Starting From Scratch (14 page)

rap. What’s not to love about happily ever after? And Nora

is wonderful. Now, if you’d said Danielle Steel…

BttyCrokr: LOL! Good point. is is my first novel of

Nora’s, but I think she writes great dialogue and I feel like

her characters are easy to relate to, you know?

Pinot72: I do. I’ve read several of hers.

BttyCrokr: What were YOU reading tonight?

Pinot72: Danielle Steel.

BttyCrokr: LMAO!

Pinot72: So…Betty.

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BttyCrokr: So…Pinot.

Pinot72: I think it’s time for pictures, don’t you?

BttyCrokr: We don’t even know each other’s real first

names yet.

Pinot72: Let’s do pictures and then we can do real

names. Right?

BttyCrokr: I’m nervous.

Pinot72: Why? Are you a hunchback?

BttyCrokr: No. I’m short, but not a hunchback.

Pinot72: at’s good. Not a hunchback. Point for you.

BttyCrokr: You’re not nervous at all?

Pinot72: Of course I am. But what’s the worst that

can happen? We’re not attracted to one another and that’s

that. We can stay friends or we don’t have to, but we don’t

know anything really about one another’s lives, so we’re

safe and nobody gets hurt, not really.

Was that cold?

BttyCrokr: LOL! It was a little cool. But you’re

making sense.

Pinot72: Good. Sense is good.

BttyCrokr: Okay, give me a minute…

I jumped up from my seat and paced around the

kitchen, my fingers dug into my hair. “GAH!” I shouted,

causing Steve to spring up from a dead sleep and look at

me in alarm.

I threw my arms out. “She wants a picture, Steve.

Now. What do I do?”

I squinted at him, and I’m sure I almost heard him say

something like, “en send her one and leave me the hell

alone.”

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Opening and closing my fists, flexing my fingers, was a

weird way to relax, but it seemed to help just the slightest

bit. Staring at the screen didn’t, especially since nothing

was happening, so I moved into action. As I clicked on my

photo folder, I wondered if Pinot72 was having the same

mini-breakdown that I was. Probably not. She was way

calmer, cooler, and more collected than I was. And she was

absolutely right about us not having much to lose; hell, I’d

said pretty much the same thing to myself once the photo

talk started with LilMinx and then with DrCutie. But

saying something and feeling it are two different things

and I hated how my hands were shaking as I scrolled

through various pictures, trying to find one that cast me in

a favorable light, but didn’t seem utterly posed and/or

goofy.

Josh’s wife, Nina, had sent me a handful of pictures

snapped during his last birthday celebration a couple

months earlier and there was one of him and me that I was

very fond of. He had his arm around my shoulders and we

both had a healthy (but not incapacitating) buzz on. Our

smiles were happy, wide but not too wide, and we were

both looking right at the camera. My hair was neat and I

had a little makeup on, so I didn’t look deathly pale. I’d had

the picture framed and it was in my living room, plus I’d

given a copy to Grandma, that’s how much I liked it.

at was the one. I gave a quick nod, as if convincing

myself it was a good choice.

I attached it to an e-mail. I typed in Pinot72’s address.

I wrote the body of the letter:
I’m the redhead on the left, not

the brunette on the right with the five o’clock shadow.

An eternity went by as I lingered over the send

button.

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It took nearly five minutes for me to tire of my own

indecision.

“Oh, fuck it.”

I hit the button, then dropped my head into my

hands. “ere goes nothing.”

Ten seconds later, my computer pinged and an e-mail

from Pinot72 came, complete with an attachment. She

must have been waiting to make sure I didn’t chicken out

on her.

I stared, unable to bring myself to click it open.

Instead, I sat there and played the wonderful game of

What If.

What if she’s hideously ugly?
(Terribly mean and

superficial, I knew, but there it was.)

What if she’s drop-dead gorgeous and finds
me
hideously

ugly?
(Somehow, an even worse thought.)

What if she’s perfectly fine, but does nothing for me?

What if she’s a fifty-five-year-old pervert named Stan

who’s been getting his rocks off with me all this time?

“Oh, my God, just stop already!” I said aloud, beyond

irritated with my own nuttiness. “Just open the damn thing

and get it over with.”

Just as I was about to click open the photo, there was a

knock at my front door. Well, not really a knock, more like

a frantic rapping. A groan of frustration pushed up from

my throat as I glanced at the wall clock and noted that it

was nearly ten o’clock.

“What the hell?” I muttered as I got up and leaned

toward the peephole.

Elena Walker stood on my front stoop, looking just

this side of frazzled. My brow furrowed as I pulled the

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door open. She wore calf-length black sweatpants and a

worn-to-the-point-of-falling-apart pink T-shirt.

“Elena? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“Are you Betty Crocker?” she blurted.

“What?” I looked at her strangely, not really

comprehending exactly what she was saying.

“I mean….” She held up a piece of paper. Josh and a

short redhead smiled back at me. “
You’re
Betty Crocker?”

“I’m…” en it hit me. Yes, it took several seconds for

the obvious to slap me in the face, but it finally happened.

Oh, my God
. My eyes widened and I looked at her in utter

disbelief. “You? You’re Pinot72? No fucking way!”

She laughed then, a loud, punching sound that

surprised me with its heft. “Fucking way,” she said, and her

use of a dirty word made me tingle all over.

“Wow.” It was all I could think of. “Just…wow.”

“I know.”

We stood there for a few minutes—or a few hours, I

wasn’t sure which—just looking at each other, grinning.

“So,” she began, glancing down at her feet, which I

suddenly noticed were bare, her toes polished a deep plum.

“Would you be at all interested in grabbing a drink with

me sometime?”

“Only if it’s sometime soon,” was my smooth reply.

She nodded. “Great. at’s…that’s great. Okay.” She

jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I have to get back. Max

is in bed and…I can’t believe I just left him and ran down

the street in the dark with no shoes on to pound on your

door. Sorry about that.” Another laugh escaped her as she

backed down my sidewalk.

“Don’t be,” I said, unable to keep from grinning.

Chewing on my bottom lip didn’t seem to help.

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“We’ll set something up. Soon.”

“I look forward to it.”

I returned to the kitchen and just stood there, one

hand over my mouth, stunned by the night’s events. Who’d

have thought? Not me. Obviously.

“Holy crap,” I said out loud.

Glancing at my computer, I noticed the e-mail and its

attachment from Pinot72 were still there, waiting for me

to do something.

e picture was gorgeous, a shot taken outdoors. She

was looking slightly to the left of the camera lens, as if

somebody behind the photographer had caught her

attention and she was about to wave. Sunlight glinted off

her dark hair, making it look so shiny it was almost blue-

black, held back from her face by a pair of black sunglasses

perched atop her head, diamond studs twinkling in her

earlobes. Her eyes were slightly crinkled at the corners, the

beginnings of a smile just forming, and her complexion

was so smooth I wanted to reach inside the computer

monitor and stroke her cheekbone. Her beauty took my

breath away. When I read her e-mail, it made my smile

grow even wider.

My name is Elena. What’s yours?

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Are you effing kidding me?” Josh’s disheveled hair did

not quite cover the disbelief in his eyes.

“I’m not.”

“It’s like you’re in an effing romance novel or

something. is…stuff just doesn’t happen in real life.”

“Okay, first things first,” I said, happy that he was

smiling despite his protests and incredulity. “Effing? Stuff?

What happened to the good old fashioned fucks and

shits?”

“Hey, I don’t want my kid running around dropping F

bombs on his preschool teacher, you know?” He waggled

his eyebrows. “Nina would kill me.”

“I didn’t think that was your doing,” I said with a

knowing grin. “You’re the king of the potty mouths.”

“True. But back to Smokin’ Hot Bank Manager…”

“Elena. Her name is Elena.”

“Oh, she has a name now, does she?” His wink told me

he was just teasing, but I blushed anyway.

“She’s always had a name.” I tried to focus on my

monitor, on the shoe store logo I was creating, hoping to

keep things light and not give away the fact that I was just

a teeny, tiny bit terrified.

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“Yeah, but now you actually get to use it. And maybe

even scream it out loud in the throes of passion and

ecstasy.”

“Funny.” Trying to ignore the tingle that shot through

me at the thought was more difficult than I expected.

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Really? You just felt the sudden urge to make fifty

pounds of oatmeal raisin cookies yesterday?” He didn’t just

have my number, he had it memorized and on speed dial.

As if proving his point, he bit into a cookie. “Delicious.”

With a sigh, I proclaimed, “I hate you.”

“Guess what I’ve got to do today?” he asked, plowing

ahead as if I hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t know. Jump off a bridge? Dive in front of a

speeding bus?”

“Go to the bank.” His grin broadened when my head

snapped around and he knew he had me, but he kept

looking at his computer, typing away. “Want to join me?

You could get some cash out of the ATM or something

just so you don’t look like a stalker.” At that point, he

looked my way and his eyebrows rose up in question.

“Come on. You know you want to.”

“I hate you,” I said again.

1

By the time we actually made it to the bank, I felt

utterly stupid. I didn’t need to go to the bank. In truth, I

felt like a love-struck teenager, sneaking around and trying

to catch a glimpse of her latest high school crush. e tiny

bit of irritation I felt at Josh for having dragged me was

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way overshadowed by the enormous irritation I felt with

myself for allowing him to convince me this wasn’t the

behavior of a weirdo.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come in?” he asked once

more as he leaned into his open car door, ominous clouds

threatening rain behind him.

“I’m sure. I’ll be fine right here.”

“Wuss.”

e door slammed and he headed into the bustling

building. I scanned the parking lot around me, wondering

where Elena’s Accord was parked. Maybe she had a special

spot on the other side, her being the manager and all.

Twiddling my thumbs lost its appeal pretty quickly

and then it crossed my mind that I had practice with the

kids that night. I’d want to pick up some dinner on my way

home and my wallet was sadly devoid of cash. I figured I

could use the outside ATM and not worry about going

into the bank.

I had a twenty-dollar bill in my hand and was

reaching for my receipt when she spoke from behind me.

Very close behind me.

“Did you get me any?”

e jolt that shot straight to my groin forced my eyes

closed for a split second. I held up the twenty. “What a

coincidence,” I said, turning to face her. “is is for you.”

Elena laughed while I tried hard not to stare at her as

she stood there, a white deli bag in one hand. She was in

full-on businesswoman attire: a deep green pantsuit that

beautifully accented the olive tone of her skin. e V of the

jacket dipped just low enough to give me a tantalizing peek

of collarbone. e scent of rain in the air mingled with her

perfume and it took everything I had not to breathe in

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deeply, not to try to inhale her as a gentle breeze toyed

with her hair.

“So,” Elena said.

“So,” I replied.

She looked down at her pumps, wet her lips with the

tip of her tongue and the realization hit me like a slap.

Could it be? Did it make any sense at all that she was

nervous? Her? Elena Walker, Smokin’ Hot Bank Manager

and perfect specimen of the human female? Inconceivable!

Still, I was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rescue

her from any discomfort.