much for respectful, well-bred sex. His fantasy went right off the rails, and before he knew it, the pillows got knocked off the bed, the fancy quilt flung to the floor, the sheets torn off the mattress. Lights flipped on so he could see every pink and gold detail, so he could run his tongue over her smooth skin, lick up every salty bead of sweat.
He wanted to turn her body every which way till he figured out what made her shudder and sob with pleasure. He wanted to put it to her deep and hard. Ride her all the way to the end of the line.
He was sliding his hands into his jeans to give himself some relief when something small and round rolled off the pillow, hit the top of his head and lodged itself in the crook of his neck. He fished it out and started to laugh. A chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. Trust El to bonk him over the head with a chocolate the minute he started getting ideas.
He unwrapped it. Bittersweet, dark as midnight, like the kind Gus used to love. He sat up, stuck the chocolate in his mouth and buried his face in his hands. El’s face glowed a hazy gold on the insides of his closed eyes as the taste of rich chocolate lingered in his mouth.
You know you’re just hurting yourself, Simon.
Talk about famous last words.
Chapter 3
So Simon had been all over the world. Yay for him. Ellen felt very provincial. Domestic, garden-variety, boring. She’d never had a real adventure in her life. She had no tales to tell.
The thought was supremely depressing.
And Simon was in one of her bathrooms at this moment. Naked in the shower. Soapsuds running down his body. She wanted to turn herself into vapor, slide under his bathroom door and watch him shave.
The thought made her face go hotter and damper than it already was. She was disgusted with herself. Ranting at him like a fishwife. For years, she’d pictured meeting him again, but not dressed in cut-offs and a limp, sweaty blouse. Not with her hair all frizzy, clinging to her sweaty neck and forehead. Frowsy, frumpy. Mystery quotient, less than zero.
She was gratified to see a large pot of coffee already perking in the kitchen, sending its heady fragrance into the room. She was filling the creamers with half and half when Missy let out an agonized squeak.
“There’s broken cups behind the drainboard! They weren’t broken when I washed up the cups this morning, I swear they weren’t!”
Ellen hastened to reassure her. “No, Missy, that was my fault. I broke them earlier and forgot to clean them up. Why don’t you carry the coffee tray into the dining room while I take care of it?”
Missy seized the tray and scurried out, her face pathetically relieved. Ellen gazed after her and sighed. Missy had been working for her for over a month, but she was as skittish as the day she started.
Ellen was sympathetic of the girl’s anxiety. She of all people knew how it felt to be speechless and shy, but it bugged her today. Everything bugged her. She had to calm down before Brad came to get her. They were supposed to pick out her ring this afternoon.
Her fiancé. All of a sudden, that sounded so strange and far from her. Her stomach cramped painfully.
Engagement jitters, she told herself. Marriage was a huge step. It was normal to be nervous. It would be stupid not to be.
When she’d accepted Brad’s proposal, she’d accepted reality over fantasy. About time, too. Smoky passion in the flowers belonged to the fantasies of the past. Brad was the real, concrete future.
Concrete. Yes. That was the perfect metaphor for Brad. Solid for sure, but such a heavy, inflexible material to work with.
Simon was startled to find the room completely full of people. There was an elderly guy with a bow tie and striped suspenders. A sunburned, athletic-looking couple, tenderly feeding each other bites of buttered scone. A harried lady, who had to be the mother of the two boys of about eight and ten who were chasing each other around the table. A middle-aged man with gingery hair. El presided over everything, gracefully pouring coffee into delicate porcelain cups. Baskets of pastry steamed on the table, breathing out a buttery, mouth-watering scent.
The old guy’s eyes lit up when he saw Simon. “Hey, it’s the motorcycle man! You all have to check out that BMW he’s got!”
“Coffee, tea, iced coffee, iced tea or lemonade?” El asked him.
Simon’s heart sank when he saw those fragile teacups. “Got any Styrofoam?”
Her lips twitched. “These aren’t Great-grandmother Kent’s teacups. These I bought for ten bucks apiece at the Hood River Antique Show. If you break one, I’ll just bill you.”
“Great,” he said, relieved. “Coffee, then.”
“Everybody, this is Simon Riley, who just checked into the tower room. Simon, this is Phil Endicott, Lionel Hempstead, Mary Ann Phillips and her two boys Alex and Boyd. Down at the end are Chuck and Suzie Simms, our honeymooners.” El passed a basket of pastries to him and pushed a lazy Susan loaded with butter, honey, and jam after it.
“Do you really have a motorcycle?” Boyd asked, wide-eyed.
“Sure do.” Simon slathered butter on a scone. He took a big bite and almost moaned. Wow. Oh, yeah.
“Will you give us a ride on it?” Alex chimed in.
“Alex, that’s rude!” his mother protested.
“It’s OK,” Simon offered. He broke off a corner of scone and heaped it with two different kinds of jam. “I’d be glad to.”
The boys shrieked with delight, but the horror on Mary Ann’s face dismayed him. Shit. Score: LaRue, one. Simon, zero.
Phil Endicott hastened to cover the awkward pause. “So, uh…what line of work are you in?”
“Photojournalist,” Simon said.
Phil’s eyes widened. “Oh really? How did you get into that?”
He’d answered that question often enough to anticipate it. “I just answered a want ad. A documentary filmmaker needed an assistant who was willing to travel. He taught me the trade.”
“Been anyplace interesting?” Chuck asked.
“Depends on what you’d call interesting, I guess.” Simon snagged another couple of scones from the basket and piled them on his napkin, for safety’s sake. “I just came back from Afghanistan. Before that I was in Iraq. I go to wherever the action is with my team, get the story and the pictures, and sell it to the big news agencies.”
He regaled them with a few of his tamer adventures. El played it cool, pretending not to listen, but he knew she was catching every word.
“So what brings you to this neck of the woods, Mr. Riley?” Mary Ann asked. “Nothing newsworthy happens around here.”
“Call me Simon.” He seized his fourth scone. “I’m here to see El.”
“You mean Ellen? You mean, you two know each other?” Mary Ann’s curious eyes darted from
