Page 38 of What I'm Looking For

I’d like to sigh on a pillow with him but that has to wait for the third date at least, so I throw back the only reply I can think of. “To bike or not to bike, that is the question,” I say, eliciting a well-earned groan.

* * *

Swayingwith the movement of the T later that evening, finally on the way home after plugging away at the office for several hours, my first real date with Will plays through my mind. Despite the one awkward moment where it felt like he was saying he didn’t find me attractive—which his body quickly countered—it was pretty much ideal. Hours on our bikes on a magnificent day, getting to visit a place where history was made, a first kiss that still has my toes curling, topped off by the best ice cream in Boston.

So what are the downsides, Kate? There’s always something.

You’d think our schedules would make seeing each other regularly challenging, but he wants to make dinner for me on Monday. Just two days away. Which breaks all the rules. I can’t wait to tell Alice. Apparently actors always have Mondays off, which makes sense since weekends are prime time for both the entertainment and service industries. In fact, he’d been all apologetic about having to go to work tonight, but a page from Roland had me at the office on a Saturday evening anyway. Hopefully, the report I pulled together will give him what he needs for his networking golf game tomorrow and someday soon he’ll recognize the extra work with a promotion.

A group of girls laugh loudly at the other end of the train. Hair sprayed to defy gravity, eyes and lips popping with color, they’re ready for a night out on the town. I run a hand through my limp, unbendable hair. I didn’t shower after the bike ride, I just changed my shirt and splashed water on my face before heading to the office, so I probably look more like a crack addict than a finance junkie.

When the Madonna look-a-likes howl with laughter again, a woman in scrubs catches my eye and rolls hers. At least I’m not the only one working long hours on the weekend. She’s probably heading home to her cat, too.

Or maybe she has a nice husband and a couple of kids waiting for her.

When the train screeches to a stop in Central Square, I lurch to the doors. An image pops into my mind of Will greeting me when I walk in my front door. Or me swinging by the bar on the way home from the office so we can go home together. Fairytale ideas. In real life, I can’t afford to risk what I have: an even emotional keel and no guy to answer to if I choose to work day and night instead of paying attention to him.

After a quick walk from the T station to my apartment, I drop my bag, heavy with industry reports, by the front door. My butt is stiff from all the time in the saddle today. Maybe a hot shower will help.

A little chirp signals that Frankie’s heading my way. With a grunt, I scoop up my overweight Persian and carry him to the kitchen. Noticing the blinking red light on my answering machine, I push the play button. When my mom’s voice starts in, I pause the message.

My parents mean well but they don’t understand why I chose to stay here after college, when I could be home in Virginia working a steady job at a bank or something until I meet a nice man and settle down like a normal girl. And they worry about me. They’d had reason to before, but I’m good now.

I take a breath deep into my belly. Will would be so proud. After a couple of them, feeling a bit calmer, I push the button again.

BEEP

“Kate, honey, this is Mom. I wanted to make sure you got the invitation to Rachel’s wedding July 4th weekend. The whole family will be there, so you need to get on your plans. Well, all right then, I hope you’re out having some fun. Maybe you have a new beau? You could bring a guest to the wedding. But you do have to RSVP, so don’t forget. Call me, sweetheart. This is Mom. Oh, I said that.”

I take great pleasure in deleting the message. I’d received the invitation earlier in the week and had filed it in my To Do Much Later pile. Family weddings are a special kind of torture. With or without a date.

A few moments later, hot water pulsing onto my skull, I entertain a fantasy of sharing this shower with Will. My hands wander over my breasts and on to other regions. The feel of his hands on my body is surprisingly easy to recall. Within seconds my entire body’s shuddering with pleasure as I lean into the water, one hand propped against the tile in front of me, the other sliding away from my lower belly.

Whoa. That was unexpected. I’ve let off steam in the shower before, fueled by fantasies of the usual suspects—JFK Jr., Mark Harmon, even Scott Baio when I’m feeling nostalgic—but imaginary Will sent me to my happy place in record time.

Gotten off, cooled off and dried off, I’m ready for bed shortly thereafter. Carefully wiggling under the covers so as not to disturb Frankie, I set my alarm and pick up the MayAthletic Wear Trade Journal,thenread an article on running shoe trends until I’m going over the same sentence three times. At eleven thirty, I turn off the light. Like a good, responsible girl.

Unlike a good, responsible girl, my mind returns to images of Will. His eyes the color of Walden Pond, his mouth and its wicked grins, his roughened bartender hands. My hand drifts south and plays across my lower belly.

“Dang it!”

I won’t get any sleep unless I give in to my apparent need for another Will-inspired orgasm. When I roll over to pull a drawstring bag from the bottom drawer of my nightstand, Frankie jumps off the bed with a yowl. Collapsing back into the soft mattress, my mind quickly supplies an image of Will suspended above me, his strong arms by my sides. My trusty vibrator goes to work, and before I know it, I’m exploding again.

JFK Jr. has nothing on Will Talbot. What would happen if I ever found myself in bed with the actual man? It’s been so long since I’ve had an orgasm with another person I’m not sure I remember how it all goes. My time in bed with my ex had been okay, but I never had a climax with him that was quite so… thorough.

Well. Good for me.

“Who needs the real thing anyway, when I’ve got you?” I ask my battery-operated friend before setting it on the nightstand.

Pulling the sheets up again, I punch my pillow and curl onto my side. My body’s a bit more relaxed, but I bet a certain tall, blue-eyed bartender/actor will still visit my dreams.

Chapter10

BEEP. Monday, 10:14 a.m.

Will, Pam and I had to go into the studio but we’re still planning to pick you up from the grocery store at eleven. See you then.

WILL

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