Too Good to Be True
Page 21
So I was a babbling idiot. So would you be, if you’d seen this guy. Dear God in heaven, oh, Margaret, thank you, because before me stood a man the likes that every woman on the face of the earth would want to devour with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Black hair. Black gypsy eyes. Killer dimples. Shirt open to reveal swarthy skin and completely lickable neck. Like Julian, sort of, but more dangerous, less adorable. Swarthier. Taller.
Heterosexual. Praise be.
The bartender handed me my drink, and I passed him a twenty in a daze. “Keep the change,” I murmured.
“I got us a table,” Lester said. “Over there, in the back. Shall we?”
He led the way, which meant I got to look at his ass as we twisted our way through the crowd. Vowing to send Margaret some flowers, do her laundry and bake her brownies, I mentally thanked her for fixing me up with Lester the metalsmith, who was so much more than “attractive in his own way.”
“I was really psyched when Margaret called,” Lester said, sitting down. He already had a beer, and he took a sip from it now. “She’s so cool.”
“Oh,” I said, still in full idiot mode. “That’s…yes. She is. I love my sister.”
He grinned, and a little whimper came from the back of my throat.
“So you work at a school?” he said.
I gave myself a mental shake. “Yes, I do,” I answered. “I’m a history teacher at Manning Academy.”
I managed to complete several sentences on what I did and where, but I couldn’t relax. This man was just unbelievably good-looking. His hair was thick and kind of long, waving gracefully around his face. He had incredible hands, strong and dark with long fingers and a healing cut I yearned to kiss better.
“So, Lester, what kind of metalsmithing do you do?” I asked, swallowing.
“Well, actually, I brought you one of my pieces. A little gift to say thanks for meeting me.” He reached into a battered leather bag next to him and fumbled for something.
A gift. Oh! I melted like…well, like a hunk of molten metal, of course. He made me something.
Lester straightened up and put the object on the table.
It was beautiful. Made from iron, an abstract person rose up from the base, the metal twisting gracefully in a fluid arc, arms raised to heaven, iron hair flowing as if greeting a gust of wind on a summer day. “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s one of a series I’m doing now, and they’re selling really well. But yours is special, Grace.” He paused, looked at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I think you’re great, Grace. I’m hoping that we’ll Grace.” He paused, looked at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I think you’re great, Grace. I’m hoping that we’ll really connect. This is sort of a good faith gift.”
“Wow,” I said. “Yes.” As in Yes, I will marry you and bear us four healthy children.
He grinned again, and I fumbled for my drink and drained it.
“Excuse me one second,” Lester said. “I have to make one quick call, and I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I managed. I could use the time to get myself under control, since I was practically teetering on the brink of orgasm. Who could blame me? Mr. Beautiful Gypsy Man liked me. Wanted a relationship with me.
Could it really be this easy? Imagine bringing him home to meet the gang! Imagine having him as my date the next time Natalie and Andrew invited me over. Imagine Callahan O’ Shea seeing me with Beautiful Gypsy Man!
Wouldn’t that be the coolest! Good God!
I snatched my cell phone from my bag and punched in my home number.
“Margaret,” I muttered urgently when she picked up. “I love him! Thank you! He’s amazing! He’s not attractive in his own way! He’s unbelievably gorgeous!”
“I just turned on Gods and Generals,” Margaret said. “Do you really watch this crap?”
“He’s amazing, Margs!”
“Okay. Glad to be of service. He seemed pretty hot to meet you. Actually, he asked me out first, but I flashed the wedding ring. I regret that now,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.
“Oh, here he comes. Thanks again, Margs. Gotta go.” I pushed End and smiled as Lester returned and sat down.
My whole body pulsated with desire.
For the next half hour or so, we managed to talk. Actually, I was the one having a hard time of it and so tried instead to show that I was a good listener, despite the fact that I was barely paying attention, thanks to the lust that roiled inside me. Dimly, I heard Lester tell me about his family, how he became a metalsmith, where he showed in New York and San Francisco. He’d been in a long-term relationship (with a woman, which put any lingering fears to bed), but things hadn’t worked out. Now he was looking to settle down. He loved to cook and couldn’t wait to make me dinner. He wanted children. He was perfect.
Then his cell phone rang. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, Grace,” he said with an apologetic smile, glancing at the screen of the phone. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
“No, no, go ahead,” I said, sipping my G&T. Do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.
Lester flipped open his phone. “What do you want, bitch?” he demanded, his face contorting with fury.
I choked and sputtered, lurching up straight in my seat. Around us, patrons grew still. Lester ignored us all.
“Well, guess where I am?” he barked, turning slightly away from me. “I’m at a bar with a woman! So there, you disgusting whore! And I’m going to take her back to our house and I’m going to have sex with her!” His voice grew louder and louder, cracking with intensity. “That’s right! On the couch, in our bed, on the kitchen floor, on the goddamn kitchen table! How do you like that, you cheating, miserable skank?” Then he flipped his phone shut, looked at me and smiled. “So where were we?” he asked pleasantly.
“Uh…” I said, glancing around in frozen horror. “Was that your ex?” I asked.
“She means nothing to me anymore,” Lester said. “Hey, feel like going back to my place? I can cook us some dinner.”
All my internal organs seemed to retract in horror. Suddenly, I wanted no part of Lester’s kitchen, thanks very much. “Gee…um, Lester. Do you think I’d be out of line if I suggested you, uh, weren’t really over her yet?” I tried to smile.
Lester’s face crumpled. “Oh, crap,” he sobbed, “I still love her! I love her and it’s killing me!” He lowered his head to the table and banged his forehead repeatedly, sobbing, snuffling, tears spurting out of his eyes.
I caught the eye of our waitress and pointed to my drink. “I’ll have another,” I called.
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I finally walked Lester to his car, having heard all about Stefania, the coldhearted Russian woman who’d left him for another woman…how he’d gone to her house and bellowed her name over and over and over until the police were summoned and dragged him away…how he’d called her one hundred and seven times in a single night…how he’d defaced Russia from an antique map in the public library and had to serve a hundred hours of community service. I nodded and murmured, sipping my much-needed alcohol (I was walking home, what was the harm?). Artists, I thought as I listened to his tirade. I’d been dumped, too, yet you didn’t see me crapping on anyone’s lawn. Maybe Kiki would like him….
“So, hey. Good luck, Les,” I said, rubbing my hands on my upper arms. The night had grown cooler, and mist hung around the streetlamps.
“I hate love,” he declared to the heavens. “Just crush me now, why don’t you? Kill me, universe!”
“Chin up,” I said. “And…well. Thanks for the drinks.”
I watched as he drove out of the parking lot—no way in hell I was getting in the car with him, no matter how benign his offer of a ride had been. Sighing, I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. Another man down.
Drat. I’d forgotten my statue inside, and whether its maker was insane or not, I liked it. In fact, it might well have more value in the near future. Metalsmith institutionalized. Prices soar. I made a mental note to strangle Margaret as soon as I got home. She was a lawyer, after all. Maybe next time she fixed me up, she could run a quick background check.
I went back inside, retrieved my little statue, wove my way once again through the sea of bodies crammed into Blackie’s and pushed the door to leave. It was stuck. I pushed harder and it opened abruptly, thudding against someone who was trying to come at the same moment.
“Ouch,” he said.
I closed my eyes. “Watch where you’re going,” I muttered by way of greeting.
“I should’ve known it was you,” Callahan O’ Shea said. “Hitting the sauce, Grace?”
“I was on a date, thanks very much. And you’re in no position to point fingers. An Irishman in a bar. How novel.”
“I see we’re drunk again. Hope you’re not driving.” His gaze wandered past me toward the bar. I turned to look.
An attractive blond woman gave him a little wiggle of her fingers and smiled.
“I’m not drunk! And I’m not driving, so don’t worry. Enjoy your date. Tell her to order a double.” With that, I walked past him into the chilly night.
Callahan O’ Shea may have been an arrogant, irritating man, but I had to admit, he was right about my ability to hold my liquor. Granted, I had planned on having some food, but when the waitress did come by, Lester had been at the height of his tirade against love, and ordering buffalo wings seemed insensitive. Well. I wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit buzzed. Add to that the thick scent of lilacs, and it was actually a rather nice sensation.
The mist was heavier now, and I could only imagine what my hair was doing, but I could practically feel it spreading, growing, expanding like a feral creature. I sucked in more lilac-scented air and tripped—the price of closing one’s eyes on Peterston’s erratic sidewalks—but recovered nicely.
“I can’t believe your boyfriend let you walk home alone in this condition, Grace. Such a cad.”
I scowled. “You again. What are you doing here?”
“Walking you home. I see we won an Emmy,” Callahan said, tilting his head to get a better look at my statue.
“This is a very lovely gift. From Wyatt. Who bought it for me. And you don’t have to walk me home.”
“Someone should. Seriously, where’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“He has surgery in the morning and he had to go. So he left.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Callahan said. “Why didn’t he at least drive you home? Did he have feral cats to round up?”
“I wanted to walk. I insisted. Besides, what about your date? Did you just leave her all alone in the bar like that?
Tsk, tsk.”
“She’s not my date.”
“Yet I saw her wave to you in definite recognition and anticipation.”
“Yet she’s not my date,” he said.
“Yet I find that hard to believe,” I said. “So who is she, then?”
“My parole officer.” Callahan grinned. “Now tell Uncle Cal the truth, Grace. Did we have a little spat with our boyfriend tonight?”
“No, we didn’t spat. Spit—whatever. And that is God’s honest truth.” Perhaps now was a good time to change the subject. “Are you really Irish?”
“What do you think, genius?”
I think you’re a jerk. Oops. May have said that aloud.
“Maybe you should stick with a nice Coke the next time you go out, hmm?” he suggested. “How many drinks did you have?”
“I had two gin and tonics—actually, one and a half—and I don’t drink very often, so yes, maybe I’m feeling the effects. That’s all.” We came to a trestle bridge that crossed the railroad tracks.
“So you can’t hold your liquor. How much do you weigh, anyhow?”
“Cal, it’s a cardinal sin to ask a woman about her weight, so back off, bub.”
He laughed, that ashy, deliciously naughty sound. “I love it when you call me ‘bub.’ And I’ll call you ‘lush,’ how’s that?”
I sighed loudly. “Listen, Callahan O’ Shea of the leprechauns, thank you for escorting me this far. It’s only a few blocks to home. Why don’t you head back to your woman?”
“Because this isn’t the greatest neighborhood and I don’t want you walking home alone.”
Aw. It was one of the scruffier parts of town…in fact, when a drug deal went down, it usually happened right here under the bridge. I sneaked a look at Cal’s face. Aside from his being far too good-looking, I had to admit, he was being really…well, considerate.
“Thank you,” I said. “You sure your date doesn’t mind?”
“Why would she mind? I’m doing a public service.”
Going down the metal steps of the little bridge, I slipped a little. Callahan reached out and grabbed me before any harm was done, and for a second, I just clung to his arms. Warm, solid, reassuring arms. Wouldn’t mind staying here all night. He smelled good, too, dang it, like soap and wood.
He reached up and gently pulled something from my hair…a leaf. Looked at it for a second before dropping it.
Resumed his hold on me, his hand warm on my upper arm.
“So. Your date,” I blurted. “Um. She seems nice. Looks nice, I mean.” My heart was flopping around like a dying fish in my chest.
Heterosexual. Praise be.
The bartender handed me my drink, and I passed him a twenty in a daze. “Keep the change,” I murmured.
“I got us a table,” Lester said. “Over there, in the back. Shall we?”
He led the way, which meant I got to look at his ass as we twisted our way through the crowd. Vowing to send Margaret some flowers, do her laundry and bake her brownies, I mentally thanked her for fixing me up with Lester the metalsmith, who was so much more than “attractive in his own way.”
“I was really psyched when Margaret called,” Lester said, sitting down. He already had a beer, and he took a sip from it now. “She’s so cool.”
“Oh,” I said, still in full idiot mode. “That’s…yes. She is. I love my sister.”
He grinned, and a little whimper came from the back of my throat.
“So you work at a school?” he said.
I gave myself a mental shake. “Yes, I do,” I answered. “I’m a history teacher at Manning Academy.”
I managed to complete several sentences on what I did and where, but I couldn’t relax. This man was just unbelievably good-looking. His hair was thick and kind of long, waving gracefully around his face. He had incredible hands, strong and dark with long fingers and a healing cut I yearned to kiss better.
“So, Lester, what kind of metalsmithing do you do?” I asked, swallowing.
“Well, actually, I brought you one of my pieces. A little gift to say thanks for meeting me.” He reached into a battered leather bag next to him and fumbled for something.
A gift. Oh! I melted like…well, like a hunk of molten metal, of course. He made me something.
Lester straightened up and put the object on the table.
It was beautiful. Made from iron, an abstract person rose up from the base, the metal twisting gracefully in a fluid arc, arms raised to heaven, iron hair flowing as if greeting a gust of wind on a summer day. “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s one of a series I’m doing now, and they’re selling really well. But yours is special, Grace.” He paused, looked at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I think you’re great, Grace. I’m hoping that we’ll Grace.” He paused, looked at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I think you’re great, Grace. I’m hoping that we’ll really connect. This is sort of a good faith gift.”
“Wow,” I said. “Yes.” As in Yes, I will marry you and bear us four healthy children.
He grinned again, and I fumbled for my drink and drained it.
“Excuse me one second,” Lester said. “I have to make one quick call, and I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I managed. I could use the time to get myself under control, since I was practically teetering on the brink of orgasm. Who could blame me? Mr. Beautiful Gypsy Man liked me. Wanted a relationship with me.
Could it really be this easy? Imagine bringing him home to meet the gang! Imagine having him as my date the next time Natalie and Andrew invited me over. Imagine Callahan O’ Shea seeing me with Beautiful Gypsy Man!
Wouldn’t that be the coolest! Good God!
I snatched my cell phone from my bag and punched in my home number.
“Margaret,” I muttered urgently when she picked up. “I love him! Thank you! He’s amazing! He’s not attractive in his own way! He’s unbelievably gorgeous!”
“I just turned on Gods and Generals,” Margaret said. “Do you really watch this crap?”
“He’s amazing, Margs!”
“Okay. Glad to be of service. He seemed pretty hot to meet you. Actually, he asked me out first, but I flashed the wedding ring. I regret that now,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.
“Oh, here he comes. Thanks again, Margs. Gotta go.” I pushed End and smiled as Lester returned and sat down.
My whole body pulsated with desire.
For the next half hour or so, we managed to talk. Actually, I was the one having a hard time of it and so tried instead to show that I was a good listener, despite the fact that I was barely paying attention, thanks to the lust that roiled inside me. Dimly, I heard Lester tell me about his family, how he became a metalsmith, where he showed in New York and San Francisco. He’d been in a long-term relationship (with a woman, which put any lingering fears to bed), but things hadn’t worked out. Now he was looking to settle down. He loved to cook and couldn’t wait to make me dinner. He wanted children. He was perfect.
Then his cell phone rang. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, Grace,” he said with an apologetic smile, glancing at the screen of the phone. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”
“No, no, go ahead,” I said, sipping my G&T. Do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.
Lester flipped open his phone. “What do you want, bitch?” he demanded, his face contorting with fury.
I choked and sputtered, lurching up straight in my seat. Around us, patrons grew still. Lester ignored us all.
“Well, guess where I am?” he barked, turning slightly away from me. “I’m at a bar with a woman! So there, you disgusting whore! And I’m going to take her back to our house and I’m going to have sex with her!” His voice grew louder and louder, cracking with intensity. “That’s right! On the couch, in our bed, on the kitchen floor, on the goddamn kitchen table! How do you like that, you cheating, miserable skank?” Then he flipped his phone shut, looked at me and smiled. “So where were we?” he asked pleasantly.
“Uh…” I said, glancing around in frozen horror. “Was that your ex?” I asked.
“She means nothing to me anymore,” Lester said. “Hey, feel like going back to my place? I can cook us some dinner.”
All my internal organs seemed to retract in horror. Suddenly, I wanted no part of Lester’s kitchen, thanks very much. “Gee…um, Lester. Do you think I’d be out of line if I suggested you, uh, weren’t really over her yet?” I tried to smile.
Lester’s face crumpled. “Oh, crap,” he sobbed, “I still love her! I love her and it’s killing me!” He lowered his head to the table and banged his forehead repeatedly, sobbing, snuffling, tears spurting out of his eyes.
I caught the eye of our waitress and pointed to my drink. “I’ll have another,” I called.
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I finally walked Lester to his car, having heard all about Stefania, the coldhearted Russian woman who’d left him for another woman…how he’d gone to her house and bellowed her name over and over and over until the police were summoned and dragged him away…how he’d called her one hundred and seven times in a single night…how he’d defaced Russia from an antique map in the public library and had to serve a hundred hours of community service. I nodded and murmured, sipping my much-needed alcohol (I was walking home, what was the harm?). Artists, I thought as I listened to his tirade. I’d been dumped, too, yet you didn’t see me crapping on anyone’s lawn. Maybe Kiki would like him….
“So, hey. Good luck, Les,” I said, rubbing my hands on my upper arms. The night had grown cooler, and mist hung around the streetlamps.
“I hate love,” he declared to the heavens. “Just crush me now, why don’t you? Kill me, universe!”
“Chin up,” I said. “And…well. Thanks for the drinks.”
I watched as he drove out of the parking lot—no way in hell I was getting in the car with him, no matter how benign his offer of a ride had been. Sighing, I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. Another man down.
Drat. I’d forgotten my statue inside, and whether its maker was insane or not, I liked it. In fact, it might well have more value in the near future. Metalsmith institutionalized. Prices soar. I made a mental note to strangle Margaret as soon as I got home. She was a lawyer, after all. Maybe next time she fixed me up, she could run a quick background check.
I went back inside, retrieved my little statue, wove my way once again through the sea of bodies crammed into Blackie’s and pushed the door to leave. It was stuck. I pushed harder and it opened abruptly, thudding against someone who was trying to come at the same moment.
“Ouch,” he said.
I closed my eyes. “Watch where you’re going,” I muttered by way of greeting.
“I should’ve known it was you,” Callahan O’ Shea said. “Hitting the sauce, Grace?”
“I was on a date, thanks very much. And you’re in no position to point fingers. An Irishman in a bar. How novel.”
“I see we’re drunk again. Hope you’re not driving.” His gaze wandered past me toward the bar. I turned to look.
An attractive blond woman gave him a little wiggle of her fingers and smiled.
“I’m not drunk! And I’m not driving, so don’t worry. Enjoy your date. Tell her to order a double.” With that, I walked past him into the chilly night.
Callahan O’ Shea may have been an arrogant, irritating man, but I had to admit, he was right about my ability to hold my liquor. Granted, I had planned on having some food, but when the waitress did come by, Lester had been at the height of his tirade against love, and ordering buffalo wings seemed insensitive. Well. I wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit buzzed. Add to that the thick scent of lilacs, and it was actually a rather nice sensation.
The mist was heavier now, and I could only imagine what my hair was doing, but I could practically feel it spreading, growing, expanding like a feral creature. I sucked in more lilac-scented air and tripped—the price of closing one’s eyes on Peterston’s erratic sidewalks—but recovered nicely.
“I can’t believe your boyfriend let you walk home alone in this condition, Grace. Such a cad.”
I scowled. “You again. What are you doing here?”
“Walking you home. I see we won an Emmy,” Callahan said, tilting his head to get a better look at my statue.
“This is a very lovely gift. From Wyatt. Who bought it for me. And you don’t have to walk me home.”
“Someone should. Seriously, where’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“He has surgery in the morning and he had to go. So he left.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Callahan said. “Why didn’t he at least drive you home? Did he have feral cats to round up?”
“I wanted to walk. I insisted. Besides, what about your date? Did you just leave her all alone in the bar like that?
Tsk, tsk.”
“She’s not my date.”
“Yet I saw her wave to you in definite recognition and anticipation.”
“Yet she’s not my date,” he said.
“Yet I find that hard to believe,” I said. “So who is she, then?”
“My parole officer.” Callahan grinned. “Now tell Uncle Cal the truth, Grace. Did we have a little spat with our boyfriend tonight?”
“No, we didn’t spat. Spit—whatever. And that is God’s honest truth.” Perhaps now was a good time to change the subject. “Are you really Irish?”
“What do you think, genius?”
I think you’re a jerk. Oops. May have said that aloud.
“Maybe you should stick with a nice Coke the next time you go out, hmm?” he suggested. “How many drinks did you have?”
“I had two gin and tonics—actually, one and a half—and I don’t drink very often, so yes, maybe I’m feeling the effects. That’s all.” We came to a trestle bridge that crossed the railroad tracks.
“So you can’t hold your liquor. How much do you weigh, anyhow?”
“Cal, it’s a cardinal sin to ask a woman about her weight, so back off, bub.”
He laughed, that ashy, deliciously naughty sound. “I love it when you call me ‘bub.’ And I’ll call you ‘lush,’ how’s that?”
I sighed loudly. “Listen, Callahan O’ Shea of the leprechauns, thank you for escorting me this far. It’s only a few blocks to home. Why don’t you head back to your woman?”
“Because this isn’t the greatest neighborhood and I don’t want you walking home alone.”
Aw. It was one of the scruffier parts of town…in fact, when a drug deal went down, it usually happened right here under the bridge. I sneaked a look at Cal’s face. Aside from his being far too good-looking, I had to admit, he was being really…well, considerate.
“Thank you,” I said. “You sure your date doesn’t mind?”
“Why would she mind? I’m doing a public service.”
Going down the metal steps of the little bridge, I slipped a little. Callahan reached out and grabbed me before any harm was done, and for a second, I just clung to his arms. Warm, solid, reassuring arms. Wouldn’t mind staying here all night. He smelled good, too, dang it, like soap and wood.
He reached up and gently pulled something from my hair…a leaf. Looked at it for a second before dropping it.
Resumed his hold on me, his hand warm on my upper arm.
“So. Your date,” I blurted. “Um. She seems nice. Looks nice, I mean.” My heart was flopping around like a dying fish in my chest.
