owned the local salumeria. Salami, prosciutto, mortadella—they piled everything onto enormous sandwiches made with some of the best bread in town. As we waited for our Italians on French with everything, he slipped his arms around me from behind, under cover of my apron, leaned his head on my shoulder, and whispered filthy, naughty things into my ear as he slid one hand into my panties to find me wet and wanting.
I was so close I nearly let him get me off in front of a hundred hoagies.
And as the day wound down, I noticed that every time Oscar walked past me or reached around me to grab something, he made sure to grab something else. His hands rubbed my bottom every chance he got. I loved it. I may have even stuck my butt out on purpose to make sure it was in his way.
Finally the last customer paid for his cheese, the market was officially closed, and the stalls started coming down. Thank God, because the sexual tension that was pinging back and forth could have lit up an entire city block. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by his team, which could have been why they had the booth broken down and loaded onto the trucks in record time.