Hot Flash (24 page)

His car, a Mustang—late model, not vintage—was parked beside mine and he leaned against it. “How’s Stephen?”

“Just fine. I can’t figure out why you were worried about him.”

“I’m sure it was nothing. Just teacher antenna in overdrive.” His expression showed concern, his brows gently drawn together. “You’re tired.”

I wasn’t sure what gave me away. “It’s been a long day.”

He opened his car door and pulled the front seat forward, revealing the back seat. “Get in and we’ll talk.”

I hesitated. He gave a sympathetic nod toward the seat and it did me in. I was tired and it had been hell week. I needed some sympathy and someone willing to listen. Davin filled the bill. I ignored the little voice in my head making some smart-ass comment about wanting more. And I deliberately didn’t look at his lips as I climbed into the car.

We’d just talk. Nothing more.

I chose to dismiss the idea that somehow, using his ample male wiles, he had maneuvered me into a) getting into his car, b) deciding to talk, and c) allowing him to choose the back seat for the discussion.

Now, I spent a lot of high school hours in the back of a car talking with various boys. As I climbed into the back of Davin’s car, noting the darkly tinted windows, I couldn’t plead ignorance or that I thought we’d truly just talk. Not with the way my heart pounded exactly as it had way back then. Not with the way I studiously avoided looking at his lips, at his face, and how I intently gazed at the stick shift between the front seats.

But rather than remain safely out of view outside the car, he closed my door, crossed to the passenger side, then climbed in beside me, careful to duck to keep from being decapitated by the seat belt strap angling down from the back seat roof to the front passenger seat. I didn’t even scoot away from him, although there’s not much room in the back of a Mustang. Basically, sardines have more elbow room.

“There now. Tell me all about it.”

Okay, I admit it. My mistake was turning my head to look at him and my gaze immediately landed on his lips. They’d been so soft, so tender against mine and I wondered if they were always so gentle. Since I was caught up in memories of the night he’d kissed me, I didn’t respond.

Davin said, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I forcibly turned my head away from him and it wasn’t easily accomplished. The little voice from earlier started yakking about my being a total dweeb and telling me to get my mind out of the gutter and back onto the topic at hand. Oh, yeah. My week. My job. “I was hoping to be promoted to chef, but they hired someone else and he’s awful.”

At least I managed to speak, even if it probably made little sense to him.

“Your boss is out of his mind. If anyone should be chef, it’s you.” He patted his shoulder next to mine, and I laid my head on it.

My mom would probably make snarky comments about being anti-women’s lib, but I have to admit, the act of laying my head on his big strong shoulder made me feel cared for and girlish and like my burdens weren’t quite so insurmountable.

His body heat relaxed me and for the first time in days, I let down my guard. I may have actually leaned in as he put his arm around me. I craved another of his kisses, so I leaned closer and kissed him.

He tenderly kissed me back, then laid a trail of fire down my face and chin until he reached that special spot on my neck that does things to my brain, like totally shutting it down. It also does things to other parts of my body and I melted into his arms.

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit that one heated kiss to that specific location turns off my inhibitions and turns me into a wild woman. But then he kissed me there again and I went into pure and total thought shutdown. It was all about what I felt. How good Davin made me feel, how sweet he was, and … Oh. My. Gawd. What great lips he had.

And his hands …

Then he laid one of the best kisses on me that I’ve ever experienced. Toe-curling, heat-inducing, total seduction.

At some point, I vaguely recall coming up for air and noticing it was dark out, but then his lips claimed mine again. The next thing I knew, I’d pinned him horizontally to the seat, having removed his T-shirt earlier, when he said something about seat belt clips digging into his back.

Hard, yet yielding. He sat up straighter and pulled me toward him. “That’s better.”

I arched my back when his thumb brushed my nipple. After that, we pretty much got carried away, clinging to each other like teenagers in the throes of hormonal overload, with arms, legs, buttons, and bra straps flying. His body was incredible and I couldn’t stop myself from exploring it. Until … my leg got tangled in the seat belt strap while I was trying to get closer, meaningfully closer, by straddling Davin. I abruptly broke off our kiss, trying to free myself. “Help. I’m stuck.”

Davin thrusted and I moaned, even though I couldn’t get free from the stupid strap. I bit my lip and managed to rasp out, “Davin, you have to move your leg. I’m trapped.”

“You’re trapped? I can’t move my leg,” he said, thrusting again, but this time I realized he was trying to move his foot.

When I leaned away from him and against the back of the passenger seat, I saw the problem. One of his legs was lying across the console between the front seats, but his other foot was totally wedged between the passenger seat and the door. As I worked my shin out of the seat belt strap, I realized how very much I like defenseless men … and this time he was the one who moaned.

“I’ve become an exhibitionist,” I wailed into my cell phone as I entered the grocery store and grabbed a shopping cart. I was a total basket case. I’d just had M.B.S.—mind-blowing sex—in a frigging parking lot! I’d lost my mind, my marbles, and any vestige of common sense. Did I mention I was wailing?

“Tell me more,” said Connie.

“I’m at the grocery store. Do you have time to talk?” I teetered directly to the pharmacy department, passing a little girl who took one look at me and ran for her mother. I probably looked as crazy as I felt and the store’s fluorescent lighting only served to make me feel dizzy.

“Do I have time?” asked Connie. “Time? What with your exhibitionist crack, I’ll make time.”

After checking to make sure no one was watching, not even the little girl I’d scared, I started grabbing every brand of pregnancy test kit I could find. I whispered, “I just had M.B.S. in the back seat of a car.”

“How interesting, but how does that make you an exhibitionist?”

“It was in the parking lot in front of the dry cleaners.”

Connie cracked up. “At least it’s dark.”

“Stop laughing. This is serious.”

“Why is that?”

Again I checked to be certain there were no other nearby customers. “It broke.”

“What broke?”

“His … um … protection. What brand of pregnancy test is best?”

“Jill! Aren’t you on the pill?”

I froze. “Shit.”

“You’re not?”

“Of course I am.” I began emptying the kits from my cart. After the breakup with the Asshole P, I’d gone off the pill, only to start up again in preparation for my salesman auditions. “I forgot.”

“You forgot to take your pills?”

“No, I’ve been taking them. Religiously. When I saw his protection broke, I forgot I was on them.”

“It must have been good sex.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So, was it fun?”

“Yes. No.”

“Make up your mind.”

I sighed. “It was just a huge mistake.”

“I thought you were looking forward to auditioning salesmen.”

“That’s why it was a mistake. He isn’t a salesman.”

Connie drew in an audibly large breath, then screamed, “It can’t be. You didn’t! Ohmigawd! You had sex with Davin Wesley!”

I held the phone away from my ear until she stopped hooting and hollering. “You finished yet? How did you know it was Davin?”

“Like you ever stop whining about him? Admit it. You’re hot for the teacher! So tell me, did Mr. Fix-It fix you?”

“It was menopause, remember? Hot flashes, et cetera?”

“Menopause doesn’t make you get it off in the back seat of a teacher’s car.”

“I hate you.” I snapped my cell phone closed and stuck it in my bag. It was easier to hang up on Connie than to admit my attraction to Mr.-Absolutely-Totally-Wrong-for-Me. College tuition? On a teacher’s salary, he could barely afford Stephen’s art supplies. Davin didn’t even have a frequent flyer card!

I’d gotten out of his car and into mine so quickly, Davin’s head was still spinning as I peeled out of the parking lot. Now he probably believed we had a
real
relationship.

Which we didn’t.

It was just a hot flash. Or another symptom of menopause. Or maybe even lust. But it was just one of those things, the kind of thing that would never, ever happen again.

Ever.

No matter how mind-blowing it was, and no matter that I couldn’t rid myself of the idea of wanting to do it with him again when we had more room to maneuver. But that wouldn’t happen again.

Ever.

It,
he
, was not in my plans.

Even though my life had completely and absolutely spiraled out of control, there was time to get it back on track.

I still had a date with Salesman Number Three.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dear Jill,

My father once told me, “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is to fall in love with a poor man.”

Boy, was he right!

My first two marriages were a total bust. The first lasted only six weeks. The second lasted just over eight months.

I’ve been married to my third husband for twenty-five years. I finally got smart. I married money.

Now money doesn’t solve all problems, obviously, but it makes problems more surmountable. Trust me, I know. If you’re not in love now, why not check out
Fortune
magazine’s article on the “Forty Richest Under 40 Bachelors in America”?

That’s a great place to start.

And keep this in mind, “Money makes the heart grow fonder!”

Hope you find my survey answers helpful in your quest.

Very truly,

   P.S. The wealthy men I’ve met seem to prefer blondes!

When I arrived home three nights later, I still didn’t feel any less depressed. Even though it was a Saturday and I had a couple of days off, I couldn’t stop thinking about my job. Chef Breck was starting work at La Papillon on Tuesday.

I had to shake it off, though, because tonight was date night with Salesman Number Three. Maybe if I gave myself a pedicure I’d feel more enthusiastic? After collecting the mail, I entered my front door, ready to pamper myself.

Guess who was sitting on my sofa? You got it.

My unwanted sperm donor. He and Stephen were watching TV, drinking sodas, and chatting. He sat watching my TV, drinking my soda, and chatting with my son.

So why did my heart beat so fast and give a quick little flutter? A rivulet of perspiration beaded on my forehead, the room was kinda warm, and I hoped like crazy I wasn’t about to experience another hormonal meltdown. “Hi, guys.”

“Hi, Jill,” said Davin.

“Hi, Mom.” Stephen clicked off the TV. “How’d your day go?”

“Yucky. How about yours?”

“Okay.”

I wiggled the mail in my hand. “You got some mail from one of those art schools you applied to.”

“Tres bien.”

I handed him the envelope, and he quickly ripped it open.

“Awesome!”

“What?” I asked.

“Did you get in?” asked Davin, shooting me a smile that spoke of happy concern, yet at the same time telegraphed a message about hot sweaty nights spent making love. How did he do that?

“I’ve been accepted!” Stephen bounded up out of his chair and danced around the living room.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, but thought the opposite. This was the art school whose tuition was over thirty-five thousand dollars per year, not including living costs. How on God’s green earth would I find a way to pay for it? “Isn’t this awfully soon? You didn’t apply that long ago.”

“I think that’s what it says.” Stephen handed the letter to Davin.

Davin read the letter, then nodded at me and said to a very happy Stephen, “Congratulations. I told you you had the talent.”