Hot Flash (26 page)

He had a small suite, furnished with a seating area in addition to the bed area. I sat down on the sofa and tossed off my shoes as he plugged the People Movers into a power supply.

“That was lots of fun. I bet you’ll sell several to people who stopped us tonight.”

He went to the small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. “I hope you’re right. It’ll help pay for my new house.”

You gotta adore a man who has a dream house. I wondered if it was very different from mine. The picture was in my handbag and I considered showing it to him.

He handed me a glass of wine, Riesling, and I patted the cushion beside me on the sofa so he’d take a seat. We held up our glasses and clinked them. “To your new house. May you happily live there for years to come.”

“Thanks,” he said.

I took a sip of wine. It was very good and a vintage I was fond of. Greg had very good taste, but did
he
taste good?

Figuring there was no time like the present to find out, I leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He not only tasted good, like lobster and wine, but he smelled good, too, like musk and some woodsy outdoor aroma. Nice.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“A very nice evening with a very nice man.”

He smiled, took my wineglass, and placed it on the coffee table in front of us. Then he leaned in and kissed me.

It was pretty good in terms of first kisses. I deliberately avoided the comparison to Davin’s kisses and concentrated on other first kisses. Not bad.

Greg placed an arm around me and pulled me closer, then we did some serious necking.

I’d like to take this moment to say that I was very much enjoying myself and feeling pretty good about how things were progressing. When he took my hand and pulled me toward the bed, I willingly went along.

Everything was great—and I liked the way he kissed the side of my throat—until it came to undressing.

I should have known something was up when he promised mood music and pulled a tape player from his suitcase.

While it was a little odd, I figured it was good that he hadn’t had the tape player sitting out, as if expecting that we’d
need
mood music.

The first song was Ravel’s “Bolero.” While unoriginal, it wasn’t an awful choice. He came close and kissed me a little more, then removed my shirt and bra. That was when he began peeling off his shirt.

And the music changed, almost on cue, to “The Stripper.” It blared as he did a striptease with his shirt.

Again, a bit odd for a first date, but since I’d only been with three men, ever, my ex-husband, my ex-boyfriend, and the sperm donor, I didn’t have a lot of experience with these things. Maybe it was not
that
weird.

“I think you’ve practiced,” I said, wanting to ease my tension.

He gazed at me through hooded eyes and camped up his dance routine by jiggling a bit more.

His wriggling and shimmying was definitely amusing. His hand lowered to his belt buckle, and he snapped it out in one quick flash. As his hand hovered over his zipper, he turned away from me.

I sat up, biting my lip to keep from giggling nervously, and waiting for a nice view of studly male butt, while he slowly inched down his slacks. Although his derriere was prime, it would have been more prime if he had kept it a few inches farther from my face.

I leaned back, but still got a better view than I could ever have imagined.

I blinked. I blinked again. He wasn’t wearing underwear?

Or was he?

I scrunched my eyes almost closed while he continued gyrating around the bed, with his pants around his ankles. He mooned me as he bent to remove them. Then he spun around to face me.

I schooled myself not to look shocked, expecting some sign of his arousal. Instead what I saw was … chiffon?

And sequins?

I did a double take as he did a thrust, a wriggle, another thrust to the last notes of the melody.

Another song started, and he started gyrating. Badda-Boom. Badda-Boom. Badda-Boom.

He turned around and wiggled that UPS butt at me again, and I was ready to swear off men.

Shocked? No shit. I was floored.

When I finally got my jaw off the mattress, and the bed covers pulled up to my chin, my voice squeaked, “Is that a g-string?”

“You like?” He did a pirouette that had my eyes bugging out. Sure enough, Greg wore a woman’s g-string—and he must have been wearing it beneath his pants all night!

He wiggled his hips to the left, then to the right, then to the left again.

Gag. Gag. Gag.

My first impulse was to flee, then I decided I didn’t require a second impulse. “I’m sorry, Greg, but this isn’t my kind of thing.”

“I can take it off,” he offered.

I shook my head. “Did I mention that my first husband is now a woman? I’ve already been there, done that, on the sexual ambiguity thang.”

“I’m not the least ambiguous about my sexuality.” He just stood there, beside the bed, looking ridiculous in the tiny bit of fabric festooned in bling-bling.

“I’m sure you’re not ambiguous. I’m simply not ready for … this.” I pulled my shirt back on. “I’m sorry. No can do.”

“Maybe we went too fast?” He grabbed his pants and pulled them on.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” He’d been lots of fun, until we’d reached the gag-me stage, but there was no way I’d go out with him again. Ever. Ever. Ever. “I should go now.”

I walked over to the sofa and stepped into my shoes, then grabbed my handbag and stuffed my bra inside, not wanting to take the time to put it back on. I wanted to get the hell out of there. With my hand on the door, I said, “Thank you for dinner and an
interesting
evening.”

“Thank you, too. Sure you don’t want to stay and have more wine?”

“Nah. I’m going to head out.”

And so much for Salesman Number Three. I’d bombed out with every salesman I’d met. I knew not to expect much when I arrived for the date. Something inevitably had to go wrong. I just hadn’t expected anything
this
wrong.

Maybe I wasn’t ready for dating?

Maybe you have to be a certain kind of woman to find a good salesman?

I’d like to blame it on Connie since she introduced me to Greg, but I hadn’t suspected anything.

All I knew for certain was that I’d had it with my Salesman a.k.a. Tuition Plan. I’d find some other way to send Stephen to school, no matter how high the tuition, no matter how much debt I had to rack up.

Anything would be better than the dates I’d been putting myself through.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dear Jill,

I’m returning your survey unanswered. Sadly, my Leonard passed away last month. After fifty years of togetherness, I miss having him by my side. I’m sorry. I can’t complete your survey.

I hope you’ll find a man like Leonard. The right man enriches your life in ways you can’t imagine. Don’t let my heartbreak over losing him discourage you.

There is loss in life. There is heartache so unbearable you’ll think you don’t have the strength to endure. But there is love and tenderness. There are wonderful moments and delicious laughter. You’ll learn that they more than compensate.

Don’t settle for anything less.

Sincerely,

I like to think I’m a patient person.

I like to think I’m an understanding human being.

I learned I’m neither of those things when it comes to Control Freaks from Hades, a.k.a. Chef Breck.

There’s something about having someone standing beside you, breathing down your neck, watching each and every movement you make that makes you feel—oh, I don’t know—postal?

At the very least, I was feeling pretty livid because that’s exactly what Chef Breck had been doing to me since the moment I’d arrived at La Papillon at five o’clock that morning.

Until then, I’d thought Davin Wesley was the quintessential control freak. Wrong.

Over the past four hours, I learned that Davin Wesley was a gentle pussycat with leadership qualities whereas Breck was a manic dictator with domination issues.

“Why are you standing so close?” I asked. Breck’s exhalations made the hair on the back of my neck writhe like inhabitants of Dante’s
Inferno
.

“So I can see what you’re doing.”

“Can’t you do that from two steps back? You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re making me nervous with the way you’re measuring ingredients.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m measuring?” My hands shook. The gravel-like tone of my voice sounded a little like a werewolf in an old movie, but it didn’t deter the Phantom of the Breck.

“You’re going to spill some of the ingredients.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Some will leak over. Perhaps you should stand over the sink?”

“There’s no room for me to work at the sink.” I gestured toward the salad prep going on at the sink. Since I was measuring flour, not some toxic chemical, it wasn’t that big a deal.

But evidently it was to Breck. “And what will you do when it spills?”

“I won’t spill any.” Nerves got the better of me and my hands shook harder. A trace amount of flour drifted from the top of the measuring container.

“Look. You’re spilling already!” He leaned forward and flicked at the microscopic amount of flour on the stainless steel counter below where I was working. “And who do you expect to clean up your mess?”

I should have realized where he was going with this, because he seemed to have some fixation with cleanliness. Only an hour ago, he’d given the entire kitchen staff a lecture on garbage.

That’s right. Trash.

No garbage was to go into the waste containers (I kid you not, that’s what he called the trash cans), until it had been thoroughly washed and rinsed. He even demonstrated by washing—with gusto, mind you—an empty lettuce bag, prior to folding it neatly, like a napkin, and placing it properly in the waste container.

So, I wasn’t surprised when he pulled his
personal
bottle of antiseptic spray cleaner from his back pocket and began to hose down my work area, regardless of the fact that the flour could have been blown away by his exhalations if I’d leaned out of the way.

“Attention, staff.” He held up his spray bottle. “This is the cleanser of choice.” He glanced at me. “You’ll see to it that enough is ordered so that each member of the staff will have a bottle.”

I nodded. What else could I do? Kurt had warned me that Breck was a control freak. I’d thought that meant he ran a tight kitchen. Ha. Kurt had also suggested that I watch my back around the controlling chef, but with the way Breck watched my front, that didn’t seem necessary. He wasn’t a control freak; he was a control perv.

Breck continued hovering over my every movement until all the lunch banquets had been served up. That was when he transferred his attention, at least momentarily, to one of the cooks—who’d probably arrange for INS to find him and ship him home for vacation soon, if Breck kept it up.

It was my chance. Escape. I felt as if I was breaking out of jail when I snuck out of the kitchen for a little break.

I needed to make a phone call to check on my skillet.

With my cell phone in hand, I headed to the restroom and locked the door behind me. Thank goodness Breck couldn’t monitor my bathroom behavior.

I called Goodwill and asked for Meg.

“Oh, you’re in luck,” Meg said. “The lady who bought your skillet was in just this morning.”

“She was?”

“Yes. She gave me her phone number so you could call her. I told her that you needed to talk with her.”

“Okay. Thanks very much for your help.” I wrote down the woman’s name, Penny Cullen, and phone number on a Post-it pad I’d stored in the restroom for emergency suicide notes.

“Penny is such a sweet old dear,” the saleswoman continued. “She seemed thrilled to be getting a call from you. I don’t think she has much family. She comes into our store a lot. I think she’s lonely.”

I should have paid more attention to what Meg was saying. Instead, I was thinking about getting my skillet back.

So what if my son was deserting me? So what if I had no clue how to pay his tuition? So what if I’d totally blown it in the Salesman Sweepstakes and even Davin Wesley had been avoiding me since Saturday? My skillet was about to return home where it belonged.

I dialed Penny Cullen’s number.

“Hello?” Penny’s voice sounded elderly, but very sweet.

“Mrs. Cullen? This is Jill Morgan Storm.”

“Ohh, you’re the young woman Meg said would call.”

“Yes, ma’am. She said you’d bought my skillet.”

“Yes, indeed. It’s so perfect. You know, dear, it would have taken me months to season one up so perfectly.”

She took a breath, so I jumped in with, “I know—”

But she cut me off. “I can cook anything in my new skillet. Why I made up a mess of cornbread just this morning. You’re a very good girl to donate it to Goodwill.”

“I didn’t exactly—”

Again she broke in. “Good Samaritans. There’s a special place in heaven for them. At church last weekend, Mr. Wainwright, he’s our minister, did a sermon on exactly that subject. You know what he said?”