I called his bluff. “Augie,
sugah
, I do believe the only time you’re to be found on your knees is when you have somethin’ more filling than strawberries in your mouth.”
“I see you’re feelin’ spunky tonight, Miss Shay,” he managed between laughs.
“You’d know more about spunk than me, M’sieur DuBose.”
Marching me toward a fresh-faced vendor–the type whose cheeks shone like red delicious apples–he dared me, “I think he wants you to check out his produce
.
”
With a wink, I set off toward the youth selling tomatoes. He was every bit lovely: big baby blues, buff body, smiling widely at all who approached. “Evenin’, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
Goddamn. Did I look that old?
“Or should I say Miss?”
Oh, but he was a fast learner.
A perfect grape tomato in the palm of my hand, I asked, “How much are these?”
I turned so the setting sun shifted through my sundress.
The boy-man stammered. “Uh...yeah...two bucks a pint, Miss
.
”
Face flushed as pink as the sunset sky, the lad shifted from foot to foot, trying not to stare at my breasts.
Augie came over. “I think what you’re after are the heirloom beefsteaks. Nothin’ as small as a grape tomato is ever gonna fill you up.”
The King of Innuendo had met his Queen. “What would you suggest, darlin’?” I held a giant, striped globe in one hand weighing it against a tiny oval tomato in the other. “What’s more satisfyin’? A big, thick, beefy tomato, or a lovely, round juicy one?”
The boy lost his stutter to a bold grin. “Depends how big your appetite is, Miss.”
Augie stifled his chortles while I bought a pint of tomatoes because the young man was too cute to torment any longer.
Once we hit the road, Augie let loose. “
Ooh
, Shay! Did you see the look on that child’s face? I couldn’t tell if he was mortified through and through, or if he was about to jump over the stand to get to you.”
“Probably both. I tend to have that effect on men.” I spoke drolly, but couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
At home, he walked me up the porch. “Good to see you so sprightly for a change. Y’all be sure to keep it up.” Kissing my cheeks, he added, “Call me after your second sitting. Call me if you need me.”
I heaved my shoulder against the ornery portal.
Before I got inside, Augie returned. He knew how hard the nights were. He squeezed my shoulders, then placed my hand over the steadying cadence of his heart. “You get some rest, honey.”
The sight of Palmer prostrate across the bare futon in the spare room, wearing threadbare boxers, snoring like a freight train, shored up my decision to become a cuckold.
He couldn’t even stand to sleep beside me
.
He wasn’t the least bit attracted to me anymore. Night after night and day after day, he drove a wedge between us with turndowns and turn-offs. A human being couldn’t survive without touch.
Reardon was offering exactly that.
Personal Assistant? I could do it in my sleep.
Mistress? Well, I’d need a completely different skill set, one I hadn’t practiced for quite some time.
What if Reardon didn’t want me either?
What if I’d lost my knack?
Would he woo me? I wouldn’t recognize a romantic gesture if it slapped me upside the head, it’d been so long.
* * * *
The morning of my next meet, greet, and meep with Reardon, I shuffled to the patio with a cup of scalding coffee half filled with cream, still in a stew. “Romance, ha!”
The squirrels idled long enough to quirk their vermin heads at me before returning to their acrobatics.
I hadn’t been blind-sided by romance recently. Palmer’s gestures ran more cold than hot, and I could recount them all with an aching stab of pain:
Allowing only a mumbled, “Good,” when I inquired about his day over our quiet dinners.
Walking in on me surrounded by cried-out Kleenex, patting my back before showing me his backside leaving the room.
Becoming stiff as a corpse when I crossed the invisible boundary in our bed.
Anything remotely resembling intimacy toward my husband felt like a molestation misdemeanor.
Earlier in the summer, Augie and I had sat at the counter of The Drugstore with Adelaide, the Saltwater GeeChee proprietress of the downhome establishment. I’d known the woman since I was knee high to a grasshopper, having frequented the shop as a child, pushing handfuls of sweaty pennies across the shiny bar to pay for my Creamsicles.
Then as now, she had the same unlined, black-grape skin, the generous bosom creating a resting place for her folded forearms, the same deep hushpuppy voice.
Fountain sodas and crusts of thick egg salad sandwiches made from Addy’s secret recipe sat to the side while she had held court. “Mmm hmm, chile
.
What you need is some good lovin’.”
Augie had agreed, “Yes’m, Miss Adelaide, I do believe you’re onto somethin’.” He’d clapped his hands. “Y’all need a man who will treat you like a woman, spole you, and indoctrinate you into the finer points of fucking.”
Reaching across the counter, Addy thwacked him on the head with the handle of a broom practically attached to her hitting-hand. “Mr. DuBose, I’ll remind you to watch your cursin’.”
I sighed. “I already have a man
.
”
“When was the last time he acted like one, honey?”
“And that be the crux of it.” Addy had nodded.
It was just my damn bad luck Palmer came home for lunch before I scooted on my way to Reardon’s. I was in the bathroom primping, preening, and doing a final fret about my immoral, going-to-hell, so goddamn wrong decision when the front door banged and his shout rebounded, “Shay! Y’all here?”
Downstairs, my husband sat at the kitchen table, drinking a noontime beer and eating a sandwich. The hazy sun from the windows imbued his rugged features and arresting goldenrod hair, reminding me of the playful dimples I never saw anymore.
Glancing away, I saw he’d made me a sandwich too. My will crumbled.
Why couldn’t he be the man I’d married?
Then he opened his mouth. “Y’all are tarted up. Exactly who are you interviewing with?”
Tarted up? What about, “You turned out nicely, Shay?” Since I didn’t own any pasties or sequined boob tubes, I was dressed professionally–but not
professionally.
“Can’t say, confidentiality clause.” I bit into the sandwich and swallowed over the lies spilling from my mouth. “It’s a PA job, like I did for Ginger.”
“Hmmf
.
You don’t say?”
“The person in question values privacy.” Queasy, I threw the rest of the sandwich into the overflowing garbage can he’d forgotten to empty the night before. “Anyway, it’s only two or three times a week, very flexible.”
“Don’t seem like much, hardly worth gettin’ outta bed for.”
Ain’t that the truth.
Wait, huh? It wasn’t all that much at all, what with Mr. Boone’s obvious tastes for trysts.
Thinking fast, I concluded, “It’s a job share.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” He shoved the end of his sandwich in his mouth and washed the gooey mess down with the last of his brew.
Oh.
Oh!
Job share?
Oh, no freakin’ way.
Chapter 3
Bone Fides
By the time I got to The Tides, I was steaming mad. Job share? Oh, I had somethin’ to share alright. A piece of my mind, for starters. Reardon’s front door was propped opened, so I gave it a good hearty slam to make my entrance known. At least I tried to slam it. Figured it was one of those spring mechanisms, quietly snicking closed.
Searching for something to cause a commotion, I spotted a big vase resting on the entry table. I hefted it from hand to hand a few times, then whacked it onto the table…
And thought about getting the hell out of Dodge, because–damn–that was really loud.
“Miss Greer.” His stern interruption made me flinch.
Whoops.
Fear in the pit of my belly, I faced the studhorse himself. Studhorse?
No, no, no.
He was a prize stallion.
His irises were snapdragon sapphire as he balanced the teetering vase, his lips tight, his incredible forearms once more on show from the rolled cuffs of his shirt. “I expect my subordinates to behave with a touch more decorum.”
“Sorry,” I eked out. At his narrowing look, I remembered why I was so enraged, not to mention, had seething Rat Bastard just called me his subordinate?
Swallowing my ire, I sashayed toward him. “I do apologize, Mr. Boone.” A noticeable inhale stuttered through his lips, and I decided flirting was kind of fun, apart from the fact I wanted to kick him in the shins. “Before we go any further…” My fingers drew ever closer to his hand. “I need to know if this a job share.”
His expression faded to anxiousness. “What makes you ask?”
“Well, I can’t imagine this bein’ a full-time position
,
I mean how much clandestine fucking can one woman take? But y’all seem to be a man with limitless needs.”
The pads of his fingertips running along the sensitive flesh between my fingers, he inclined closer. “I take these endeavors most seriously.”
“These endeavors? You’re in the habit of keeping a mistress?” I snapped and snatched my hand away, shutting out the images of him coupling with hordes of nameless, faceless broads.
He frowned. “Yes, of course. Although that doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh yeah, what does concern me?”
He appeared hurt, as if I’d insulted his dignity when I was the one being hired as a whore. “I’m monogamous in my relationships.”
My outrage dimmed as he continued.
“I didn’t think you’d come back. Otherwise I wouldn’t have left the door open.” He shook his head. “It was wishful thinking.”
The electric charge between us blistered when he perused me from head to toe, touching on the tips of my breasts and the swell of my hips. “You’re especially lovely today.”
See now, that’s what a woman wanted to hear, not that she was
tarted up
. “And you’re quite dashing, Mr. Boone. But, lovely? That’s real sweet, sugar, but surely y’all can be more creative.”
He gathered me close, settling a hand low on my back. “I can be real creative, darlin’. After we go over the contract.” Escorting me to his office, his hand slid against the silky material of my blouse with every sway of my hips.
“Won’t you have a seat?”
I perched prettily.
“Would you like a drink?” He fetched refreshments.
While he was gone, I life-coached myself. I was A. a grown woman, B. a hot piece of ass, and C. in need of a salary and sexual tryst, so all the better to one-stop shop. Especially when the voltage between us gave South Carolina Electric and Gas–not to mention Berkeley Power–a run for its money.
By the time he returned, I’d affected to be a cool, calm, collected redhead, not the redheaded stepchild I mostly was.
My attempt at decorum didn’t last long. A mint leaf and inches of ice floated in the tall glass he set beside me. The tracks his fingertips left in the condensation put me in mind of his cool thumbs plucking my nipples toward his lips.
I took a long drink in lieu of tearing open my blouse.
His tumbler filled with a couple fingers of heady smelling bourbon, Reardon took his place behind the desk. Swishing the liquid into amber curlicues, he reached to his collar, undoing the top buttons, supplying me with the vision of his upper pecs shaded inside the V of cloth.
“Curriculum Vitae?” he requested.
I must’ve squeaked or something, because a black eyebrow shot up with the side of his mouth. Crossing my legs, I was delighted when his sight glided over my calves to the additional length of thigh on show.