Page 6 of Pity Play

I run down the stairs with the Spice Girls still ringing in my head, and apparently out of my mouth because as I swing open the door, I practically shout, “If you wannabe my lover …” And that’s when I realize Mrs. Bing isn’t my guest.

All six-foot two inches of Luke Phillips is standing in front of me, and man, does he look good. It’s March in Wisconsin so he’s dressed for winter in a bomber jacket and wool scarf. Nicely fitted jeans showcase every gorgeous inch of his long legs.

I know I should say something to him, but my mouth poolswith so much saliva that if I don’t swallow it soon, I’m liable to drool on the man.Swallow your spit, girl.

Once I manage that monumental, and embarrassingly audible, task, I blurt out, “Hey … Hello … Hi there!” Oh yeah, I’m a real orator.

“Hi.” Luke’s beanie-covered head tips to the side. His gorgeous brown eyes narrow like he’s inspecting a moldy piece of cheese. “I’m looking for Lorelai Riley.”

This is my chance to tell him she’s not here and that he should come back at ten when he was supposed to arrive, but my synapses aren’t firing. That must be why I throw my arms into the air and practically shout at him, “I’m Lorelai!”

Luke takes a step backward like he’s going to make a run for it. Instead of fleeing, he moves his gaze from the top of my purple bandana all the way to my bare feet. This of course means he’s aware I’m wearing a pink flowered flannel nightgown from Lanz of Salzburg. A favorite with grannies everywhere.

“Hi,” he repeats. Yet he makes no move toward the door. In fact, there’s no movement at all. It’s like he’s turned into a marble statue. He even stays put after I step back and gesture for him to come in.

Well, this is awkward. I start stammering, “I didn’t expect you until ten. I mean, that’s when Noah said you were coming so that’s why I’m not dressed.” He looks borderline terrified, so I hurry to add, “I was cleaning. Getting ready for you.”

He lifts his foot like he’s going to take a step forward, but the action is so slow it’s like he’s trying to push his way through a wall of frozen molasses. “I can find a hotel or something …”

“What? No! Come on in! You’re staying here!” The image of Kathy Bates from that old movieMiserypops into my mind. From the look on Luke’s face, he’s thinking something similar. I want to assure him that I won’t hobble him, chain him to the bed, and keep him as a hostage, but I think that might scare him more. Instead, I go with, “I’m going to close the door if you don’t come in. My feet are getting cold.”

That seems to startle him out of whatever haze he’s in. “Sorry about that.” He cautiously comes into the house which gives me a chance to check out the other side of him. Luke has always rocked a pair of jeans, and it’s clear he still does.Wowza!

“I was just tidying up your room. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait? Maybe some breakfast?”

He looks more relaxed as he drops his bag next to the stairs. “I wouldn’t mind both. I got an earlier start than I was expecting, and I didn’t eat.”

Leading the way to the kitchen, I once again tell him, “I didn’t think you’d be here until ten. You must be excited to see your dad.”

He ignores my comment, and says, “So, you still live in Elk Lake.”

Not him, too? Prickles of anger stab at the back of my neck. “A lot of people who grew up here still live here. Is there something wrong with that?”

I turn around in time to see him grimace.Good. He should feel bad for trying to make me feel bad.“I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making small talk.”

I suppose that’s possible, so I let it go. “Noah says you opened your own restaurant.” The truth is my brother didn’t have to tell me anything. I’ve been cyber stalking Luke on and off for years. Less so when Michael and I were together, but even then, I checked out his social media at least bi-monthly. At the time I told myself it was out of curiosity.

“Capon,” he tells me, though I obviously already know that.

“I thought it was pronounced Capone, like Al Capone?”

“Nope Cay-pon, like the chicken.” Luke shrugs out of his jacket before sitting down at the counter. He teepees his fingers under his chin and focusses on me with a laser stare.

Hurrying to the cabinet, I grab the closest mug. It’s one of the many art projects I’ve made at a local pottery place. It says, “I’d rather be in Barbados,” and it’s accompanied by a snowy scene I painted on the front. The thing about Wisconsin winters is theycan last nine months. Around month five, I’m ready to walk to the nearest tropical island.

“How do you like your coffee?” I ask Luke as I pour the remains from the pot into his mug.

“One sugar.”

Tearing open a little green packet, I ask, “Stevia okay?”

He shakes his head. “I prefer sugar.”

My hand stops midair before pouring in the fake stuff. “I’m not sure I have any.” I turn around and open the door to the pantry before stepping inside. Being so close to Luke after all these years is seriously messing with my equilibrium. I inhale deeply before looking at the shelves. That’s where I find a five-pound pack of unopened granulated sugar which must have been purchased by my mom. I pull it off the shelf and carry it to the kitchen counter.

“Not much of a baker, huh?” he asks.

“Not really.” Is he judging me for my lack of culinary pursuits?

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