Commitment
by
Margaret Ethridge
Commitment
Copyright © 2011, Margaret Ethridge
Digital ISBN: 9781937389819
Editor, Jennifer Johnson
Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs
Digital Release, January, 2012
Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords
Turquoise Morning, LLC
Turquoise Morning, LLC
P.O. Box 43958
Louisville, KY 40253-0958
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This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.
Dedication
Thank you to my publisher, Kim Jacobs, for her continued belief in me and my pursuit of this dream, and to my editor, Jennifer, for the one-liners that make me smile even when I think I’m losing my mind.
This book would not exist if it weren’t for a bevy of beautiful critters who poked, prodded, and pummeled this story into shape. Their input is always welcomed, their support unflinching, and their friendship truly treasured. They are and always will be Super Cool.
I want to dedicate this book to those daring people who attempted a fling, and ended up with a spouse.
It can happen, you know….
Commitment
Tom Sullivan wants a woman who is willing to accept him as he is. The successful divorce attorney has seen enough of the flip side of love to know better than to promise forever. Women have tried to pin him down, but none have managed to make it stick.
Until Maggie McCann.
Maggie is only interested in one thing. Her fortieth birthday is looming and the tick-tock-tick-tock in her head means her biological clock is about to strike midnight on her dreams of finding Prince Charming. Armed with a new plan for her happily ever, she foregoes the Fairy Godmother routine and makes an appointment with a fertility clinic for a rendezvous with a sperm donor.
The last thing Maggie needs is to get mixed up with a player like Tom Sullivan.
A chance encounter and the opportunity to scratch a decade-long itch prove irresistible, and what starts as a one-night stand turns into a game of cat and mouse when Tom learns of Maggie’s plan to start a family on her own.
To Maggie, messing with a player like Tom Sullivan is the single-girl equivalent of playing with fire, but she convinces herself to take what she can get for as long as she can and expect nothing more. But Tom falls hard and fast for Maggie, and now that they’re planning to have a baby together he starts banking on his own a happily ever after.
If only he can get her to commit…
Chapter One
The kitchen gadget aisle of Bed Bath & Beyond isn’t the place to make major life decisions, but there she was—there it was—staring her right in the face.
“No.”
The word popped out of her mouth before it registered with her brain. Maggie McCann glared at the plastic tube then turned away, feigning interest in a set of matched measuring cups until she could gather her wits. The answer wasn’t unreasonable. The thought was ridiculous, the location…highly inappropriate.
Inappropriate, but not unusual. A born nester, Maggie liked taking a spin through the housewares super-store. She found it relaxing. There was nothing in the world she wanted more than to have a real nest to feather. Not that the apartment above her shop wasn’t real. The entire brick and mortar building was very real. She had the gigantic mortgage to prove it. But she wanted a house, no, a home.
Maggie didn’t consider her forays into this Valhalla of domestic bliss a stop gap. These excursions were not a desperate attempt to fill an empty life with candleholders, no matter what Oprah implied. She just had an itch for Egyptian cotton, and the best way to scratch that itch was by indulging her yen for plush, thirsty bath sheets. Hell, the terry cloth tantalizers practically leapt from the shelves and into her arms, desperate to be the towel she wrapped around her bubble bath-scented body. Maggie clutched the latest volunteers to her bosom. How could she deny them their destiny?
Under normal circumstances, she didn’t bother with the kitchen section of the store. Maggie shopped to satisfy her bed and bath jones. She considered anything that required her to spend time slaving over a hot stove definitely ‘Beyond’, but her ancient can opener was grinding to a slow and painful death.
Sadly, Fred was the only one around to witness her heroics when she called ‘Clear!’ and jolted the appliance back to life with a stout slap. Not that he cared about her histrionics. The only thing that ever concerned Fred was his next meal. The longer she took to serve him, the louder his complaints. Just that morning, in the midst of her appliance saving routine, the overstuffed tabby took his dissatisfaction out on her by stepping on her toes, butting her with his head, and nudging her with his bulky body before he resorted to violence.
The pebbled scratch on her ankle itched. She wanted to blame cat scratch fever for the heat coursing through her body, but she knew Ted Nugent didn’t hold the answer. Panic clawed at her throat. Maggie focused on every piece but the one that called to her. She scanned the rows, desperately searching for the fancy hand-held can opener she’d seen advertised on TV—the one that guaranteed a soft silicone grip and safely rounded edges.
She spotted her quarry and stretched to yank the package from the wire hook. It clung for dear life, almost as if the damn thing sensed it was doomed to an existence filled with tomato soup and economy-sized cans of Gourmet de Gato.
“Join the club,” she muttered.
Maggie gave the opener another yank and it surrendered, sending her stumbling into a display of mixing bowls. She gasped and flailed. The turquoise towels she’d taken hostage in the bath department fell to the floor in a heap. She caught the edge of a shelf and the can opener landed on the heap of terrycloth with a muffled plop.
Above her head, the rattle of plastic and cardboard warned of imminent disaster. Maggie groaned in surrender as bubble-packed kitchen gadgets began to rain down from over-stocked hooks. A torrent of teaspoons and tablespoons clattered against the flour sifters, colanders, and measuring cups lining the bottom shelf. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes popped. A melon baller teetered on the edge of its hook, telegraphing its intent.
“No, don’t jump!”
It didn’t heed her plea. On its descent, the thick silicon handle caught the top of the package on the rung below. Maggie winced as she made eye contact with the dastardly implement again. The cardboard backing swung wildly, rocking to the tip of the prong.
“Oh no….”
Maggie stared in horror as it let go. The bulbous rubber ball caught the edge of a mortar and pestle set and sent the plastic tube bouncing in her direction. Her grip on the shelf tightened as her knees buckled. She blinked in dismay when the taunting tool defied all laws of physics by landing face-up, its tapered tip pointing directly at her.
She stared down at the turkey baster, blinking back the hot rush of tears prickling her eyes. “No.” Her whispered refusal lacked conviction, and she knew it.
“That’s okay. It happens all the time.” A woman in a blue polo shirt hurried over. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“No.” Maggie shook her head to clear it. “I mean, yes. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about the mess.”
“Sometimes the stockers get a little overzealous,” the woman said, offering an apologetic smile. “I hope you weren’t hurt.”
“No, not at all.”
Pulling a card from her pocket, the woman stepped over the forgotten towels. “I’m Jackie Dunforth, Store Manager. Take that up front and tell them I said to give you twenty percent off your purchase.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—”
“You almost got sliced by a grater. It’s the least I can do.”
Maggie bent to scoop her selections from the floor, carefully avoiding the turkey baster as she groped for the can opener. “Thank you.” She juggled her purse, towels, can opener, and business card.
She didn’t bother shaking her hair back from her face when she straightened, hoping a curtain of hair might camouflage her flaming cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispered again and slinked away.
“Oh! Ma’am?” The manager’s voice rang out, echoing through the aisles. A grimace twisted Maggie’s lips. She turned, eying the store associate warily. The woman held up the turkey baster, waving the damn thing in the air like a flag for all to see. “Did you forget this?”
Maggie shook her head a tad too vehemently. “No!” The woman took a quick step back, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. Dragging in a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and tossed her hair. “I don’t need it, and it’s not my fault if the damn thing is suicidal.”
With that, Maggie McCann, towel tramp and candle craver with an itch for Egyptian cotton, turned on her heel and fled from the beyond and the terrifying thoughts a taunting turkey baster implanted in her mind.
****
Maggie set her cell phone and a wine glass brimming with merlot on the edge of the tub. A tortoise shell hair clip clutched the shower curtain. She piled her mop of hair atop her head, ruthlessly twisting the tangled curls into a sloppy knot before plucking the clip from the curtain.
She hissed as she dipped her foot into the steaming froth of bathwater. The scratch Fred gave her that morning burned like a sonofabitch. Maggie glared at the fat orange tabby curled on the bathmat.
“Just wait ‘til I get a real man,” she muttered, sinking into the sea of bubbles.
Fred twitched his tail, dismissing her threat with practiced ease. The wretched beast could afford to be cocky. He knew the only tongue she’d scored in the last six months rasped like sandpaper against her skin, and the only moans of ecstasy she’d incited came when she opened a can of tuna.
Maggie curled her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. The deep burgundy liquid swirled against gossamer-thin glass. She took a tiny sip and groaned her appreciation. Cradling the glass between her palms, she met Fred’s unwavering stare.
“You know I love you, even if you are a total shit.” Maggie downed a bracing gulp of the wine. “Still makes you more fun than most of the men I’ve dated.”
The cat lifted his ginger nose and sniffed, blithely disregarding the backhanded compliment. Maggie sighed and sank lower, bracing her feet beneath the faucet. The ‘Do-Be-Do-Be-Do-Me’ red polish on her toes winked at her through the haze of foam. One more hit of wine and she closed her eyes. Within minutes the tension ebbed from her shoulders, the knots in her neck unraveled, and the cool base of the wine glass came to rest on the generous pillow of her right breast.
Maggie refused to think about her packed appointment schedule, the attitude adjustment she needed to administer to her senior nail technician, or the fact that she managed to while away another rip-roaring Friday night cruising the Bed Bath & Beyond and seducing her cat into taking a bath with her. That was all too depressing. Instead, she drifted away on a cloud of gardenia-scented bubbles.
Running. She was running on a concrete treadmill, her feet pounding the pavement, and her breasts bouncing higher and higher with each step. She hooked an arm around her ribcage in an effort to stay the worst of the jiggle and glanced over her shoulder.
The cartoon turkey pursuing her gobbled, its wattle wagging like a Cocker Spaniel’s tail. Her breath hitched. A stitch tore into her side. Her knees threatened to buckle. He was gaining on her. She sped up, tossing her breasts over her shoulder like a Continental soldier and broke into a sprint, determined to make the bird eat her dust.
Her gaze fixed on a shadowy bundle on the doorstep of her salon. The turkey gobbled a warning. She clutched her aching ribs, running as fast as she could. Daring a backward glance, she spotted the plastic turkey baster clasped in his feathered fist. She stumbled over the lump on her welcome mat, falling to her knees in front of the plate-glass door.
The squirming, squalling baby someone left on her doorstep stilled. He stared at Maggie with placid blue eyes. The infant giggled when the turkey gobbled again. She reached for the tiny bundle. The baby smiled, those indigo eyes locked on Maggie. Then his rosebud lips moved and the annoyingly smug voice they used in those disturbing E-trade commercials came out.
“Hey, Ma.”
A bell rang and Maggie jumped, dropping her wine glass into the rapidly cooling water. “Wha?” Merlot swirled among the waning bubbles. Her cell phone hummed again, the short ring-ring burst of a British telephone-inspired tone jolting her back to reality.
“No more wine.” The plastic casing slipped in her damp fingers. She fumbled with the buttons. “Hello?”
“Mags? It’s Tracy.”
She blinked, stunned to hear her old friend and former roommate’s voice. “Tracy?”
Tracy Sullivan chuckled. “I know it’s been a while, but surely you haven’t forgotten me entirely.”
Pink-tinged bubbles popped. Maggie fished the empty glass from the tub and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping a slippery arm around her legs and curling into a ball. She lunged for the plug. “Trace. Yeah. Hi. Hi! How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you?”
She stared at the swirling eddy of water draining from the tub. “I’m, uh, wet. I was just getting out of the tub.”
“Oh. Well, I won’t keep you. Actually, I’m surprised to find you home. I thought maybe you’d be out, being Friday night and all.”
“Saturdays are busy for me, so I like to stay in on Fridays.” The fib rolled off her tongue so easily Maggie almost believed it herself.
“That makes sense. Listen, I’m sure you already have plans, but I’ll ask anyway.” Picking up the nervous edge in her old friend’s voice, Maggie frowned. “I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner some Saturday night.”
“Saturday night?”
“Any Saturday,” Tracy said in a rush. “Sean goes out on Fridays to play poker, and I get Saturday nights to myself, and I was thinking it’s been a while since I saw you—”
Maggie jumped at the chance. “Forever. How’s tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be great for me.”
“I have a three-thirty facial. I can hop the Metra and be out there by about six. Can you pick me up at the station?”
“Definitely.”
“Great. I’ll check the schedule and give you a call before I board.”
“Great.”
Tracy’s stunned tone made Maggie smile. She stood, and pinkish rivulets of water streaked down her bare body. “I’ll probably need a margarita by then.”
“A margarita sounds perfect,” Tracy answered with a wistful sigh.
Plucking the turquoise bath sheet from the towel bar, she wrapped her body in its plush cotton decadence. “You okay, Trace?”
“I’m great,” her friend replied with a shade too much enthusiasm.
The Tracy Sullivan Maggie knew and loved wasn’t a natural enthuse…enthusiast…whatever. “What’s going on?”
“What? Oh, nothing. I just…It’s been a while.”
“A long while,” Maggie confirmed. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s just the same as it has been.”
The obvious evasion tugged the corners of her mouth into a frown. Her friend wasn’t normally an evader, either. Fred unfurled his portly frame, rose from his comfy spot on the bathmat with a languorous stretch, and sank his claws into the top of her foot.
“Ouch! Dammit, Fred!” She clutched the towel to her bosom and danced off of the mat, shooting a scornful glare at her abuser.
Tracy laughed. “You still have Fred?”
“The stupid cat’s too mean to die,” she grumbled. The man in question stretched his ample bulk then sat up, curling his ginger tail around his feet.
“He’s got to be close to twelve now.”
Giving her feral feline wide berth, she reached for her robe. “Yep. I got him when you were pregnant with Erin.”
Tracy’s smile carried through the phone. “Yeah, I remember. He was so cute.”
“Yeah, well, he’s old and fat and foul now.” She cinched the belt on the bathrobe, sucking in her gut and glaring at the pumpkin colored tabby. Maggie spared the mirror a glance and winced. She ran her hand over the knot of auburn hair and narrowed her green eyes to slits. “Kinda like me.”
If nothing else, her grumbling complaints scored a genuine laugh from her friend. “You aren’t old or fat, and you could never pull off being foul.”
Her hand fell, her fingers curling into a loose fist as the warmth of Tracy’s laughter trickled through her. She sighed and closed her eyes. “I can’t wait to see you, Trace.”
“We’ll catch up on everything tomorrow. Call me from the station.”
“I will. See you tomorrow.”
She dropped the phone into the deep pocket of the robe with a sigh. Fred wound his plump body around her legs then gazed up at her, his emerald eyes wide and innocent. Unable to resist, she bent and gave the beast a scratch behind his ears. He stretched to meet her caress, exposing his snowy white bib.
Maggie yanked the clip from her hair, shaking the tangled mass free as she straightened. Orangey-red curls tumbled around her shoulders. The deep vee of the ankle-length chenille robe revealed the pale skin of her chest. She searched her reflection in the mirror then spun away, stalking toward the kitchen in a quest for more merlot.
Pulling a clean glass from the shelf above the sink, she yanked the cork from the bottle on the counter. Ruby red relief swirled into the goblet. She tipped her head back and downed the glass in two long gulps.
Maggie caught her reflection in the polished chrome toaster. “Crap. I’m beginning to look like my damn cat.” She set the glass on the counter and hung her head. “And I’m talking to my toaster.”
She gave the toaster a shove. “You’d better not keel over too. I’m not going back to the kitchen side of the store. It’s too damn dangerous.”
Fred meowed piteously and hopped onto the counter. She shooed him down, snagged the bottle and trudged her way toward the cramped living room and her nightly date with Letterman. Fred claimed her lap the minute she flopped down, blocking the bottle on the coffee table. She threaded her fingers through soft ginger fur and smiled. “Saving me from myself again?” The cat blinked lazily and kicked his motor into high gear.
Maggie blew out a breath, let her head fall back against the cushion, and blinked at the ceiling. “I love you too, you fat lump.”
Chapter Two
“Never in my life have I ever met a man more scared of commitment.” Mehgan Barlow’s glare cut through the gloomy ambiance of the trendy West Loop restaurant.
Tom Sullivan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just don’t think I need new blinds.”
“I’m not talking about the damn blinds!”
He watched as angry color rose high in her cheeks. Angry, aroused, embarrassed, or agitated—he loved the way women wore their emotions like a second skin. Stifling a sigh, he glanced at the nearby tables attempting to gauge exactly how many people would witness the demise of his latest attempt at a relationship. The stunning blonde across the table from him refused to flinch. A part of him admired her for it. Actually, he admired a great number of things about Mehgan, but predictability wasn’t one of them.
“Mehgan…” He leaned in closer, hoping the pale glow of a single votive candle would be enough to help convey his sincerity.
“Exactly where do you see this relationship going?”
He blew out a breath and closed his eyes. “At the moment? I’d say it’s going down the toilet.”
“What do you want from me?”
The ardent plea in her voice pinged his heart but failed to penetrate. “I want what I said I wanted all along.”
“A relationship.” Somehow her tone imbued the word with more sinister portent than the poor thing deserved. “What does that mean to you?”
“It means this,” he said, waving an impatient hand between them. “We enjoy each other’s company—”
“In bed,” she spat.
“And out, hopefully,” he conceded. “We care about each other, listen when the other has a crappy day, laugh at each other’s stupid jokes….”
“And that’s it,” she concluded in a flat tone.
“Isn’t that all anyone wants, really?”
Her jaw tightened. Those perfectly glossed lips thinned into a hard line. “I want more than that.”
His head began wagging before his tongue could catch up. The waiter appeared with their entrées. He stared at the paper-thin slices of beef tenderloin, mandatory dollop of couscous, and artful drizzle of unidentifiable sauce and wrinkled his nose. He eyed Mehgan’s miniscule sliver of salmon. A Filet-o-fish could kick its ass, but if he got lucky she’d storm out without touching her food. It didn’t look as if dessert would be happening, and Tom knew he’d be hungry again in an hour. Their waiter faded into the gloom, but Mehgan’s angry glare shone like a beacon. The sooner he kicked it into gear, the sooner he could eat.
“This is all I have to give.”
His standard answer tripped right off his tongue. Her corn silk hair slipped from her shoulder when she ducked her head, masking her expression. It was all he could do to refrain from brushing it back. He wanted her to see him clearly.
Angry tears brimmed in her big brown eyes when she glanced up, and a surge of relief coursed through him. Anger and disappointment were his expertise. He cleared his throat, the well-worn ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech running through his head.
Before he could open his mouth to utter the usual platitudes, his soon-to-be-ex pulled her napkin from her lap and balled it in one fist. “People are right about you,” she hissed in a trembling voice. Tom opened his mouth to ask who, but she pushed her chair back from the table and rose to her feet. “You’re arrogant, condescending, and completely…misogynistic.”
Tom shook his head, a spurt of anger bubbling up in his throat. The first two he was willing to own, but the last was completely wrong. He hadn’t lied to her or led her on. He made a point of being very careful with the women in his life.
“I never—”
The protest died on his lips when she spun on her stiletto and stalked from the restaurant. His gaze fell to the teeny, tiny portions on his plate. He swiped the pad of his forefinger through the saucy swirl and popped it into his mouth. Cognac instead of red wine. Not bad. When the waiter appeared, surreptitiously reaching for the abandoned salmon, Tom grunted, “Leave it.”
The young man backed away, smoothing nervous palms over the long white apron tied at his waist. “Can I get you anything else?”
He speared a half-dollar-sized medallion of beef. “Just the check,” he muttered before popping half of his dinner into his mouth.
“Very good, sir.”
Both meals were history in six bites. The waiter placed the leather folder on the table and Tom pried a credit card from his wallet, slipping it inside without a glance. He knew there was no use in checking the total. He’d never be able to read it in the dim light, no matter how hard he squinted.
Twenty minutes later, the door of his Lincoln Park condo slammed behind him. Tom winced and tossed his keys into the chipped dish one former girlfriend or another had ordered from the Pottery Barn catalog and shipped directly to his door. The fact that he couldn’t recall the dish’s benefactor meant either his memory was slipping, or he really was everything Mehgan accused him of being.
He raised his chin, yanking at the noose around his neck until the knot of his tie unraveled. The watered silk slid from his collar with a soft zzzhut and trailed behind him as he stomped into the living room. He dropped onto the couch. The lining of his suit coat billowed like a parachute when the pliant leather caught him with a sigh.
“Sarah Ann Waverly,” he blurted. A triumphant smile spread across his face. “She bought the bowl.”
Twisting, he slid down until his head rested on the arm of the sofa. “Misogynist, my ass. I love women.”
He toed off his shoes, let the tie fall to the floor, and unbuckled his belt. The hook on his suit pants gave way and he exhaled his relief. His fingers slid between the buttons on his crisp blue shirt. Absently he stroked his stomach, hoping to calm the twisting sensation in his gut.
The need to connect with someone who understood had him fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat for his cell. His thumb slid across the screen and he tapped a speed dial key. Pressing the phone to his ear, he shifted, trying to get comfortable on a couch built for looks and not comfort.
Once the call connected, he skipped the preamble. “Hey. Do you think I hate women?”
His little brother, Sean, laughed. “Yes. You’re a raging queer. The shoes gave you away.”
“No, seriously…”
“I think you’ve laid more women than I’ve ever laid eyes on. So no, I’d say you probably don’t hate them. Why?”
“Mehgan says I’m a misogynist.”
“Mehgan’s the shrink?”
Tom pushed his fingers through his hair. “Family counselor.”
“Yeah, shrinks aren’t real high on my list right now.”
“I didn’t ask you to kiss her. I only asked if you think I’m a misogynist.”
“I’m not sure a guy who’s as clumsy as you are could qualify to be a massage artist.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Tom growled.
Sean chuckled again. “Misogyny, no. Misogamy, yes.”
“There’s my brainy Bob the Builder,” Tom said, his smile blossoming.
“If you married that pretty girl from Kenya you could also score on miscegeny.”
“Okay, give it a rest, Mr. Webster. Christ, Sean, what do you do, stay up all night reading the dictionary and playing with yourself?” His brother’s silence spoke volumes. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sorry,” he said in a gruff whisper.
“Nah, it’s okay.”
Tom’s temper flared. His fingers curled into a fist. The leather sofa bore the brunt of his aggression. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t even blow you shit! I hate that this is still going on! When are you going to end it?”
“I’m sorry my marriage falling apart is taking such a toll on you.”
The ice in his brother’s tone chilled him to the bone. Sean wasn’t the cold one. Sean wasn’t supposed to be bitter and sarcastic. That was his job. Tom’s lips thinned into a tight line. His fingers squeezed the phone’s plastic casing so hard it should have shattered, but his plea came out in a whisper. “Let me file the papers, Sean.”
“No!”
“Let me shake her ‘til her teeth rattle.”
“Get in line.”
“Let me do something!”
Sean’s tired sigh blew like a gust of wind down Canal Street. “Tell me about your date,” he said at last. “How come you’re calling me and not making sure she’s callin’ your name?”
He tried to smooth the furrows cutting across his forehead. “Well, apparently the fact that I don’t want her ordering new blinds for my bedroom means I can’t commit, and the reason I can’t commit to a woman as evolved and self-aware as Mehgan Barlow is that I am a misogynist,” he explained with deliberate patience.
“Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Figured it would.”
“But she chose the wrong one. You’re a misogamist.”
“Which one’s that?”
“Hatred of marriage.”
“Ah, right. Well, maybe she just misspoke,” Tom said with a rueful laugh.
“Probably. Heat of the moment and all that.” The two men shared a good laugh at his expense. “So, why were you breaking up with her?”
“I told you, the blinds.”
“No, what’s the real reason?”
“That is the real reason,” he insisted, leveraging himself into a sitting position. “First it’s a bowl or some blinds, next they’re picking our matching bands.” Tom ran his hand over his face, dragging at the corners of his mouth. “We both know how well that works out.”
Sean snorted then fell silent.
His gaze roamed the living room, searching for a place to light. It landed on the funky tribal mask Elinah Hart gave him. When he ended their relationship she claimed she gave him a priceless family heirloom. He made some snide comment about the ‘Made in Indonesia’ sticker pasted to the inside and she hurled it at him with surprising accuracy. He hadn’t even cared enough to duck.
There were very few people he cared about enough that he’d dodge the blows. Sean was one of them. Sean’s estranged wife, Tracy, another. “How are things?” he asked at last.
“Things are things.”
Sean’s cryptic answer spoke volumes. He and Tracy had been living in a virtual standoff for the better part of two years. “I hate hating her,” Tom admitted.
A few seconds of silence ticked by before Sean cleared his throat. “Things are gettin’ a little better.”
His eyebrows etched the furrows in his forehead a little deeper. “They are?”
“Well, it’s not all War of the Roses anymore.”
“I have to admit, I kind of admire you for hanging in there. Most guys would have cut and run by now.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
Tom shook his head at his little brother’s stubborn streak. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. Listen, I don’t expect you to understand. You can’t possibly understand.”
Heat prickled his cheeks, and he turned his head as if Sean was sitting right there—as if he was scared to face the truth shining in his little brother’s eyes. “You’re right. I can’t possibly.”
The silence stretched taut between them. As usual, Sean broke first. “So, you and Mehgan?”
“Done.”
“Three weeks? Four?”
“Five, asshole.”
“What’s the record again?”
“You’re like a broken record.”
“Showing your age,” Sean said with a chuckle. “Hell, people don’t even buy CDs anymore.”
“Feeling my age,” Tom admitted with a tired sigh.
“Still dying your hair?”
Tom bristled. “I don’t dye my hair.” Switching to counter-offensive mode he asked, “Where’s your beautiful bride tonight? Holed up in the basement avoiding your ugly ass?”
“Actually, she’s out.”
“Out?”
“Yep.”
“Out where?”
The pregnant pause before Sean answered spoke volumes. “I didn’t ask.”
“Uh-huh. What did your spies tell you?”
“I don’t have spies. I have kids.”
Tom waved a dismissive hand and leveraged himself from the couch. “Po-ta-to, po-tah-to.” His stomach growled so he padded to the kitchen. Two plates of play food were definitely not going to hold him to the morning, no matter how artfully arranged or how many ethnicities they fused into one. “I say you interrogate the littlest one. He always squeals.”
“I didn’t have to put the squeeze on Kevin. Erin gave up the goods,” Sean admitted, referring to his middle child and only daughter.
“Oh?” He plucked a bottle of water from the fridge then rummaged through a cabinet until he unearthed a bag of potato chips. Scowling at the crumbs dusting the bottom of the bag, he plunged his hand inside. “And?”
“I don’t know where she went, but she’s out with Maggie.”
Tom shoved a handful of broken chips into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his chest. “Maggie?” he mumbled as he chewed.
“Maggie McCann. Her old roommate? The redhead,” Sean prompted.
He licked potato chip crumbs from his lips, savoring the salty goodness melting on his tongue. Tom didn’t need to jog his memory. Any man who’d ever sneaked a peek at Tracy’s friend Maggie would never forget her.
The mere mention of the name conjured a Technicolor still shot in his brain. Redhead wasn’t a good enough word. Her lustrous hair—cinnamon swirled with a hint of aged burgundy—tumbled to porcelain shoulders, tempting the saints the way it curled against the ivory column of her throat. The translucent skin of a milkmaid stretched over the lush curves of a courtesan. Her green eyes flashed and gleamed with wicked good humor when she smiled. And her smile…That wholesome toothpaste ad smile hit a guy straight in the gonads.
In other words Maggie McCann was the kind of woman he avoided like the clap. Her damn smile packed more punch than an atom bomb and was a thousand times more dangerous than anthrax. “Yeah, I think I remember her.”
Sean snorted. “I’m sure you remember her tits. You practically dove into her cleavage at our rehearsal dinner.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You’ve seen her dozens of times since then. Some things don’t change.”
Tom couldn’t help it. He did what any good attorney would do when faced with a line of questioning he found untenable, he turned it around. “And some things do change. I seem to remember a couple of people who couldn’t wait to get hitched. Now you’re both just sitting around waiting to get divorced.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re not my type.”
“I’m done,” Sean growled.
The phone went dead. Tom checked the display, inhaling deeply through his nose. Tossing the phone onto the counter, he scowled at the potato crumbs once more. “Way to go, asshole.”
Leaning against the counter, he tipped the bag to his lips and emptied the dregs into his big, fat mouth. Chips clung to his lips. He crumpled the bag as he chewed then stuffed it into the stainless steel trash can left behind by another woman hell-bent on redecorating his life.
“Sherry Hanson,” he murmured to the empty room.
His shoulders slumped as he shuffled from the kitchen. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dislodging the last of his snack. Plodding his way toward the bedroom, Tom berated himself for his insensitivity. Then again, he and Sean rarely pulled punches, physical or verbal. He had the broken nose to prove it.
A beer and a mea culpa. That’s all it would take. He might have to let his little brother get a few digs in, but everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay. Sean wouldn’t stay mad at him. His little brother was the yin to his yang. Or yang to his yin. Whatever. Maybe he’d even let his baby brother flatten his nose again. Then they could call it even and have that beer.
Tom stripped off his suit coat and tossed it over the arm of the overstuffed chair Mary Sobinski picked out for the room. He unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it from his arms, chucking it toward the wicker hamper Jonelle Middling insisted he needed. The navy pinstripe pants Ann Chandler said cupped his ass perfectly dropped to the floor. He stepped out of them and dove for the bed, needing a few minutes to gather the strength to brush his teeth.
The dull throbbing behind his eyes matched the pulse strumming in his ears. He drew in a breath then expelled it carefully. His fingers slipped under the hem of his undershirt. The hair covering his knotted stomach tickled his palm. A montage of the women who’d drifted in and out of his life played behind closed eyelids, and his brain cataloged each corresponding bit of detritus they’d left behind—the single man’s version of Concentration.
An image of the one woman among many he’d never touched, never tasted, never dared to even sniff, flashed before his eyes. Tom sighed and gave into the temptation. He hadn’t laid eyes on the woman in years, yet he had no difficulty conjuring the memory of Maggie McCann in the wicked sundress she’d worn to some backyard barbeque at Sean and Tracy’s house. White with red polka dots. Halter top. Gorgeous tits. Generous ass.
His hand slipped under the elastic waistband of his briefs and imagined he was untying the knot at the nape of her neck. He could almost feel those flame-red curls searing his fingers. The cool velvet of her skin would soothe the ache while his boiling blood pumped through his veins. He pictured the pulse in her throat throbbing, those full pink lips bare and swollen from his kisses, and her emerald eyes, hazy and lazy with desire.
Full, plump breasts spilling into his hands. Every inch of her soft, round curves molding to him. She’d whisper his name.
Tom yanked his hand from his shorts and flung himself from the bed. He stared at the mussed comforter accusingly, as if the midnight blue duvet cover Wendy Nelson picked out was the reason he was panting like a pug after a tussle with an ottoman. He spun on his heel and stalked to the bathroom.
Leaning on the vanity, he stared hard at his reflection. He didn’t like what he saw. More gray in his hair. The lines around his eyes and mouth dug deeper. The stubble poking through at his jaw was tinged with red and white. He closed his eyes and pushed away from the mirror, rocking back on his heels.
Showing his age. Sean was right. He wasn’t twenty anymore. Hell, he wasn’t even thirty or forty. Forty-six was on the downhill side of fifty.
Tom met his gaze in the mirror, bared his teeth, and sucked in his stomach. He carefully ignored the slight bulge of flesh above his hips and patted his still-flat abs. The ceramic toothbrush holder Charlotte Lowenstien placed on his vanity wobbled when he yanked his brush free.
He glared at the three open holes on the cup, wondering what in the world he could have possibly said or done to give a woman as smart as Charlotte the impression he’d ever need more than one. Reaching for the toothpaste, he squirted a generous stripe onto the brush. Frankly, he wondered why any of them even tried. Like any reasonably sane divorce attorney he was virulently opposed to marriage. He’d seen enough of how determined and vengeful a woman can be once they’re on the other side of the altar. The whole relationship thing was just a game of cat and mouse, and Tom was equally determined he would never be some feline female’s prey.
But he liked women. Really, he did. In his twenties he tore through women like a starving man at a smorgasbord, and they all but leapt onto his plate. By the time he hit thirty, he’d honed his tastes, appreciating his women the way a foodie appreciates truffles, pate, or any of that other crap he wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. And every woman he dated seemed to think she had the flavor he’d savor. Forty came and went, and he mellowed a bit. Tom wasn’t opposed to a long-term relationship. The trouble was finding a woman who didn’t think a relationship entailed redecorating his apartment or the third finger on his left hand.
He stared at the toothbrush holder then peeked through the door at the rumpled duvet. Tomorrow, he’d be back on the prowl again. Tomorrow, he’d start all over with the same old blinds and a ceramic toothbrush cup he never wanted. A long, tired sigh seeped from his throat and a smirk twisted his lips as he saluted his reflection with the dripping toothbrush.
“At least my gums aren’t receding. Yet.”
Chapter Three
Early Monday morning, Maggie unlocked the rear door of The Glass Slipper Day Spa & Salon and slipped inside. The alarm’s beeps pierced her skull like ice picks. Maggie feared the size of her head would give the aliens from Mars Attacks! a run for their intergalactic money.
She punched in the security code, picked her way past the shampoo bowl and styling stations, and tried to avoid catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror. It wasn’t easy. The spa’s interior was a veritable funhouse. Scanning the glossy plank floor for unswept hair seemed a valid excuse to avert her gaze. The elastic holding her ponytail tugged the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. Just a little more pain as punishment for her over-indulgence.
She skirted past the closed doors of the treatment rooms and ducked into the snug, cozy space at the very end of the narrow hallway. Her office. Her haven. This was the heart of the business. The business she never dreamed she ever wanted.
The overhead lights sprang to life and Maggie reeled back, shielding her eyes. Once she blinked away the dancing spots, she lit a candle and switched on the sound system. The soft strains of soothing strings built to a gentle soar. She hadn’t a clue what the tune was or who composed it, but she hummed along, every lilting note long committed to memory. There would never be any of that twangy New Age crap in her spa, and certainly no Kenny G.
Lowering herself into the leather chair behind the open desk, she turned on the computer and pushed off with her feet. She closed her eyes as she rolled back to the wall and waited for the machine to boot. A low groan slithered from her lips. She tried to lose herself in the sweet, swirling music, wishing it could carry her away from the prospect of payroll and inventory. She wanted to escape her aching head, the worry making her stomach roil, and the constant trickle of fear tripping its way through her veins.
The marital troubles her friend Tracy confessed over margaritas and hot fudge sundaes Saturday night scared her. For far too long she’d held Tracy and Sean’s marriage up as her ideal. Tracy had everything—the handsome, hard-working husband, the perfect suburban home, and three lovable ragamuffins. All that was missing was a damn Golden Retriever.
The morass of mixed emotions her friend’s confession unleashed set Maggie back on her spiked heels. Sympathy, resentment, heartache, and jealousy battled for dominance, but lost by a mile. The fact that Tracy Sullivan had everything Maggie ever wanted and stood on the brink of throwing it all away made her unaccountably…happy.
And that made her horrible—a horrible, terrible excuse of a woman. Her good friend broke down and confessed the collapse of her marriage, and a tiny, ugly little part of her rejoiced. She couldn’t help it. For some reason she found perverse pleasure in learning her perfect friend was royally screwing up her perfect life.
Of course, by the time Tracy dropped her in front of her Wicker Park building, Maggie was sufficiently wretched enough to polish off the rest of Friday night’s merlot. She coaxed the sympathy and heartache she wanted to feel for her friend from the evil clutches of that happiness. By Sunday morning she was forced to admit another illusion lay shattered. That night, Maggie sat in her living room wearing Betty Boop pajamas and drenching Fred’s fur with fat, salty tears. She amped the pity party up a notch by making mad, passionate love to a bottle of meritage and passing out on the rug.
The computer beeped and Maggie surged forward in the chair. Her stomach lurched and her giant head spun. She let it fall forward into her hands. Pressing the heels of her palms to her brow, she vowed to be better, to atone for her sins. She promised herself she’d order inventory, process the week’s payroll, and make her twelve o’clock meeting at Haven House even if it killed her. A sharp, stabbing pain in her temple indicated that it damn well might.
The spa was closed. Mondays were the days she usually got things done, and she had a full agenda. Too full to nurse a case of Bordeaux brain. Desperate, she promised the hangover gods if they made it stop, she would call Tracy and repeat her offer of a spa night for just the two of them. She swore she’d stamp out that little spark of happiness, even if it scorched the soles of her beloved Louboutin slingbacks. Desperate times called for drastic measures.
Covering her stomach with one hand, Maggie also silently pledged to ban the grape from her apartment. Except on social occasions, of course. Starting now she’d be the friend she always thought she was and the strong, independent woman she wanted to be—not this clenched-up, wine-drenched, unholy mess of girl.
****
“You’re so good with them, Maggie.”
Maggie’s head popped up and the tubes of mascara samples she was packing into a large black case spurted from her clenched fist. Sheila McKenzie, the diminutive founder and director of Haven House, stood just inside the doorway to the common room. The silver-haired woman chuckled as she scrambled to recover the wayward wands.
She shook her head, flashing a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”
Sheila patted her carefully coiffed hair and floated into the room. Maggie watched the woman’s tiny feet, determined to figure out exactly how the spry septuagenarian pulled the whole floating thing off while wearing three-inch heels.
“Nothing gives a woman a shot of confidence like a swipe of lipstick,” Sheila murmured, choosing one of the tubes arrayed on the table and twisting its base until a stick of bold vermillion appeared. A benevolent smile touched the corners of her more subtly shaded lips. “I haven’t received your R.S.V.P. for the benefit yet, Maggie.”
“You don’t think it’s a little perverse to hold a five-hundred-dollar-a-ticket fundraiser for women who are wearing other people’s cast off coats?”
One perfect eyebrow arched. The older woman’s warm brown eyes gleamed with an unidentifiable sparkle. “Not at all. Most of those people have forgotten how much they paid for last season’s coat and you can bet they paid much more than five hundred dollars for this year’s latest trend.”
Maggie gathered the remaining tubes and pots of make-up and dumped them into the case. She nodded to the tube in Sheila’s hand. “That one would suit you.”
A smile quirked Sheila’s lips. “Do you think so? It’s been a long time since I tried to pull off a color so daring.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
The older woman threw her head back and laughed. The rich, bawdy guffaw contrasted sharply with her conservative knit suit. Silvery tresses glinted in the harsh florescent light. Her chocolate eyes flared. “Maybe in my day….”
The laugh gave Maggie permission to prop her hip against the low table and ask the question she always wanted to ask. “How did you end up doing this?”
Sheila’s smile didn’t slip as she capped the lipstick and dropped it into the pocket of her knit suit. “I used to be a social worker. I saw a lot of abuse—women, children….”
“You were?”
The smile turned a touch enigmatic. “Maggie, didn’t your mother ever tell you that you can marry more money in five minutes than you can make your entire life?”
A startled laugh burbled from her lips. “No, but my Grandma told me if I wished on the evening star, my prince would come.”
Sheila’s brown eyes twinkled like the evening star. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.”
The older woman tugged at the hem of her immaculate suit jacket. “Then I suppose she also told you those princes can be damn unreliable. Best not to wait on them.”
“No, she didn’t tell me that part, but I think I figured it out on my own.”
“That’s because you’re a smart woman.” Sheila sighed, her shrewd glance taking in the entire common room in the blink of an eye. “Besides, even if you snag one, you never know when you’ll lose him. When Howard passed away, I found myself at loose ends.”
“So, naturally…” Maggie prompted, gesturing to the cinderblock walls of the renovated building that now housed ten abused women and their offspring.
“I don’t have children or grandchildren, and there’s only so much bridge one can play. I started Haven House twenty years ago, but it wasn’t until after Howard was gone that I mustered the nerve to stop being the woman who signed the checks and took the plunge. Getting involved, personally involved…” She flashed a brilliant smile. “Best decision I ever made.”
“You’re saving their lives.”
“They saved mine,” Sheila corrected.
Maggie shook her head, undeterred. “You take them in, feed them, clothe them, provide counseling, teach them job skills—”
“And beauty skills,” Sheila added, nodding to the case. When Maggie rolled her eyes, she shook her head adamantly. “Do not discount what you do for them, Maggie. Their bruises are more than skin deep. On top of being frightened, they feel unworthy, inferior, and ugly. After an afternoon with you, they actually want to look in a mirror. That’s a huge step.”
“Sometimes it feels silly. Like I’m arming them with a tube of lip gloss and saying, ‘Go get ‘em, Tiger!’”
“You know it’s so much more than that,” Sheila chided. She pulled a rectangle of cream-colored cardstock from her pocket. “Here’s your ticket. I’ll expect to see you a week from Saturday.”
“Does anyone ever tell you no?”
A smug smile tugged her lips. “It happens. Not very often, but it does.”
Maggie reached for her purse. “Let me write you a check.”
Sheila waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t bother. I already invoiced ten tickets to Howard’s old firm.” A devilish smile curved her lips. “They really do need to pay closer attention to their bookkeeping.”
Maggie laughed. “You’re a shyster.”
Sheila stole a quick glance at her watch and turned for the door. “I have to go. The attorney who handles the legal work for the ladies will be here shortly. I have a few notes I need to add to the files.”
She waved the ticket. “I’ll see you next week.”
The older woman paused in the doorway. The calculating gleam in her eyes had Maggie taking an involuntary step back. “He’s single, you know, and handsome as the devil himself.”
“And I was just leaving,” Maggie said pointedly.
Sheila rolled her eyes and chuckled. “You’re right. Men are a terrible pain. Who needs one? Besides, from what I hear, he’s something of a man slut.”
“Sheila!”
“I just call them as I see them.” She pulled the lipstick from her pocket. “Thank you for the little pick-me-up. It’s just what I needed.”
Biting her lip, Maggie slung the strap of the heavy make-up case over her shoulder. The angry wail of an unhappy infant drowned out the clip-clop heels. Plaintive cries echoed from the back of the building. Another shriek pierced her soul, knocking her legs out from under her.
Her teeth clacked when her rump hit the cool metal folding chair. The strap slid from her shoulder and the bag dropped to the floor at her feet. Maggie’s gaze locked on the garland of crayon-colored pumpkins, pilgrims, and turkeys strung from one end of the room to the other. She avoided looking at it all afternoon, but even as the cries subsided into muffled sobs, she couldn’t tear her gaze from her fine, feathered friends.
Maggie ducked her head and concentrated on pulling soft, deep breaths, but the truth smacked her in the face. Repeatedly. Fairy tales don’t exist. Her prince may never come, and even if he did, no one could guarantee the happily ever after part. Tracy and Sean Sullivan were proof of that.
She didn’t need a man to make her happy. There was only one thing missing from her life. The one thing she wanted the most. Even that one thing was still possible. All she had to do was take the plunge. Take a chance.
The turkeys stared her down, their beady black magic marker eyes double-dog-daring her to make the call. Never one to back down from a challenge, Maggie pulled her cell from her purse and scrolled through the address book until she found the number she needed. She pressed the phone to her ear and closed her eyes, concentrating on pulling each breath in then pushing it out.
“Hello. This is Maggie McCann.” The steady calm of her voice shocked her from her stupor. Gripping the phone harder, she dove in head first, certain her hammering heart would follow. She raised her gaze to the festive garland once more, determined not to let the turkeys stare her down. “I have an appointment for my annual next Monday, but I was wondering if Dr. Stephens could manage a little extra time for a consultation.”
Chapter Four
“You came!”
Tom passed his coat to the young woman stationed at the coat check stand and accepted the ticket she gave him with a flirtatious smile. He turned that smile on the silver-haired dynamo clutching his arm. “You threatened me,” he said, dropping a kiss to Sheila McKenzie’s cheek.
She slipped her tiny hand into the crook of his arm and beamed up at him. “Nonsense. I would never resort the threats.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Blackmail.”
“Blackmail? That’s an ugly implication.”
“So is implying I bat for the other side.”
“The Cubs? Certainly not.” She gasped, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. “I know you’re a South Side boy.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You must admit it is uncommon for a man as handsome and successful as you are to remain unfettered. Whatever the reason may be, I certainly never meant to cast aspirations on your manhood.”
“Funny, that’s not how I remember the conversation going.”
She patted his arm. “That’s because your memory is starting to slip, darling. Why, you’ve forgotten to tell me how pretty I look this evening.”
Tom returned her smile and stepped back to give her the once over. Even into her seventies, Sheila McKenzie was a beautiful woman. The café au lait-colored cocktail dress set off her dark eyes and skimmed her petite frame. Her silver-white hair flowed away from her face in thick waves. His smile widened in appreciation as he drew her hand to his lips. “Pretty isn’t the word. You’re stunning.”
“And you are the devil,” she said with a laugh.
When she attempted to recover her hand, he held tight. “Run away with me, Sheila. You know you’re the only woman for me.”
She squeezed his fingers and rewarded him with a dreamy sigh. “If only I were thirty years younger.”
“I’ve always found older women incredibly sexy.”
Her bark of laughter caught the attention of a couple nearby. “Bullshit!”
The other couple’s jaws dropped. Tom flashed a beaming smile, and they turned away with a sniff. When he glanced at Sheila, the sharp look in her eyes almost made him flinch. “What?”
She graced him with a small, knowing smile. Diamonds glittered bright and hard on her fingers, ears, and at her throat, but her dark eyes melted like bittersweet chocolate. “Come with me. I think it’s high time someone introduced you to a more age-appropriate woman.”
“This was a set up,” he grumbled, standing his ground.
“Of course it was,” she said with a tinkling laugh. “Did you really think I cared whether you showed your pretty face or not? I’ve already deposited your check.”
“You are heartless, Sheila.”
“And you like that about me,” she countered, tucking her hand into his arm again. “Buy me a glass of that god-awful vinegar we’re passing off as wine and I’ll tell you all about her.”
“I love your talent for mocking your own accomplishments.”
She squeezed his bicep. “And I love the feel of warm, firm man. Stick close, darling, I want to feel you up a little more before I give you away.”
Tom threw his head back and laughed. He may have flexed a little too. “Heartless and shameless.”
“You’ll thank me,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
They drew to a halt just inside the hotel ballroom. He surveyed the scene laid out before him, picking each detail out in one sweeping glance. The tiny white lights strung through the branches of potted trees were both tasteful and festive. A small orchestra played standards from the low bandstand set up at the far end of the room. The parquet dance floor was already crammed with couples. Uniformed wait-staff circulated with trays of crab puffs and shrimp. A buffet anchored by two artfully carved ice sculptures trailed the length of one wall. Four fully stocked bars beckoned the revelers.
“It’s just the usual crap.”
Tom acknowledged her assessment with a distracted nod. Then he clicked on the one noticeable difference between this benefit and dozens of others he attended as a part of his duties as a partner. Half of Chicago seemed to be in attendance. “Christ, did you blackmail them all? Is that the mayor?”
“Believe it or not, some people find me charming,” she said with a sly smile. When he shot her a dubious glance she shrugged. “The rest…Well, they think I’m too rich to piss off.”
His chuckle morphed into a laugh. He led her to the nearest bar where he ordered a glass of white wine. “Are you sure you won’t run away with me?” he asked. “We can go someplace warm and sunny. You can oil my back.”