[English] AROUSE

Author : Nina Lane

Source: books4u.me

He didn’t touch me. He could have—he had the perfect reason to—but he didn’t.
Instead he bent to collect my papers before the breeze could whisk them away. Instead he picked up my satchel from the sidewalk and asked if I was okay. Instead he stood between me and the busy street while I brushed the dirt from my palms and tried to swallow the knot of frustration stuck in my throat.
Instead he just waited. I had the strange thought that he would wait forever.
August 7
Adhesive sandcastles, flip-flops, and smiling suns cover the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The bed-and-breakfasts are filled with guests, and boats dot Mirror Lake like stars in the sky. University students crowd the coffeehouses, and both tourists and locals stroll through downtown with ice-cream cones or sodas in hand. Children, skin browned from the sun, scurry along the paths leading to the shore.
“Sorry, miss.” The shaggy-haired fellow at the outdoor drink stand gives me a smile of apology. “We’re out of lemonade.”
Of course they are.
I push a damp tendril of hair away from my forehead and look at the chalkboard menu again.
The sun has started to set, but it’s still roasting out. My pantyhose are shrink-wrapped to my body, and the elastic band is gouging my waist. My toes ache from being crammed into heels all day. And though I refuse to look, I’m quite certain there are sweat stains under the arms of my silk blouse.
“Okay. An iced tea, then.” I push two dollars at the guy and take the plastic cup, poking a straw into the hole. I don’t much like iced tea, but the cup is cold and wet, and the liquid feels good going down my dry throat.
I scan for an outdoor table, but they’re all filled with...

Arouse
Page 1



CHAPTER ONE

Olivia

He didn’t touch me. He could have—he had the perfect reason to—but he didn’t.

Instead he bent to collect my papers before the breeze could whisk them away. Instead he picked up my satchel from the sidewalk and asked if I was okay. Instead he stood between me and the busy street while I brushed the dirt from my palms and tried to swallow the knot of frustration stuck in my throat.

Instead he just waited. I had the strange thought that he would wait forever.

August 7

Adhesive sandcastles, flip-flops, and smiling suns cover the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The bed-and-breakfasts are filled with guests, and boats dot Mirror Lake like stars in the sky. University students crowd the coffeehouses, and both tourists and locals stroll through downtown with ice-cream cones or sodas in hand. Children, skin browned from the sun, scurry along the paths leading to the shore.

“Sorry, miss.” The shaggy-haired fellow at the outdoor drink stand gives me a smile of apology. “We’re out of lemonade.”

Of course they are.

I push a damp tendril of hair away from my forehead and look at the chalkboard menu again.

The sun has started to set, but it’s still roasting out. My pantyhose are shrink-wrapped to my body, and the elastic band is gouging my waist. My toes ache from being crammed into heels all day. And though I refuse to look, I’m quite certain there are sweat stains under the arms of my silk blouse.

“Okay. An iced tea, then.” I push two dollars at the guy and take the plastic cup, poking a straw into the hole. I don’t much like iced tea, but the cup is cold and wet, and the liquid feels good going down my dry throat.

I scan for an outdoor table, but they’re all filled with clusters of people enjoying their drinks.

I grab my paper bag of groceries, pull up my satchel strap, and trudge down the sun-baked street, feeling like a bone-weary schoolmarm amidst the happy, relaxed summer crowd. My ponytail slips farther from the loose clasp, welding more strands of hair to my neck.

Home. Our small, two-bedroom apartment sits above a row of shops overlooking Avalon Street. The sight of the wrought-iron balcony, laden with plants in fat, colorful pots, elicits a welcome sense of relief.

I increase my pace despite the blister forming on my heel. The minute I step into the building foyer, I drop the bag, kick off my shoes, and sink onto the bottom step of the stairs. I suck in another mouthful of iced tea. Sweat trickles down my spine.

“Hey, beauty.”

The deep, masculine voice resounds inside me. I look up at the top of the stairs where Dean is standing. His dark hair is messy from him dragging his hand through it, his shirt is wrinkled, and the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His tie is unknotted and loose, the buttons of his collar unfastened to expose the tanned V of his throat.

Warmth, both spicy and sweet, curls through me at the sight of him. Dean’s seamless combination of Brilliant Professor and Hot Hunk never fails to quicken my blood.

“Hi.” I duck my head and sip the iced tea.

“Thought you were working late.” He descends the stairs to where I’m sitting and picks up my satchel.

“Yeah, well.” A lump forms in my throat. “I got fired.”

Jesus, Liv. Don’t cry.

“Fired?” Dean drops the satchel and sits beside me on the step. He reaches out to brush my hair away from my sticky neck. “What happened?”

“A screw-up with the printer for tonight’s opening. They got the names of a couple of the big donors wrong, even though I emailed them the information twice and sent a hard copy. Mr. Hammond blamed me anyway.”

I hate sounding like a victim, even if that is the truth.

“That’s not right, Liv. Wrongful termination is—”

I wave my hand to stop him. “Forget it, Dean. It wasn’t that great a job. Hammond was always complaining that I made too many mistakes. Which I did not.”

“Want me to go beat him up?”

“Kind of.” My white knight…

“C’mere.” He slides an arm around me and pulls me closer.

Even though I’m hot and gross and probably smelly, I burrow against him with a sigh. Just the feel of his strong chest beneath my cheek is soothing.

When he eases the clasp out of my long hair and finger-combs the tangles, then moves his hand up to knead the muscles of my nape, I think I could quite happily sit there for the next hour or three.

“I offered to try and fix the problem, but he told me to pack up and go,” I say.

“Their loss.” He brushes his lips against my temple. A tingle sweeps clear down to my toes. “Besides you said the artwork was crap anyway.”

“It was.” I take another sip of tea. “Bunch of junk glued onto canvases. I could make us a fortune doing that. Hell, maybe I will. Olivia West, the Dumpster-diving artist.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Ah, well. Mr. Hammond was kind of a creep anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Tension ripples through Dean’s solid frame. “Did he—?”

“No, no. I mean creep as in oily. Groveling to the customers, you know, like a medieval surfer.”

“Serf.” Dean tweaks my nose.

“I know.” I grin at him and push to standing.

Dean picks up my satchel and the wrinkled grocery bag. I grab my shoes and trudge after him into our apartment. My anxiety settles a little more as soon as I close the door behind us.

The windows are shut and the air con***ioner is running, so it’s cool and quiet inside. When we first moved in, I put pale blue curtains on the windows, which complement the navy sofa and striped pillows. With the cream-colored walls, blue-and-white quilts, and wood trim, our apartment has the feel of an open, airy beach house.

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I toss my shoes in the front closet and go into the bedroom to peel off my clothes. I take a quick and lovely cool shower, then dress in yoga pants and a T-shirt.

The knots in my shoulders loosen. Being at home always makes me feel better. I love our pillowy bed with the thick, flowered comforter, the tiny kitchen with the white wooden table I sanded and repainted myself, the living-room shelves stuffed with books, the curved balcony overlooking Avalon Street.

I towel-dry my hair and grab a brush to work out the tangles. My hair is straight as straw, but long, thick, and a deep brown that matches my eyes (“the color of coffee with cream,” Dean told me during one of his more poetic moments). I don’t bother drying it further, but leave it loose because I know that’s the way he likes it.

After heading to the kitchen, I lean against the doorjamb and watch Dean set out plates for dinner. He’s changed into jeans that hug his long legs and a T-shirt emblazoned with a San Francisco Giants logo.

My husband is a handsome man, built like an athlete rather than a scholar. Nine years older than I am, he’s tall with hard muscles and broad shoulders, his dark brown hair threaded with a few distinguished strands of gray.

He has beautiful eyes, chocolate-brown and framed with thick lashes that offset the strength of his cheekbones and jaw. He also has a great deal of self-confidence and dignity, which show in his straight posture and in the measured way he speaks.

No wonder, considering the man’s impressive pedigree. Bachelor’s degree from Yale, PhD from Harvard, postdocs at the University of Wisconsin and UPenn, fellowship at the Getty Institute, guest lectures at European universities.

Two years ago he was offered a tenure-track position at King’s University, a private, prestigious university in Mirror Lake. He’s spearheading a new Medieval Studies program, which is the reason King’s enticed him to their faculty with a top-level salary and promises of project funding.

I wasn’t remotely surprised by how much they wanted him.

Dean glances up and smiles. My heart gives a pleasant thump. When he looks at me like that, his eyes creased with warmth, all his illustrious distinctions fall away and he’s only the man who loves and wants me.

“How was your day, professor?” I ask, moving in for a proper hug. “Did you finish your paper on the medieval sins of passion?”

He kisses the top of my head. “Excavation and archeology of a town originated by a castle of the Teutonic Order.”

Of course.

I tighten my arms around his waist. “Mmm. Dirty talk.”

“Urban hierarchy.” He slides a big hand down to squeeze my rear. He could say anything in that deep voice of his and I’d go all fluttery inside. “Vernacular architecture. Topographical analysis. Flexible growth.”

He bends to nuzzle my throat, his stubble scraping my skin rather deliciously, then slides his mouth up to capture my lips.

Ah, good. His kisses are always so good. He cups a hand behind my neck to angle my head so he can fit his mouth across mine. Arousal blooms inside me swift and hard, banishing my earlier frustration as I part my lips underneath his and accept the hot sweep of his tongue.

With a mutter of pleasure, he slides his other hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer. I press my palm against his flat belly, easing my fingers into the waistband of his jeans. When I start to explore farther down, he catches my wrist and gives a husky laugh.

“Watch what you start, beauty,” he murmurs.

“I intend to.” But I’m also hungry for dinner, so I reach up to kiss his chin and then ease away. “So what else did you do today?”

“Worked on a conference presentation and summer lectures.”

“What conference?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He frowns. “Atlanta. October. I’ll be gone for three or four days.”

He reaches up to take a glass from the cupboard. The material of his T-shirt stretches over his upper arm. I slide my gaze to where the shirt rises slightly to reveal his muscular lower back.

“Sorry, Liv,” he says. “Thought I told you.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t, except that we’re not apart often, save a couple of times a year when he goes to a conference or on a research trip. Neither of us likes the short separations, but they’re good for us—gives me a chance to be alone, gives Dean a chance to learn what else is going on in the field. If you’re into Visigothic Iberia and Old Norse poetry.

Which he is.

“What’re you talking about at the conference?” I ask.

“Visual culture in the Crusades. I’m thinking of constructing a course around the topic.”

I turn to open the containers of Chinese take-out he must have picked up on the way home. He’s still talking, and while I like the sound of his baritone voice—as, I’m quite certain, his female undergrads do—I don’t understand much of what he’s saying since I’ve never taken a medieval history course.

Still, Dean has said before that talking helps clarify his thoughts and ideas. So I’m happy to let him ramble, and he’s happy to have an audience.

We sit down to eat sesame chicken and fried rice, and I give him a play-by-play of the events that ended up with me getting fired. When he starts in with the whole “wrongful termination” thing again, I lean across the table to kiss him and stop his tirade.

“We have better things to do with our time,” I say before shooing him out of the kitchen so I can clean up.

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After putting away the leftover food and doing the dishes, I head into the living room. Dean has taken over the second bedroom as his office, so my own narrow desk sits at the living room window and looks out over the rooftops to the mountains and clear expanse of the lake.

I power up my laptop and scan a few job sites. Web designer. No. Paralegal. No. Real-estate agent. No. Spanish teacher. No. Welder. Lord, no.

“What about the library over at SciTech?” Dean suggests. He’s lying on the sofa, an intricate web of string like a cat’s cradle pulled taut between his palms.

“Already applied. They turned me down because I don’t know whatever database system they use.”

“I can ask about job openings around the university.” Dean tucks his forefingers into the string to create another pattern.

“No.” I rest my chin on my hand and click another job site. “I’ll find something.”

Sales associate. Cashier. Stock clerk.

I’ve been hoping for more than retail, a job that will start me on a path toward something, but my lack of work experience makes that a daunting prospect.

“There’s that bookstore over on Emerald Street,” I say, injecting a breezy it’ll be fine tone into my voice. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and see if they could use some help. And I can pick up a few more volunteer hours at the Historical Museum.”

“With all the work you’re doing for the museum, you’ll be their first pick when a job opens up,” Dean says. “Same with the public library.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. And remember that college kids have most of the summer jobs now. You’ll have more options when the fall semester starts.”

Maybe. Feeling sort of down again, I close the laptop and push away from the desk. Dean unravels the string from his fingers and tosses it onto the coffee table.

“Come here, beauty,” he says. “You need to be kissed.”

I go to the sofa and sprawl out on top of him with a sigh. He feels so damn good. He has a gorgeous body—he’s all lean, tensile strength with a solid chest that makes me want to stretch against him like a cat in the sun. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and brings my mouth down to his.

The disappointment drains from me. He’s right. I need to be kissed, and he’s the one who needs to kiss me.

His lips are warm and firm against mine, and shivers race over my skin as his hands slide down to grasp my hips. I part my lips on a sigh and let our tongues tangle together. He closes his teeth gently on my lower lip, eliciting a delicious little twinge that shortens my breath.

I wiggle around, rubbing my breasts against his chest. He tightens his grip on my hips before moving his hands to the waistband of my pants. With a smooth stroke, he delves inside and spreads his palms over my bottom, pressing his fingers into the crevice. An ache pools through my lower body.

“I think…” I lift myself to look down at him, my blood heating at the sight of the lust brewing in his eyes. “I think I need to be more than kissed.”

“Yes, you do.” Dean pushes his hands underneath my T-shirt and opens the clasp of my bra with one twist, then rubs a hot, friction-laced path over my naked back. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know you will.” I sink against him and lower my mouth to his again.

Our kiss grows urgent, Dean’s body tightening beneath mine. He eases a hand between us to work the buttons of his jeans. I uncoil to sit back on his thighs and watch the quick movements of his fingers. My heart hammers at the sight of the bulge pressing against his jeans, especially since I know well what’s underneath.

“You’ve been waiting for me, huh?” I ask breathlessly.

“Always.”

I move off him to tug the jeans over his long legs. His erection tents his boxers, and I palm the hot, heavy length. Sparks fly through me with the anticipation of his tight flesh embedded inside me, stroking and pulsing.

I inhale sharply and look up at Dean. His eyes are glazed with lust, his chest heaving with the force of his breath. He gestures toward my breasts.

I grasp the hem of my T-shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it on the sofa along with my bra. His gaze rakes over me, and my nipples harden in delicious response. In one movement, Dean grabs me around the waist and brings us both to the floor.

Even better than lying on top of him is the sensation of his weight on me, strong and powerful. He splays his hands over my breasts, rubbing his thumbs across my nipples before he bends to capture one in his mouth.

I gasp and clench my fingers into his hair. Heat cascades through me, centering in the core of my body. I twist beneath him until he tugs at my pants and lowers them over my hips along with my underwear.

“Ah ****, Liv, you’re so ready.”

His fingers brush against my damp ***, his **** pressing against my thigh. A flush sweeps me from head to toe when he kneels between my spread legs and pulls off his shirt, then shoves his boxers down.

His erection is beautiful—long and thick, the heavy sac pulled tight. He opens a drawer of the end-table and takes out a foil packet. My pulse pounds as I watch him roll on the condom.

He glances up at me, his eyes tracking over my naked breasts to my face. He puts his hand against me again, dipping one finger into the slick opening of my body.

“Dean.” I push upward to deepen his immersion.

A slight smile curves his mouth as he explores farther. His thumb swirls around my clit, his forefinger moving up one side and down the other. He knows exactly how to touch me, and within seconds I’m panting and gasping as the spool of bliss winds tighter.

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“Dean, I’m…”

“What, beauty?” A teasing note underlies the lust in his voice.

“So close…” I breathe.

He lowers himself over me, his mouth coming down on mine, his tongue sliding across my lips. I grip his biceps and arch against him, craving that explosion of pleasure dangling just beyond my grasp. One press of his fingers and I come with a cry, my inner flesh tightening around him.

With trembles still coursing through me, I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him closer. He thrusts into me hard and deep, his groan rumbling against my neck.

“Oh!” I clutch his back and lift my thighs, swimming in the heat and sensation of him driving into me.

I fall, swirling, swept into the exquisite pleasure of us rocking together, his flesh slamming against mine, the push-and-pull cadence of his hard plunges. My arousal spikes again, the friction lighting my nerves as his thrusts slow into the rhythm of his impending release.

I edge my hand between our bodies to rub myself to another sharp orgasm, then glide my fingertips against his pulsing shaft. Our eyes meet with a sizzle in the instant before he slides out of me, rolling the condom off before grasping his ****.

I’m hot all over watching the slick, easy movement of his hand, the tensing of his muscles and the way his thumb brushes the damp head of his ****.To ratchet up his urgency, I squeeze my breasts together and twist my nipples, then writhe around with shameless little movements that I know will send him over the edge.

He groans deep, thrusting heavily into his fist as he comes long and hard over my belly. Panting, I push to my elbows to watch him finish himself off. After riding the final pulses, he braces his hands on either side of me and leans in to press his lips to mine.

“You were right,” I murmur against his mouth. “I needed to be kissed.”

“Very glad to help.”

He lowers us both to the floor again, our mouths still locked together, then eases to the side so I can fold myself against him. A lovely, warm feeling like melted honey slides through me—a feeling I have only ever experienced with this man of mine.

Once upon a time I didn’t know people like Professor Dean West existed. There had been no one like him in the tangled woods where I once lived, a place in which night fell too early and ogres lurked behind skeletal trees.

He pulls me closer, his arm around my shoulders. His body is enveloping, protective. I fit perfectly, as always, into the space against his side.

CHAPTER TWO

August 9

After Dean leaves for work, I clean the apartment and water the potted plants on the balcony, which is a lush little jungle of pansies, geraniums, daisies, and lantanas. Then I spend an hour curled up on a chair by the window, leafing through the Help Wanted sections of a couple of newspapers.

Exotic entertainer. Plant manager. Sandwich artist. I circle “marketing assistant” and “animal care attendant,” even though I know nothing about marketing or animal care.

It’s discouraging, this spread of black-and-white rectangles that each announce a profession I either can’t do or didn’t know existed (mold setter?).

I toss the paper aside with a sigh. After Dean and I got married, I wanted *****pport him, wanted to be his solid ground while he established his career. I’ve been happy to do that for the past three years—I’ve enjoyed making warm, pleasant homes out of the utilitarian apartment we lived in during his fellowship position and now our little above-shop place in Mirror Lake.

I’ve loved being Professor Dean West’s wife, watching his success and growing renown in academia. And I haven’t minded my temporary part-time jobs, because I’d planned to start a career path as soon as Dean settled into a tenure-track position.

Except now we’ve been in Mirror Lake for almost two years and I’ve hit barriers at every turn: I freelanced for a local magazine that went under, I’ve been rejected for several jobs due to lack of experience, the King’s agriculture majors do all the work at gardening centers, and I quit a cashier’s job at a clothing store so I could take the assistant position at the art gallery.

So much for that plan.

After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I walk several blocks to the gym where I work out five… okay, two times a week. I sweat through an aerobics class, shower, and go to meet my friend Kelsey March for lunch.

Kelsey is an atmospheric scientist at the university, and of course I met her through Dean because they’re academic soul-mates and have known each other for years. She is one of the few people who refuses to fawn over him, which is just one of the reasons we both like her so much.

She’s pacing in front of the Italian restaurant where we agreed to meet, her thumbs working the buttons of her smartphone, her stride brisk.

As is her style, she’s wearing a tailored suit and button-down shirt, but she has this vibe that makes you think she’s sporting ***y lingerie beneath. Her frosted blond hair is cut in a sleek pageboy and embellished with a single streak of navy blue, which she flips back as she watches my approach.

“You’re late,” she says, blinking at me through her rimless glasses.

“Am not. Your watch is fast.”

She punches a few buttons on her phone and holds it up. “Greenwich mean time.”

“Because you would never consult Greenwich nice time.”

“You got that right.” Kelsey smirks and shoves her phone into her bag as we head into the restaurant.

We get settled into a booth, peruse the menus, and place orders of chicken marsala for Kelsey and butternut squash ravioli for me.

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“Hey, sorry about your job,” Kelsey says, poking a straw into her soda. “I can get you something at the AOS department if you’d let me.”

“No, thanks.” I always balk at her and Dean’s suggestions that they can “get me” a job at the university. I know they don’t think I can’t find something on my own, but accepting their help might make me think that. “I have a few leads I’m looking into.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Kelsey says. “The professors are pains in the ass, but overall the department’s not horrible to work for.”

“Well, with that kind of resounding endorsement, it’s a wonder the AOS department doesn’t have applicants lined up around the block.”

Kelsey shoots me one of her “don’t-****-with-me” looks. I respond with a smile because she knows I would never seriously **** with her. I’m not stupid.

“Hey.” She sits back and frowns. “Really. You look under the weather.”

“The fact that you just made a weather joke cheers me up immensely.”

“You know, Liv, you don’t have to find the perfect career right away,” she says. “Give it a little time, you know? Weren’t you a library sciences major in college?”

“Yeah. I worked at the art library at the UW for a while, but then Dean and I got married and moved to L.A. I just worked part-time retail when he had the Getty fellowship. And the libraries at King’s haven’t had any openings since we moved here.” I poke at my salad. “I did see an ad this morning for an exotic entertainer position.”

Kelsey snorts. “Missionary or doggy?”

I choke on a gulp of water and laugh. “Probably both.”

“I’m sure your husband would provide you with great references.”

I swat her with my napkin, then admit, “Well, that’s true.”

Kelsey grins, and we turn our attention to the arrival of our entrees. She slathers butter on a roll and says, “So, Liv, can I steal Dean on Saturday the twenty-fifth? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t an emergency.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“There’s a faculty banquet for some old fart who’s retiring.” She stabs a green bean with her fork. “I wouldn’t normally go, but I’m trying to get funding for a modeling program, and I need to pretend I’m a team player.”

“By eating dry beef medallions?”

“By showing up. At least if Dean’s there, I won’t have to make too much small talk. I hate small talk.” She shakes her head at the indignity of it all. “You guys have any plans this weekend?”

“Going to the movies Friday night. Otherwise, nothing.”

I steer the conversation to her latest project, then we ramble about novels we’ve read and what movies look good, and what we’re planning for the rest of the summer.

After we part ways, I walk through downtown toward Emerald Street, enjoying the breeze rustling in from the water. I stop and get an iced cappuccino to go from one of the coffeehouses.

Even though I’ve been at loose ends since we moved to Mirror Lake, I’m glad this is where Dean and I have ended up. It’s a medium-sized, Midwestern town with a crystalline lake surrounded by mountains. In winter, the lake freezes, snow and ice fall, and the college kids keep the town busy. In summer, tourists descend on Mirror Lake to swim, hike, kayak, canoe, and camp.

There’s a theater festival in the spring, numerous farmer’s markets and art fairs. It’s a town with good energy and plenty to do—a pretty little egg tucked away in a nest of mountains.

I stop in front of a shop squeezed between a fabric store and a yoga studio. A crooked wooden sign above the door announces The Happy Booker in flowing pink script and is embellished with a picture of a voluptuous, leggy blonde holding a stack of books. A bell rings as I enter.

Dusty silence greets me. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with books, and cardboard signs announcing new releases dangle from the ceiling. The front tables are stacked with book displays, and a magazine rack sits near the cash register. A vinyl runner made to resemble yellow bricks snakes toward the back of the store.

“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” A gnarled, scary tree leaps out suddenly from behind a bookshelf, wielding spiky, leaf-covered branches.

I shriek and drop my coffee.

“Oh, ****.” The tree lowers its branches and stares at me from behind large purple glasses. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s my fault.” My heart pounding, I grab some tissues from my satchel and kneel down to sop up the mess. “Shouldn’t have brought coffee into a bookstore.”

The tree waddles over to the front counter and pokes out a hand, then returns with a roll of paper towels. “You’re not here for the Wizard Party, are you?”

“Uh, no.” I glance up and encounter a round, pink face peering at me from a knothole in the trunk. Red foam apples dangle from her branches.

She extends the paper towels. “I can’t kneel in this thing, or I’d help you.”

“No problem.” I soak up the coffee as best I can, then pick up the cup and lid. “Where can I…”

The tree waves a branch. An apple plops to the floor. “Behind the register.”

“I’ll pay for the cleaning.” I toss the cup away and wipe my hands. “So… Wizard Party?”

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“Yeah.” She looks at the clock and sighs, her leaves drooping. “I started advertising, like, last month. Told kids to come dressed as their favorite character from The Wizard of Oz. We were going to read a couple of stories, play games, have some treats. You know, a party.”

“Sounds great.”

“It would’ve been, if anyone had shown up.” She shoves the knothole away from her forehead. She looks so dejected that I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

“When’s it supposed to start?” I ask.

“It was supposed to start an hour ago. I thought maybe there’d been a misprint on the flyer, but no.” She flaps her branches toward the window. “Two o’clock on Thursday, it says. Hey, could you help me out of this thing? I’ve been in it for over two hours, and I’m about to have heat stroke.”

“Sure.”

We maneuver around a little while trying to figure out the best method of liberating her from the trunk. Finally she bends forward as far as she can, sticking her branches out. I grab hold of them and pull. A few yanks, a few more curses, both of us pull in opposite directions, and then she pops out like a cork from a bottle.

“Dang.” She pushes a mess of damp curls back. “Now I know what a sausage feels like.”

I grin and put the costume on a chair. “You’re the owner?”

She nods and sticks out a hand. “Allie Lyons.”

“I’m Olivia West.” I shake her hand. “Everyone calls me Liv.”

“Welcome to The Happy Booker, Liv.” She takes a water bottle from behind the counter and downs a few gulps. She’s cute and petite with floppy red hair and green eyes behind her purple-framed glasses.

“Sorry no one came to your party,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I should be used to it by now. No one came to the Winnie-the-Pooh party either, and I had a real beekeeper here with real bees.” She shrugs. “Do you like The Wizard of Oz?”

“Not really. The flying monkeys scare the crap out of me.”

She chuckles. “Me too. Want to come to the party anyway? I have cupcakes.”

“I love cupcakes.”

“Come on in, then. Stay on the yellow brick road.”

I follow her on the vinyl runner to the children’s section at the back of the store. She’s got little round tables all set up with matching chairs, a “yellow brick” rug in front of a rocking chair, and another table covered with plates of food.

“Help yourself.” She nods toward the food. “Or I’ll have to donate it… somewhere.”

I take a plate and pile it with a rainbow cupcake, a cookie shaped like a hot-air balloon, and a frosted cake-pop glittering with red sprinkles. To complete this sugar buffet, Allie pours me a cup of lime-green punch.

“Have a seat.” She gestures to one of the tables.

“Why’d you decide to be a tree?” I ask, adjusting my rear on the diminutive chair.“From the Forest of Fighting Trees.” Allie sits across from me with another plate. “You know, the apple trees that get mad when Dorothy picks their fruit?”

“Sure, but why a tree?” I peel the paper away from the cupcake. “Why weren’t you Dorothy or the witch?”

“Oh, I wanted to save those for the kids, so I picked a costume that was less obvious. I figured we’d have a dozen Dorothys and witches running around.”

“Did you advertise over at the library?” I ask. “I volunteer there once a week. They’ve always got kids’ programs going on.”

“Yeah, but I think that’s the problem. Everyone goes there instead of coming here. I even spent three afternoons last week down by the lake wearing that stupid costume and handing out flyers.”

“Maybe no one realized you were supposed to be from The Wizard of Oz,” I suggest. “They might’ve thought you were advertising some freakish tree party.”

“Maybe.” Allie munches on a cookie. “So, anyway, sorry for bitching about it. What can I help you with? Are you looking for a book?”

Although I have concluded my chances of employment here are slim to none, I figure I have nothing to lose. “Actually, I’m looking for a job. I was wondering if you need any help.”

“Oh. Business is pretty slow, unfortunately.”

“I have a lot of retail experience. I could hold down the fort while you… advertise.”

“Not a bad idea.” Allie pops the last of the cookie into her mouth and gives me a considering look. “I have been thinking about staying open later on weekends. Try to catch some of the theater and restaurant foot traffic. If you’re looking to work random hours, plus weekends, for very little pay, then you’ve hit the jackpot.”

Hardly ideal, but I like Allie Lyons. I like her shabby shop and her scary apple-tree costume and the pink calligraphic sign that’s better suited for a questionable massage parlor than a bookstore.

“Great.” I push to my feet. “When can I start?”

“Heart, courage, home, or brains?”

“What?”

I hold out the plate of cookies that Allie insisted I take home. They’re rectangular sugar cookies frosted with the words Heart, Brains, Home, and Courage.

I dangle a Brains cookie in front of Dean. “I suppose I didn’t need to ask.”

He takes the cookie and bites into it. “Doesn’t this mean I don’t have brains?”

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“Like I said, I didn’t need to ask.”

He gives me a swat on the rear, which then turns into a very nice caress. I nibble on a Courage cookie and settle in beside him on the sofa. He’s supposed to be watching a baseball game, but apparently the butt-pat got him thinking in another direction because he curves his hand around me to fondle my breast.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” I ask, shifting around so he can get a better hold on me. “Summer classes end next week.”

“Work’s all done. Give me a kiss, beauty.”

I turn my head and surrender to his warm, sugary mouth. Heat shoots across my skin. He tucks a hand underneath my shirt and flicks the clasp on my bra, then cups the weight of my breast in his palm.

“Oh, wait.” I’ve had the dates of the summer session in my head because I was hoping some jobs might open up if students leave town before the fall semester starts at the end of August. Now something occurs to me, and I ease away from Dean. “Hold on. I need to check…”

I head into the bedroom, pressing a hand to my stomach. As much as I’d like to start stripping naked right away, I don’t want to be unpleasantly surprised. I pull down my pants and underwear to check things out. Nothing. Good.

I head back to the living room, then stop. I turn into the kitchen and look at the calendar, do a quick calculation in my head.

My stomach flutters hard.

“Liv?”

“Coming.” Tension tightens my spine as I return to the living room. Dean’s sprawled on the sofa, looking entirely edible with his stubbly jaw and thick, wavy hair. His T-shirt has ridden up a couple of inches to expose the hard ridges of his stomach. His hand hovers over the button-fly of his jeans.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Um.”

He lowers his hand and pushes to sitting. “Um what?”

“I didn’t get my period.” I rub my palms on my thighs. “Or I… I haven’t gotten it, at any rate. Yet.”

Something flickers in his eyes, but I can’t read what it is.

“How late are you?” he asks.

“A week and a half.”

“That’s not much.”

“I’m pretty regular. I didn’t think of it with getting fired and starting the job search again, but when I realized the date…”

We look at each other. The silence is weighty.

“The condoms haven’t broken or anything,” I finally say.

“They don’t have to. And I’m not always wearing one when I come.”

“You’re not inside me then either.”

“I don’t necessarily have to be, if it’s close enough.” He stands, fastening the top button of his jeans. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get a pregnancy test.”

“Wouldn’t it be too soon to register?”

“Won’t hurt to take one.” He pulls on his shoes, grabs his keys, and heads out.

I press a hand to my stomach again. We’ve been careful about condom use. Even during my brief, nausea-inducing attempts to take the pill, Dean wore a condom when we had ***. I told him before we got married that I didn’t want to have children. He understood why and has never tried to convince me otherwise.

I pace to the window and stare down at the street. A group of teenagers passes by, laughing as they head down the path toward the lake. A couple with two kids goes into an ice-cream shop. An older man shuffles past, led by a leashed dog.

After about fifteen minutes, the door clicks open. Dean hands me a paper bag. I peer inside at the boxed pregnancy test.

“Says it can detect results six days after a missed period,” he says.

“Guess I should go take it, then.” I glance at him. Why is his expression so unreadable? “What if it’s positive?”

“Then we’ll talk.” He squeezes my shoulder, then tilts his head toward the bedroom. “Go ahead.”

I go into the bathroom and close the door. There are two tests inside the box. I take one out and put the box in the cabinet beneath the sink. My hands shake as I peel a plastic test stick from the foil wrapper and unfold the instructions.

It’s pretty straightforward, and because I’m so nervous I need to pee anyway. After I’m done, I cap the stick and put it on the counter.

Three minutes, the instructions say. I try not to look at the results window, but end up staring at it like it’s a crystal ball. A faint pink line appears. My heart thuds.

Two lines mean positive.

I keep staring. The single line darkens.

One line. Not two.

My heart is still pounding hard.

“Liv?”

I take a breath and crumple up the empty foil and instructions. After tossing them in the trash, I open the door. “Negative.”

Relief flashes across his face. “Good.”

Good?

I check the test again. Definitely one line. I throw it in the trash and dust off my hands. “Well, that was something, huh?”

I push past Dean, feeling his gaze on me as I go into the kitchen. I pull a frozen pizza from the freezer and turn on the oven.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand settles warm and heavy on the back of my neck. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

But I’m not entirely sure that I am, and I don’t understand why.

I take a long walk through town this morning. Dean’s usually the one up at dawn, but the morning after taking the pregnancy test, I wake before him. Can’t remember the last time that happened. I dress in sweatpants and tennis shoes, pulling on a fleece jacket as I head downstairs.

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I’ve never gone for a walk when most of the town is still asleep, but I like the stillness, the reddish light of dawn skimming over the lake, the burgeoning chirp of birds. I also feel relatively safe, though I stick to the downtown area where lights shine in a few of the houses, bed-and-breakfasts, and bakeries.

I walk down Avalon, turning onto Emerald and Ruby Streets, and then back around the block to Avalon again. I increase my pace, enjoying the flex of my muscles, the brisk air filling my lungs.

Negative. That’s what I was hoping for, right?

I’ve never wanted kids. I’m not maternal. The ****-storm of my childhood was enough to put me off people in general, so it’s a wonder I’m even married.

I’m almost thirty years old, and in my entire life Dean has been the only man I’ve trusted with bone-deep certainty. He’s the only person I’ve ever really loved. We’ve built a life together—a lovely, normal, secure life.

I’m happy with just the two of us. I don’t want a baby.

I stop and look in the dimly lit window of a baby boutique shop. Cute, overpriced clothes, hats, puzzles, blankets, and a few things I can’t quite identify.

I remember a baby I once knew. I haven’t thought of her in years. Penny. Round face, long eyelashes, fuzzy tufts of blond hair. I was thirteen and took care of her on occasion when her mother had something to do.

Penny was almost a year old then. She must be sixteen now. Probably driving. I wonder if she’s had her first date, what her favorite subject is, if she plays sports or likes to read. I hope she’s happy.

I stare at a pink, knitted hat. The memory of Penny clouds over with images too black to be transparent. A cold, icy ball tightens in my throat.

“Liv!” The sound of Dean’s voice breaks the still dawn air.

I look up with a start. He’s hurrying toward me, his expression dark with concern. A strange fear grabs me suddenly. I run to meet him and fold myself against his strong, warm chest.

“Jesus, Liv.” He closes his arms tight around me. His breathing is hard against my ear. “I woke up and you were gone. Your cell was off.”

“I forgot to bring it.” I pull back to look at him. It takes me a second to process the fact that he was scared. “I went for a walk. What… where did you think I’d gone?”

“I didn’t know.” Dean lets out his breath and scrapes a hand through his damp, messy hair. “You’re never up before seven. I thought you were in the kitchen, but when I got out of the shower…”

“I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. Unease roils in my stomach. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Just… next time, tell me, okay?”

I nod, unable to shake the edgy sense of fear surrounding both of us, the stretching reach of old shadows.

Dean wraps his arm around my shoulders as we head home. Once inside, he slides his hand to the back of my head, a slight pressure that turns me toward him. Tension still ripples through him as his lips come down on mine.

I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt and tug him down harder. His mouth is cold and minty. Heat burns through the morning chill clinging to our clothes.

A sudden, hard rush of longing fills my chest. My eyes sting. I put my hand on his stubbled cheek and part my lips under his. He works the zipper on my jacket and pushes it to the floor, then slides his big hands under my bottom to lift me against him. I fold my arms around him as he goes into the bedroom and lowers me to the bed.

I grab his shirt and yank him down to me.

“Hurry,” I gasp.

A burn flares in his eyes. He levers himself over me, planting his hands on either side of my head before descending for another kiss. I arch upward to meet him and wrap my legs around his hips.

He is the one who once rescued me from bitter isolation. I need him to defeat it again now.

I pull his lower lip between my teeth, drive my hands into his thick hair. He matches my swift urgency without hesitation, tugging off my shirt and bra, then pulling my sweatpants and panties off and dropping them to the floor.

He’s hard already. I can feel his **** pressing against me beneath his jeans. A tremble quakes through me, centering in the throb of my heart. Dean’s breath skims over my neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow of my throat as he slides a hand up my inner thigh and into my cleft.

“Open,” he whispers, brushing his mouth across mine.

I part my legs to give him access and fist my hands in his shirt. He strokes a path over my folds, his adept touch wrenching a gasp from my throat. I twist underneath him, tears blurring my vision, heat surging across my skin. When his forefinger slides into my body, I push upward and grasp his wrist to keep him inside me.

He’s saying something, a steady stream of murmurs in my ear, but I can’t make out his words past the sound of my heartbeat. He circles his thumb around my clit, pressing against a spot he knows is especially sensitive.

My nerves stretch hard, a rubber band close to snapping. I fumble for the button-fly of his jeans. My hands shake.

“Dean.”

“Easy, beauty…” He presses his mouth to the tears that have slipped from the corners of my eyes and down my temples. His breath rasps against my ear. “Come first, and then I’ll **** you.”

A wave of heat pours over me. I turn toward him, and our mouths collide hot and wet. Our arrested lust and the strain of the previous night suddenly explode into crazed need. He splays his fingers over my clit and with one stroke, I come hard, bucking up against him and crying out his name.

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When the sensations ebb, he moves away just long enough to take off his clothes before descending over me, his body hard and straining with urgency. Gasping, I wind my arms around him, crushing my breasts against his chest, pushing my tongue into his mouth.

His **** throbs against my thigh, and I writhe around to try and nudge him into the right position, aching to feel him immersed deep inside me.

“Wait.” He pulls back to grab a condom from the bedside table. Then he slides his hand down my side and kneels between my legs. His eyes smolder as he strokes his gaze over my damp, naked body, lingering on the swells of my breasts and taut nipples. “You’re so damn ***y, Liv.”

Renewed arousal flares in my blood at the desire-thick tone of his voice, the heat in his expression. Dean presses his hands to my knees to urge them farther apart, running his finger over my folds. He rolls the condom on before putting the swollen head of his erection against me, then grabs my hips and pulls me onto his shaft.

“Oh, God, Dean…” It’s a delicious shock, the sudden pulse of his long, hard length filling me. I tighten around him the instant he starts to thrust, and then everything disappears in the face of his heavy, repeated plunges, his eyes still raking my body, his hands gripping the undersides of my thighs.

I want it to last forever. I want him slamming into me hard and fast, want my body rolling under the force of our ****ing. I splay a hand over my breasts and push upward to match his movements.

Tension spools inside me, a thread pulled too tight, and then convulsions tremble through me from head to toe all over again. My inner muscles clench around his ****. Dean braces his hands on the bed, sweat trickling down his jaw.

“Liv.” His voice is strained, taut.

“Wait. I want to…”

Gasping, still shuddering, I push upward as his thickness slides out of me and he shoves to his feet. I close my fingers around his shaft and roll the condom off, then wiggle to the edge of the bed and open my mouth.

“Ah, ****…” With a groan, he grasps the sides of my head and nudges his **** past my lips.

My chest heaves. I lean forward, closing my eyes and putting my hands on his hips. He’s big, and I have to remind myself to breathe slowly as I take him in. The salty taste of him fills me. His grip on my head tightens as I press my tongue to the vein throbbing on the underside of his shaft.

For a moment, he stills. Above me, his breath saws through the air and restraint cords his muscles. He fists his fingers in my hair. I slide my hands to grip his buttocks and encourage him to move. Then he does, gently at first, then faster.

Even in the heat of lust, he’s careful not to thrust too deep. I draw back to lick the hard knob and slacken my jaw, my mind filling with images of how we must look, sweaty and disheveled with him ****ing my open mouth.

When he presses the sides of my head in warning, I pull back at the same time he does. I dart a quick glance at him, my blood swimming with heat at the sight of his raw, lust-filled expression and burning eyes.

I grasp his shaft again, sleek, pulsing, and begin to stroke. The air vibrates with his groan as he creams over my breasts, warm liquid dripping down my cleavage and tight nipples.

“God, Dean, that’s so hot…” I shudder, pressing my thighs together as the sight elicits a surge of excitement.

I fall back onto the bed and cup my breasts, smoothing my hands over them until my skin is glossy with his release. Dean sinks onto the bed beside me and reaches out to rub my abdomen. Our bodies ease into relaxation, our breath gradually slowing.

I roll to my side, loving the scent of him on my skin, the delicious soreness between my legs—evidence of his complete possession.

He pulls me closer. I slide against him, my bare leg falling between his as I press my face into his shoulder and run my hand over his damp chest.

“Don’t leave, beauty.” His voice is a rough whisper.

“Never.”

CHAPTER THREE

August 16

“Okay, so that’s pretty much it.” Allie chews on a pen and slams the cash register drawer closed. “I get shipments about once a week, but they vary in size. Invoices go in that basket over there. I run a weekly ad for a fifteen-percent discount on one item, so if someone comes in with one, give me a holler and I’ll show you how to run it through. Any questions?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not going to extend my weekend hours just yet because I’ve got a… thing this Saturday.”

“A handsome thing?” I ask.

Her face gets pink, but she returns my smile. “Brent. He’s an assistant manager over at the Sugarloaf Hotel. He’s very cute.”

“Nice. Where’s he taking you?”

“We’re going on that dinner boat out on the lake. Ever been?”

“No, but I heard it’s great, especially at sunset.”

“It’s my first date with Brent, but if things work out maybe we could double sometime,” Allie suggests. “It would be fun.” She glances at my left hand, where I wear a platinum wedding ring. “I mean, if you’re…”

“I’m married,” I say, “but my husband occasionally likes to have fun.”

“Occasionally, huh?” Dean’s deep voice rumbles across the bookstore.

Allie and I both look up to see him strolling toward us, carrying a paper tray with two covered cups from a coffee joint.

He’s in full-professor mode, wearing a gray suit that perfectly sheathes his muscular body. His hair is brushed away from his forehead, framing his strong, clean-shaven features, and his brown eyes are creased with amusement.