Take a Chance on Me (109 page)

"Thanks for having us today—it's been so much fun."

In his mind, the idea of having Emma included a bit more than a rugby match and a steak. "You're very welcome," he said. "So what did you think of the match?"

Emma's eyes widened. "Nice hobby. It makes ice hockey look like high tea."

He snapped the tongs close to her nose and she twisted away in playful horror. "Watch it, Thomas. I might bite back this time."

He smiled at her, and in his mind he let it all play out: the hell with waiting. He would grab her around the waist and pull her up against the front of his body and say to her, "No more playing around, baby. You were made for this."

The idea punched the air right out of Thomas's lungs. There was no gravity anymore. There was only the imagined press of her soft, warm body and that wild, roaring vortex of desire.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

Then he imagined that she'd raise her sweet arms around his neck and close her eyes and offer him those plump, parted lips to suck and crush.

Dimly, Thomas heard the barbecue tongs clatter to the cement.

It would be hot, hot, hot, and Thomas would know it was the wrong place at the wrong time in front of just about all of the wrong people he could imagine, but he wouldn't give a flip because he'd be getting what he wanted, what he so desperately needed: Emma—warm, willing, wonderful Emma.

And he'd grab onto that ass of hers, and she'd wriggle and push up against him like she had on the porch—

"Uncle T! Uncle T!" A little hand yanked on his pants pocket and the daydream was over. He looked down into Petey's excited face, then to the breathless woman a few feet beyond his reach, and started to laugh.

No, he didn't want to go back to lonely. But he sure as hell was looking forward to being alone with Emma.

« ^ »

"You're on fire, girl."

Velvet stepped back, tapped a finger on her cheek, and made one last inspection of Emma's ensemble.

She wore the short and clingy blue dress with the little ruffle, the strappy sandals, and a pair of funky clip-on earrings Velvet had borrowed from Obaasan. She'd even convinced Emma to wear a bit of lip gloss tonight, a warm rose shade that accentuated her mouth.

The man was toast.

"He's going to slobber all over you."

Emma laughed. "Please. I get slobbered on all day, every day. I'm going for something out of the ordinary, here. Jaw-dropping shock, maybe."

Velvet nodded. "I hope his heart's strong. That's all I got to say."

Emma turned back to the full-length mirror on the inside of her office door. It was really here—the Night of the Blue Dress, the night she never thought would arrive. And with a minor adjustment of her cleavage, she smiled at herself and caught Velvet's eye in the mirror.

"Here goes nothing."

"Another man falls."

"But what if he doesn't?" Emma twirled on her two-inch heels, feeling elegant and feminine in the split second before she started to totter. Velvet grabbed her elbow.

"I mean, what if I'm imagining all this? What if he's really not as interested as I am? He's been so …

reserved lately. Polite. He hasn't even tried to kiss me one single time since that night on the porch. He just stares at me."

"Because you asked him to wait, didn't you?"

"True…"

"So the man's respected your wishes. This is a good thing, Emma, not a bad thing."

"I guess. But what if he's cooled off since then?"

"Then he's about to warm up." Velvet reached over to fluff Emma's hair. "You're hot tonight. Sexy.

Fabulous."

Emma scrunched her nose and peeked at the mirror again. "You know what? Maybe you're right. If those words have ever applied to me, it would be tonight."

She giggled at her reflection and turned to examine her behind. "I think I'm at my peak. Tonight. In this dress. I've never looked this good in my life and probably never will again. This is it—the zenith of Emma Jenkins. I hope you feel honored to witness it."

Velvet groaned.

"No. I'm completely serious." She put her hands on her hips. "I'm thirty-four. From what I understand, it's all downhill from here."

She turned—no wobble this time—and grabbed her little black purse. "I'm off. It's now or never. Wish me luck."

Velvet shook her head. "You don't need it, hon."

* * *

The hostess led Emma to the outdoor dining deck and instantly her eyes found Thomas.

He sat at a picnic table near the railing, looking out over the water, two bottles of beer already centered on the brown butcher-paper tablecloth in front of him. He wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a pair of khaki pants, and brown leather loafers with no socks.

His long legs stretched out lazily under the table. His wide shoulders hung relaxed. He leaned on his forearms, the tendons and muscles in his neck exposed. It made him look vulnerable somehow, big and masculine but human all the same. It made her smile.

He turned to her.

A sharp "Ring, bing, bing, bing!" sliced through her brain. And she knew it was the sound of hitting the jackpot—like when the Price Is Right Showcase contestant won the car, the trip, and the twenty-five grand in one fell swoop.

A flash of surprise seemed to widen Thomas's eyes, but he instantly replaced it with a cool, unruffled gaze. He was quite capable of keeping his face unreadable when he wanted to.

He stood up.

She moved closer, the awareness intensifying with each step. It poured over her, hot and sizzling, leaving the tiniest suggestion of fear in its wake. The friendly little bells had been drowned out by the roar of her own blood.

She couldn't remember the last time she was this nervous, this self-conscious—this revved up—and tried to focus on placing one sandaled foot in front of the other in as ladylike a manner as possible. Thomas's eyes didn't stray from her face, but she was certain that other people were staring at her from head to toe, whispering things like "Did you get a load of that fleshy woman in an obscene blue dress?"

Emma suddenly feared the worst: a side seam was about to split open; her boobs were about to pop from the neckline like champagne corks on New Year's Eve. She couldn't do this.

Oh. But she already was, wasn't she?

Thomas's face remained perfectly inscrutable, though Emma thought he might have flexed his jaw. There was no smile. No mouth opening with shock. No drool. Nothing.

Her heart sank. She must have been overly optimistic. Maybe she looked so bad that he was embarrassed for her, embarrassed to be seen in public with her.

She reached the table, and Thomas cupped her bare elbow with a wide, warm palm.

"Hey, Emma."

He guided her down as she tried to fold and twist her tightly sheathed body onto the bench, which was no small feat. By the time she was seated, she was breathless, rattled, perspiring, and feeling horribly overdressed—or underdressed, depending on how she decided to look at it.

Why hadn't she worn the simple black outfit she'd chosen for her date with Mr. Traffic Court —

comfortable, modest, dark enough that she'd simply faded into the background?

She closed her eyes in mortification. Why in God's name did I wear this dress?

Why the hell did she wear that dress? Thomas wondered.

Did she want to see him weep like a helpless infant? Did she want to see him die an agonizing death?

Was she subjecting him to some strange, convoluted female test that he was predestined to fail?

Or had she changed her mind? Oh man, was she chucking the "time being" crap and hitting on him?

Because it was inconceivable that she didn't know what she was doing to him—and every other man in the place—in that dress.

It had taken every ounce of strength to remain standing when she'd walked across the deck to their table, all her good parts on display all at the same time—the slender neck and creamy shoulders, those unbelievable breasts, those juicy hips, thighs, legs…

He swallowed—hard. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do?

Thomas felt a trickle of sweat run down the center of his spine.

He tried not to stare at her, but he was weak—always so weak in her presence—no different from any other schlub under the spell of a beautiful woman.

So while Emma got comfortable and glanced around, he stared at her, unable to form words, aware that he must look like one of those old Looney Tunes characters who transforms into a wolf with one peek at a gorgeous dame, his long, red tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, his eyeballs shooting straight out from their sockets, then snapping back, all to the sound of "AH-OOO-GAH!"

She looked at him.

He was a dead man.

From the grave, in a raspy groan, he asked, "Hungry?"

"Yes, I am. How about you?"