Bliss (20 page)

“Actually,” Hortencia began, “you were pretty firmly
against
the whole ‘swinging dick' agenda, if I remember back as far as fifteen minutes ago.”

Sera felt a little faint. Was there something about passing through menopause that made women unutterably crass?

There was nothing for it but to grab the… well, grab…

“Ash,” she blurted out, striding up to the railing between them, “I'm trying to buy a car. These two got it into their heads that we should ask a man along, to help us check out the vehicle and make sure the dealer doesn't take us for the proverbial ride. McLeod was going to tag along for backup, but he's, ah…” She looked at the pie maven, who had turned back to the store and was gesticulating rudely at some of the workers inside. “Occupied,” she finished lamely. “Anyhow, it was just a thought. We should be fine on our own. I'm sure you're far too busy…”

And I'm far too dizzy, when you're around…

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Never too busy to help a friend, Bliss. Lupe can mind the store.”

“I can?” The sylphlike saleswoman stood in the doorway of the jewelry store, hands on annoyingly curvy hips. The glare she shot Sera could have curdled lemon mousse.

“I'm more than confident in your ability to run the shop for the rest of the afternoon, Lupe,” said Asher, giving her a warm look. “You have such a way with the tourists.” Sera privately doubted that, but was glad to see Lupe's mollified expression. She didn't need to go accruing enemies out here—the one she had back in New York was enough to last her a lifetime. “You won't mind closing up the shop for me this evening, will you?” Asher asked his assistant. His green eyes were limpid, innocently inquiring.

Lupe wasn't immune to their blandishment. She drew herself up to her full height, dwarfing Sera, at whom she shot a “my boss trusts me with important matters” expression. “You can rely on me, Asher.” She gave him a molten look. “Always.”

“That's great, Lupe, thank you so much.” Asher was already turning away. “Hey, Malc!” he called. Malcolm left off berating his day laborers and turned around. “Can I ask you to drop off Sascha and Silver at my place on your way home? Key's under the mat.”

“Aye, if ye'll promise the little runt won't take a shite in my truck.”

“He won't,” Ash called back with a grin. “I hope,” he muttered too softly for Malcolm to hear, winking at Sera.

“What happened to the other pups?” Sera asked, noting their absence for the first time.

“They were old enough for their new owners to take them home, so I had to let them go.” Asher sounded a bit wistful. He ruffled Silver's gray-and-white fur and plopped an unself-conscious kiss on the top of the pup's head. “It's just him, his mama, and me now, until we find just the right person to take our little rapscallion in.”

Sera reached out a tentative hand to pet Silver, and received a generous tongue bath for her reward. “I'm sure you'll find someone soon,” she said, feeling a pang at the thought of no longer seeing the little pooch around.

“Are we petting puppies or buying cars here?” Pauline's voice interrupted them. “C'mon, before all the hybrids are gone.”

Sera sighed, knowing a nice, sensible vehicle—probably a Subaru, if Pauline had anything to say about it—lay in her very near future. And while she was excited about owning her first-ever automobile, she couldn't say she was psyched that she'd be buying something so boring she'd probably have trouble picking it out in the parking lot.
Still,
she reminded herself.
This is what sober people do. They make sober-minded life choices, and buy sober-minded cars. Suck it up, Sera.

“Right.” She hitched her shoulders into something resembling decent posture. “Let's go.”

Next thing she knew, Sera was smushed up next to the very manly Israeli in the backseat of Pauline's beat-up old Impreza, while Pauline and Hortencia chattered away up front. They could have been discussing anything from presidential politics to the best way to prepare gumbo, for all Sera paid heed. Her senses were centered squarely on the man pressed against her right side.

Fuck, he smelled good. Like, slather-me-in-butter-and-call-me-a-biscuit good. His hot-forge scent, in the confines of the suddenly tiny Subaru, was positively overwhelming.
Would it be too obvious if I rolled down a window?
she wondered.
Because if I don't do something to distract myself from those fantastic pheromones, I might start licking him. Right there in the hollow of his throat, where his collar is open just that tiny little…

“So,” Sera asked, trying to breathe shallowly. “Guess you know a lot about cars, huh, Ash?” But she wasn't really focused on his answer.
If I could make a dessert with a scent like that,
she was thinking,
women would be stuffing themselves silly with it.

“Almost nothing,” Ash replied blithely.

“Really?” she asked, distracted despite herself. “I would have pictured you as some sort of mechanical savant. You're so… crafty, after all.” Sera winced, aware of how dumb that had sounded.

“Not at all.” He smiled. “In the army, I drove a Jeep, and we were taught to keep our equipment in good order, but beyond that, I never bothered much with the workings under the hood. I was always more interested in the mechanics of organic materials—growing things, the flex and give of wood, the alchemy of molten metal under my tools. Electronics, hoses, and combustion engines never appealed to me the same way.”

Sera was caught up in the vision of Asher wearing fatigues, probably toting an Uzi or something. She remembered all Israelis were required to serve in the military in their youth, but it was hard to see Asher in that light. Manly, yes. Militant—no. He was far too full of kindness and appreciation for life to strike her as a warrior.

She basked in that kindness whenever he turned it her way, but she knew if he ever learned the truth about her, it could easily turn to pity. A lump formed in Sera's throat, all unexpected. If he looked under
her
hood, he'd find her as defective as they came.

An addict. A failure in her career. And less than a woman in the way that counted most.

She had no business fantasizing about… wait, what the hell
was
she fantasizing about when it came to Asher? Marriage? Babies? Mad, passionate, and most of all,
fulfilling
sex?

Sera was very much afraid the answer was “yes” to all three.

You're buying a car, girlfriend,
she scolded herself.
Not a lifetime in some adobe dream house with a coyote fence and two-point-four unexpectedly attractive offspring. Stop daydreaming before you come to grief.

Sera inched away from Asher and stared out the window, hoping this mission would be quick.

It wasn't.

Despite the earlier coolness of the day, it was hot out at the Auto Park, perhaps because there were no trees or any other sort of cover. The sun was beating down,
Good, Bad and Ugly
style upon the asphalt-paved lot, a hundred mini suns bouncing back at Sera from the hoods of highly polished vehicles, making her wish she hadn't forgotten her sunglasses back at Aunt Pauline's. She'd taken off her denim jacket and tied it around her waist, but sweat was still trickling down her neck and pooling uncomfortably in her cleavage (as she hoped Asher hadn't noticed). A headache had started just above her brows, and she thought she might be a little dehydrated.

No one had told her buying a car was such hard work.

Then again, it probably
wasn't
such hard work for normal people. But Sera had been struck with an attack of circumspection, balanced uncomfortably against the deep, dark desire to do something truly dumb. For an addict, accustomed to acting on impulse and regretting it later, it was like stomping on the gas and brake pedal simultaneously. Her adult, sober mind knew the smart thing to do. But her lizard brain was demanding its due—loudly.

The lot was full of perfectly nice cars. Her budget and business needs
demanded
a perfectly nice car. But she didn't
want
a perfectly nice car. She wanted a badass car. Or maybe a truck. A big, honking pickup truck with scary, nubbly tires that came up to her waist and a corrugated steel bed just begging for a dusty old dog, hopefully wearing a bandanna around its neck and panting up a storm. It would bounce up and down dirt roads just like trucks did in commercials, spitting gravel and roaring. It would cart tons of whatever the hell it was asked to cart (never mind that Sera's desserts were so light and airy the biggest cake in her repertoire barely weighed ten pounds). And it would say, loud and clear, “I am not a wimp. Put that shit right out of your mind. I am a confident, strong, undefeated woman. And I am every bit as badass as my truck.”

In the course of trying to talk herself out of this impractical longing, Sera had driven half the cars on the lot. Half of
those
were too expensive—far beyond the range of a baker just beginning her own business. The other half were divided into the practical—
yawn
—and the even more practical—
coma.
Subarus, Sera had discovered, were apparently the vehicle of choice among the green-chile-eating set. “Hippie liberal Dukakis–voting cars,” she could hear Blake's voice in her head, clear as a bell and disdainful as always. He had driven a succession of flashy BMWs throughout the time Sera had dated him, looking down that long, aristocratic nose of his on “rice burners,” as he dubbed the whole range of modest, unassuming Japanese automobiles.

Almost, but not
quite
enough reason to buy one.

While Serafina had no problem with hippies, liberals, or those optimistic enough to have supported Dukakis, she simply wasn't finding anything that spoke to her. Her aunt and Hortencia had had the good sense to step back after the first hour or so, when their well-meaning suggestions (“Oh, you don't want the dark blue one, dear, you'll roast!”) and helpful hints (“Baby-Bliss, you can't buy that one, it barely has a backseat. How will you get your rocks off in a car like that?”) hadn't brought Serafina closer to a decision. They'd retreated into the cool of the dealership's interior. Sera could see them through the glass, pretending to be fascinated by a display of Chevy Tahoes that positively dwarfed the two women.

Asher had hung in there with her, however, even through several abortive test drives. Sera glanced at him, then quickly away, her cheeks flushed from more than sun. She'd seen how he clenched his knuckles white on the armrest a few times as she had taken a curve too quickly in an unfamiliar vehicle. But he'd maintained his cool, not commenting on her questionable driving skills. He hadn't tried to influence her decision either, though she rather wished he would. Otherwise they might both grow old here. Even the leathery, sunglass-clad salesman had wandered off after a while, sensing he wasn't going to hook this fish anytime soon.

“Damn it,” she muttered. “I can't do this.” She turned back to Asher, looking up at him with a grimace of apology. “I'm sorry for wasting your time, Ash. I guess I'm just not ready to buy a car after all.” Stupid tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes, and Sera pretended it was just the sun, shading her face with one hand to hide them from the tall Israeli. “We should collect the ladies and go, I guess.”

Asher stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she began to trudge toward the dealership. “Bliss,” he said. Then he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze in a way that would have been patronizing coming from any other man, but was impossibly hot when he did it. “What is it you really want?”

Aside from you?

“I don't know.” Sera shook her head to dissipate the tears before they could fall. She plunked her hands on her hips and took in a deep breath, not wanting her landlord to see her so vulnerable. Experience had taught her it was a poor idea to let the male of the species catch her anything less than fully composed. Then she blew out the breath, deciding to let him in, just a little bit. “You know what, Asher? Actually, that's not true at all. I know
exactly
what I want, I just don't think I should want it.”

Asher merely looked at her with one brow quirked, not helping, not judging. His hand had fallen away from her face, but she could still feel its heat against her skin. Would probably be feeling it when she tucked herself into her lonely bed tonight.

Sera sighed. She'd better fess up. “It's stupid. But I want… that one.” She pointed.

The car of her dreams sat on the edge of the lot, exiled with the used—excuse her, “pre-owned”—cars. It was not cute. It was not fuel-efficient. And Sera was fairly sure it wasn't even an automatic. The powder blue pickup was at least a decade old, rusting around the edges, and absolutely perfect.

“The Dodge Ram 2500?” Asher sounded a bit incredulous.

“Is that what it is?” Sera was already drifting closer to it. Up close, it was even bigger, and she could see that someone—clearly not at the factory—had painted jaunty flames along its haunches.
Man, this baby has it all,
she thought. Big-ass tires? Check. Massive engine? If the hood was anything to go by, a whole herd of draft horses probably lived under there. Canine-friendly bed? Sera peeped up and over the flank of the blue beast and saw someone had left a blanket with some ready-made dog hair already on it. Never mind that she didn't even have a dog. Maybe Asher would let her borrow his when Silver got old enough. She looked back at the Israeli, who had followed her to inspect the monstrous truck.

“I must be crazy to even consider this,” she murmured.

“Quite possibly,” Asher agreed.

“I mean, you practically have to wear a Stetson to even get behind the wheel of this beast,” she continued.

“I'm sure we can borrow one for the test-drive,” Asher replied. “I believe I saw a gentleman wearing one enter the dealership just a few moments ago. I bet he wouldn't mind…”