Blackjack and Moonlight: A Contemporary Romance (11 page)

She stretched as the memory warmed her from the inside out.

It’s only sex
. Even great sex was just sex. Still, why had he left in the middle of the night? He’d enjoyed it too, she knew he had. Hell, he’d instructed her to call his sister if he died of happiness. That wasn’t what a guy said if he was bored out of his gourd. It wasn’t even what a guy said if he was telling her what he thought she wanted to hear. It was better than that. He’d sounded sincere.

Elise’s instinct told her it was over. Just as she’d predicted—just as she’d planned—he’d gotten his rocks off and was gone. Shame. She hadn’t wanted him to be in love with her. That was a complication she could do without. Still, she’d thought he’d be more than a one-night stand.

Bottom line, whether it was one night or a dozen, they all left.

She got out of bed and yanked the sheets off. She could smell him on the pillowcases. Sunday was laundry day.
Stick to the routine.

Elise was working on a brief in her basement office, next to the laundry room, when the phone rang. Her heart leapt, but caller ID told her it wasn’t Jack.

“Hey,” she said.

“So?” Christine asked.

Elise clicked Save and swiveled around on her chair. “It was okay,” she said carefully.

“Oh, come on, I need more than that. He’s bad in bed, right? It’s all show with guys like that. Too stiff and they don’t want to go down on you. Or—wait, I’ve got it—he was an asshole and only wanted you to go down on him.”

Elise’s mouth twisted at the thought of the aborted blow job. Men usually loved the worshipping acolyte routine. Not Jack. Odd.

She was tempted to lie, but she couldn’t, not to Christine. “No, actually. He’s good. He’s very good.”

Christine whistled. “From you, that is high praise indeed. C’mon, I don’t need a play-by-play, but the highlight reel would be nice.”

Elise leaned back in her chair. “Okay, let’s see. Well, the evening got off to a smoky start, as I had the oh-so-inspired idea of lighting the fire, but couldn’t remember how the flue worked.”

“Nasty. Was he sarcastic?”

“No, actually. He was great. Helped air the place out, rebuilt the fire to warm us up again, and was a regular Boy Scout.”

“Hmmm. Which kind of Scout? ‘Be prepared’ or ‘I really need this merit badge’?”

“Helping the little old lady across the street—that kind,” Elise said.

“As long as ‘little old lady’ is a self-deprecating term for yourself, and ‘getting across the street’ is a new euphemism for having an orgasm, sounds good to me.”

“And he wonders where I get it from,” Elise muttered.

“Huh?”

“Jack kept teasing me about my irreverence. Said he needed a thesaurus to find all the synonyms for ‘minx.’”

“Scamp,” Christine offered.

“I’m going to tell him you egg me on.” Then Elise remembered he’d left. She might not get the chance to blame it all on Christine. She ignored the hollow feeling in her stomach.

“So he’s a Boy Scout and you’re a saucy wench. I think we knew this about you two already. He plays by the rules and you flaunt them.”

Yup, Jack was a straight arrow. So why’d he leave in the middle of the night? No, she wasn’t going there. Not going to think about it.

“You still there?” Christine asked. “You were giving me the deets on last night when we got distracted. I got the smoky fire and the Eagle Scout. Then what?”

Elise was reluctant to talk about it. “Sex.”

“A little or a lot?”

“Lots of sex.”

“I like the sound of that. When did he leave? Oh, or is he still there—?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

Elise sighed. “I was asleep.”

“He snuck out?!”

“No, he woke me up to say goodbye, but I didn’t notice the time. I just rolled over and went back to sleep.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Lots of sex, but he ducks out in the middle of the night?”

“I think it’s done,” Elise said in a rush.

“Done as in finished?” Christine sounded doubtful. “I don’t know, El—he doesn’t strike me as the wham-bam type.”

Elise considered this. “It wasn’t wham-bam. Not at all. But I told you, there’s no way he’s really in love with me, not after a total of twenty minutes together in his chambers and an evening at Dave and Buster’s. It stands to reason he’d keep his options open. Maybe I didn’t meet his expectations or something.”

Such a horrible feeling, when some guy claimed to want you then just—
poof!
—disappeared. It sucked. And people wondered why she didn’t want to chase after some illusion of a happy-ever-after…

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. He declares his undying love for you in open court, demands his romantic dates get equal time, dresses down for a date at Dave and Buster’s, fixes your fireplace, has lots of sex—good sex, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Has lots of good sex with you, then leaves early—but only after waking you to say goodbye—and you’re convinced he’s gone for good?”

“Oh, save the lawyer crap for court,” Elise said. “I can tell the same story and make it sound like he callously abandoned me. It’s neither of those things. I’ll never know what the courtroom declaration was about—new-judge jitters or something—but I know when there’s chemistry in a relationship, and there’s no chemistry between us.”

“How many times did you come?”

“Not relevant. That’s just physiology.” Oh, God, she was quoting Jack.

Dead silence for a long moment, then Christine said, “Shame. I had hopes for him. Well, I did have another reason for calling. I have to tell you what Edgar did this time.”

“How can you stand to work for him? Oh, right, he’s the head of the Bankruptcy Department. You poor thing,” Elise said.

Her attention wandered during the latest inane Edgar-isms. She and Jack had fun last night, hadn’t they? So why did he leave like that? He’d written her a note thanking her for a wonderful evening—she found it in the kitchen—but that was just good manners.

“Oh, wow,” Elise said when Christine paused. No matter what Edgar had done, “Oh, wow,” always applied.

“Incredible, isn’t it? And then the other day, we were in court and—”

The doorbell rang. “Hey, I gotta go,” Elise said hastily. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure, but—”

Elise hung up before Christine could get another word in.

As Elise raced up the stairs, she thought maybe this would be Jack, drawn back despite himself. She was breathing hard as she yanked open the door.

Not Jack. Total stranger. A kid, in fact. Couldn’t be more than eighteen. She was tempted to slam the door in his face, but it was hardly his fault he wasn’t a federal judge.

“Ms. Carroll?”

“Yes.”

“These are for you.” He lifted a large package swathed in pale green paper from the stoop and handed it to her.

Flowers. She smiled.

She dug a five-dollar bill out of her jeans pocket—it had been through the wash but she guessed he wouldn’t care—and took her package inside.

She tore off the paper. Cherry-red roses. How did Jack do that? It was Sunday, and yet he’d managed to find someone to put together—she counted—yup, two dozen roses that weren’t the usual Valentine’s Day red. These were a deep pink, so deep that they looked almost crimson at their hearts. She was tempted to get her panties to see how close he’d gotten, but it was a match. She had no doubt.

The card read, “It wasn’t easy to leave, believe me. J.”

“You’re forgiven,” she whispered. “Damn you.”

Jack got some leftovers from his refrigerator. Grilled chicken, goat cheese, mixed greens. He set a skillet half-filled with water on the stove. The Phillies-Mets game droned in the background.

He felt blurry, like he’d had too much to drink, but it wasn’t alcohol that was still coursing through his system. It was the residue of frustration and desire from his night with Elise, with some anxiety thrown in for good measure.

He peeled off the outer layers of a red onion that was going a little dry at the edges. She’d turned him inside out—and that was just the sex. If she ever said anything the least bit romantic to him, he’d probably burst into flames.

He cracked an egg into the hot water. He’d hated leaving before it was even light, but he’d had insomnia. It wasn’t his house, so he hadn’t felt comfortable getting up, finding a book, and reading. After lying awake for a long time, he knew he had to leave or risk giving in to the impulse to wake her up and propose marriage. He’d narrowly avoided making a fatal misstep—“Will you marry me?” would have been his last utterance before she’d kicked him out. Permanently.

Lack of sleep could make anyone crazy. Clearly he’d have to learn how to sleep after making love to Elise, or this awkwardness would continue. Maybe she could come here for the next sex date. Surely he’d sleep better in his own bed.

He pushed some files out of the way to make room on his kitchen table for a plate and cutlery.

Sex date?
Who actually called it that? Never mind, he knew who. And he knew why. It was her motto. “It’s just sex” was probably embroidered on a pillow someplace in her house. The sad thing was, it probably
was
only sex for her. Whereas he’d discovered what the movies had been telling him all along—it’s different when you love the person. Was the actual sex better? Maybe, but Jack rather thought that any qualitative differences arose more from Elise’s—what was the word she used?—“flexibility” than from his as-yet-unrequited love.

He carried his salad over to the table, then got a glass of sauvignon blanc. Love did change the experience—it was as though he’d been color-blind but suddenly could see blues and greens. Things had been more vibrant, stimulating, intoxicating. His touches and techniques had a different intent. In the past, they were to create pleasure for both parties. With Elise, he really did make love to her. Pleasure was a gift he could give with a full heart.

Definitely memorable, sex with a woman you loved. And potentially addictive. He’d craved her voice, that breathy come-on tone she’d used in bed. Remembering it made him hard. He’d picked up the phone so many times that he’d ended up ordering roses just to keep himself from calling her. His need to talk to her made sense—she was the person he wanted permanently at his side. But to feel like he was seventeen, drowning in a schoolboy crush? Surreal to be that gauche again.

The Phillies scored a run, and Jack turned the sound up. Then they hit into an inning-ending double-play and he turned the sound back down.

Two dates to plan. Good guess about the color of that bra—it had been more wishful thinking than anything else. So what to do with his prize?

First Friday could be fun. Interesting to see what Elise liked in art. And for Saturday? Was there anything in the rules that said he couldn’t bring her here and cook for her on a romantic date? He chuckled—they should have written down the details of their deal.

He checked the game—Phils were down three runs. Who cared? He clicked the TV off and opened his laptop. What would be good to cook for her? Epicurious would know.

“Uh, hi, Brenda—is Judge McIntyre available? This is Elise Ca—”