Give Me the Night by OriginalCeenote
Summary: Ororo’s had enough.
Categories: General Characters: None
Genres: Romance
Warnings: Adult language
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 10 Completed: No Word count: 42487 Read: 20217 Published: 12-03-07 Updated: 10-24-08

1. Hit the City Lights by OriginalCeenote

2. Until the Day is Dawning by OriginalCeenote

3. That Starlight Look in Your Eyes by OriginalCeenote

4. Spirit of the Party by OriginalCeenote

5. Chain Reaction by OriginalCeenote

6. Whenever Dark Has Fallen by OriginalCeenote

7. Need the Evening Action by OriginalCeenote

8. A Place to Dine, a Glass of Whine by OriginalCeenote

9. You Can Throw Out All Your Blues by OriginalCeenote

10. Save the Date Cards by OriginalCeenote

Hit the City Lights by OriginalCeenote
Night club, downtown San Francisco:

They’d gotten in; the Party Gods smiled down on them again.

Their feet were already killing them by the time they’d reached the crest of the hill, due in part to the buy one, get one half off sale on platform heels they both couldn’t resist. They’d pay for it tomorrow in spades.

They weren’t thinking about tomorrow.

The line was wrapped around the corner, and they boldly edged their way past the patrons despite noisy protests behind them. They teetered on those impractical Lucite heels, nearly falling off the edge of the curb. They approached the wine red velvet rope; their gatekeeper was six and a half feet, two hundred fifty pounds of “I don’t think so” waiting with his clipboard and flashlight.

‘Back of the line,” he barked, even as his eyes traveled the length of legs that looked like they went all the way to their waists. He let his gaze stop short at cleavage precariously perched in bustiers that allowed only scant amounts of oxygen; one deep breath and it was all over.

“We’re on the list.”

“Everyone’s on the list,” he huffed.

“Wouldn’t hurt to look.” Her voice was impertinent.

“I’ve only got six VIPs on my list.” He looked scornfully at their attire and smirked. “You aren’t them.”

“Wanna bet?”

“I’ve got a table booked for a Len, a Chris, an Ed, a Neal, an Art, and a Mark,” he informed them. “Try again.”

“We’re with the DJ.”

“Like hell you are!”

“We’re waitresses. Just started last week.” He yawned and patted his mouth for emphasis. The shorter one of the two, still tall at five-eight, reached into her purse, presumably to call a cab. He considered his job done when she dialed. The tall one wasn’t backing down while her partner sauntered away a few feet.

“We’ve got to use the ladies’.”

“Guess you’ll be dancing out here.” Shrill whistles and cat calls greeted her ears from farther down the line; feminine voices reached her, asking who they thought they were in those hoochie get-ups.

Her partner clicked her phone shut and crammed it into her tiny, red patent leather purse. “We’re ready to go in, now.”

“Not the last time I checked, Cinderella.” She snorted, screwing up piquant features and staring toward the door.

He wasn’t expecting the tap on his shoulder, or the faint rush of throbbing music and stale liquor emanating from the club when the door opened behind him.

“Yo.”

“Hey.” The girls grinned when the newcomer nodded to them and waved them forward, reaching down to unfasten the rope from the post. “About time!”

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, handsome.” Sharp, cerulean eyes glanced at the bouncer scornfully, “I told you so” written plainly in them, making him grit his teeth. He held out a thick, beefy palm.

“ID’s,” he reminded them. She tugged it from the depths of her bustier, making him wonder where the hell she managed to fit it. He was almost impressed. The one that looked like a punked-out Tinkerbell gleefully presented hers for his scrutiny, smiling saucily and vamping for him when he shone his flashlight in her face. She felt no pity for him as they left him to the mercy of the line, leaving a chorus of fuck-off’s in their wake.

“That was easy,” Yukio remarked.

“Eh.” She elbowed their savior. “Thanks. Where’s Emma?”

“The blonde, or the purple-haired chick?”

“Blonde. About this tall, out to here,” she offered, gesturing with cupped hands toward her chest, “and probably about three sheets to the wind on lemon drops.” He nodded and grinned, smacking his forehead for emphasis.

“Bathroom,” he informed them. “Wanna drink?”

“Why not?”Yukio answered for them both.

“One question?” Ororo called over the din. Her face was illuminated by a rainbow of flashing strobe lights. “Who the heck are you?”

“The new DJ. Your friends are a kick. Call me Scott.” His mouth twisted. “Shit, just call me, anyway!” He was tall and lean, his body a perfect ‘V’ of broad shoulders and narrow hips. His light brown hair was stylishly cut, long enough to dust his collar. Ororo was impressed; no wonder Emma gave him the treatment.

“Nice,” Ororo muttered. “Look1 like you didn’t lie,” she chided Yukio, elbowing her in the ri s. She watched Scott place a drink order for a pitcher of sangria before they even mentioned what they wanted. “We could’ve bee anybody. Why’d you let us in?”

“When two hot-looking women come up to my booth and tell me their friends are outside waiting to get in, what else was I supposed to do?”

“Emma practically flashed you, didn’t she?”

Yup.” He looked like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar. Ororo saluted him with her first glass of sangria. He reached for the dish of drink garnishes on the bar and dropped a maraschino cherry into the fizzy red liquid Uith a flourish. His hands felt !ool on their backs as he said g-odbye. “Behave yourselves. And don’t give Buttercup too hard a time. He’s not a bad guy.”

“Buttercup?” Yukio arched a plucked brow.

“Tony. Out front. Whatever you do, don’t call him that.” He weaved through the crowd, peering back to wink at them when he reached the booth.

“No ay I’m not gonna call him that when we go back out there,” Yukio snickered.

“Guess we better find Emma,” Ororo suggeted with a sigh.

“Or not,” Yukio countered as she took a lon pull from her glass. “I’ll keep your seat warm.” She patted the bar stool fondly. Ororo tsked in disgust.

“Don’t bogart the pitcher.”

“Who, me?” She was the picture of innocence as Oroo stomped her way through the cowd. Several sets of eyes bore into her back, drinking in the sight she made in ridiculously snug, tiny shorts.

Betsy was aleady inside, standing protectively by Emma and re-tying her dress strap while she held up her fine blonde hair.

“What’s goin on?”

“Oh, Ororo, you look cute!” Emma gushed. Emma never guhed unless liquor was involved; that’s why she was nicknamed the Ice Princess at the office whee they worked.

“We had a wardrobe malfunction,” Betsy sighed. She busied herself with freein a few strands of hair from the laces at Emma’s neck. “All set. By the way, where’s Yukio?”

“Pretending to watch our drinks at the bar.” Ororo sidled up to the sinks and gave her hair a brief fluff with her fingers. She and Emma were a study in contrasts. Where Emma had chosen a short white dress from the Frederick’s catalog, Ororo was dressed to dance, radiant in black leather and satin. A black crocheted shrug that was never meant to keep her warm completed her look and created a striking back drop for platinum white hair that waved down to her waist. Betsy was almost demure in a blue halter top that showed off a lean back; her hair was pulled back from her face in an artfully messy chignon, and her plum-tinted locks gleamed beneath the dim, powder room lights. She refreshed deep raisin lipstick that ripened sensuous lips, rolling down the tube and tucking it into her pocket. Emma, a little less mindful of the usual niceties, leaned forward into mirror and dug between her front teeth with her French manicured index nail; it looked like she was checking for spinach. Ororo suppressed a laugh when she sucked her teeth before she straightened out her dress. She brightened at the sight of Alison’s sudden appearance in the mirror behind her as she swept inside.

“Nice of you guys to show up! I saw Yukio at the bar,” she complained. “Told you that you should have come with us earlier!”

“I had some business to take care of.” Ororo smoothed the front of her bustier, admiring the way the satin shone in the lights. “Let’s get out there. I’ve got sangria calling my name.”

“Bullshit. You’re coming out to dance with me,” Alison declared. She swiftly looped her arm through Ororo’s and practically yanked her off her feet, making it appear surprisingly easy since she only stood a mere five-foot-four inches.

“Let me wet my whistle,” Ororo insisted, obstinately steering them toward the bar and grinning at Alison’s grunt of disgust. Yukio was already handing her a red plastic cup before she even touched the bar. Sangria almost slopped over the rim, making Ororo yelp and back up before any could spill on her new shoes. She took a grateful gulp, and her eyes widened before she took another. It was delicious and packed a hearty punch.

“Man, I’m in trouble now.”

“No shit. Let’s see if Prince Charming’ll spring for another,” Yukio told her.

“Who’s he?” Alison inquired.

“That one. The new DJ.” Alison squinted as she focused on the booth, and then spun on them with shocked recognition.

“I totally work with him! He’s so cool! He’s in the marketing department and he handles new business. He bought you that?”

“Yup.” Yukio tossed back the rest of her drink before beckoning to the bartender for another red cup.

“Emma’s already set her sights on him,” Ororo quipped.

“Poor guy,” Alison symphatized. “He’s a goner.”

“Yum yum, eat ‘em up,” Yukio snorted. Whenever Emma embarked on a new relationship, she wasn’t known for being the giver, and she wrung as much high-dollar, high profile entertainment and benefits out of each conquest before she stopped returning calls. Yukio didn’t make any secret of how she felt about her friend’s flagrant gluttony. But sometimes, she was fun to watch.

“C’mon,” Ali nagged. Ororo’s mostly empty cup was pried out of her hands and chucked it onto the bar, where Yukio gratefully finished it before pouring herself another.

“Don’t yank my arm off,” Ororo hissed as they plunged into the crowd that nearly spilled from the hardwood floor. Myriad perfumes, sweat and alcohol assaulted her nose while strobe lights flickered and shimmered overhead. Prisms thrown from the enormous mirrored disco ball spun over the crowd and landed in her hair. Ali and Ororo exchanged delighted smiles as a Donna Summer standard worked its way through their hips. They weren’t leaving the floor until it glistened with their sweat.

Yukio joined them shortly, and they peered back to see Betsy and Emma relieving them of the last of the pitcher. Betsy beckoned to the bartender, waving a ten-spot from her slender fingers.

It felt good to just get out.

Random, unwelcome memories slipped through her buzz and made her smile slip. Her half of the rent was paid for the month; the utilities were coming out of her next check.

Vic was in for a nasty surprise. She didn’t pity him one bit. More accurately, Ororo didn’t pity anyone who dropped that last straw on her back.

No more late dinners gone cold. No more nonsense of hanging out with his boys on her couch, feet on her coffee table and not a coaster in sight. No more excuses or watching him get mad just because she was mad first.

She pictured him stumbling over his boxes of junk that she left at the front door of his brother’s apartment after work. Yukio had just tsked and shot her worried glances the entire drive over, hoping like heck that Vic wouldn’t show up before they could beat feet out of there. She wasn’t afraid of Vic, but she was afraid of watching them go at it again and the likelihood of Vic’s neighbors calling the boys in blue.

Her closet had more room than it had in months; she joked with Ali that it nearly echoed, prompting her friend to suggest a jaunt to Wet Seal to top it off. She hadn’t stopped at bundling up Vic’s stuff. With the exception of a picture of them taken at one of Ali’s parties that had her friends in the background, she emptied her photo albums. Next came the lower drawer of her jewelry and her makeup cabinet as she rooted for bottles of perfume, earrings, lingerie she’s seldom worn and never would have chosen for herself, and a skin-tight New York Jets tee that he’d bought at an overpriced sportswear store. He’d dissed her Eagles long enough, giving her nonsense of “My teams are your teams, baby, suck it up.” Suck this…

Hello, eBay.

So there she was, begging her way back into the hen house and her friends’ good graces after unspeakable neglect. They welcomed her back into the fold, providing life support in the form of chocolate ice cream, excursions for shoes and chick flick B.S. sessions.

The worst part was at night after she turned off her bedside lamp. She missed his solid bulk at her back. No matter how high she pulled the covers, she still felt a chill. Then she reminded herself of how often he’d come tippin’ in late, and she exchanged her cami sets for dowdy flannel PJ’s. It was gonna hafta be good enough…

The next time anyone was making a dent in the other pillow, it had to be for real.

They stayed on the floor for the next ten sets; Ororo gradually stopped feeling the balls of her feet throb, thanks to fresh drinks and more old school songs than she could count. They came up for air and felt the cool rush of air against sweat-soaked skin as they hit the bar. Emma was already working it, leaning against the DJ booth, cleavage strategically placed at eye level as she threw her blonde head back in laughter. Strategic giggles. She could almost hear her hungover, post-party rantings already. When she peered over at Ali and Yukio, they wore similar knowing looks. They tapped shot glasses in a salute bef
re they rescued Betsy from a ma, sporting a wedding ring and trying to offer her a cell number.
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Until the Day is Dawning by OriginalCeenote
Ororo reached over and weakly slapped the snooze alarm, groaning into her pillow and closing eyes so tired they ached. Other sounds gradually filtered into her consciousness, all equally unwelcome.

Her efforts at slipping back into her coma we0e undone when her phone jangled from the floor where she’d dropped it the night before.

“Fuc ,” she hissed. She debated whether to let the machine pick it up so she wouldn’t have to sound coherent to whoever the heck was getting in her face at such an indecent hour “ eleven AM, but so WHAT “ or if she could spare herself the head-splitting five rings instead.

The second ring jackhammered its way into her skull. Right. Up and at ‘em.

Sort of.

Any moment now… she rolled herself up far enough from the bed to slither out of the covers and grab the handset.

“Mmmmmmnnnnggghhh,” she moaned.

“Oh, God, Ororo, I drank so much,” Emma rasped. “Why did you let me do that?”

“Because I the only way I was gonna stop you was to wrest the shot glass from your cold, stiff fingers?”

“Heh. Oh. Oooooooo…” Ororo heard her swallowing a long, thirsty gulp of something in the background.

“Damn, Emma, what’re you drinking now?”

“Hush, you! I’m taking an Advil.”

“Eat something,” Ororo reminded her.

“When my stomach rolls to a complete stop. Brunch?” she suggested.

“Rally the troops.” Ororo yawned and scratched her belly through her flannel top, which of course made her itch all over as blood flow restored itself to her limbs. She hated first thing in the morning grunge and cotton mouth.

“Betsy said she couldn’t move.”

“Then we wheel her out the door on a hand cart and feed her through a funnel.”

“Yukio wasn’t home when I called her.”

“You got two for the price of one,” Ororo mused, reaching over to poke Yukio with the handset, huffing as she stretched from beneath the mound of covers. “It’s Emma.”

“Tell her it’s too fuckin’ early,” she whined petulantly, glaring up at Ororo through narrow slits.

“Breakfasssstt,” Ororo sang.

“Phooey,” she muttered before sitting up and prying the phone from her grip. “What?” Ororo reached for the remote on the bedside table and clicked on the set, deciding to leave it on Springer. Their discarded party clothes littered the floor; Yukio shivered her way back under the covers, having only donned one of Ororo’s spare cotton undershirts before they collapsed. They’d been too tired to make up the sofa bed, but Ororo, thankfully, had left the bottle of ibuprofen within fingertip’s reach. They both downed two with a sip of room-temperature water.

“Eat. Food.” Yukio could hear the shift of Emma’s mattress springs as she got up.

“Why the rush?”

“Because I have a date,” she informed her smugly, her voice a lilting soprano that would make Mary Poppins gag.

“Shut. Up.” Yukio swatted Ororo lightly and crowed “Not the DJ?”

“His name’s Scott,” she reminded her. “And yes. Dinner and a movie.”

“God, you’re so sickening.”

“Whatever. I need you two to help me pick something out.”

“We’ll go closet-diving after we get back.”

“Pfft. Smack your mouth. We’re hitting the stores.”

“She’s hauling out the big guns,” Yukio muttered, covering the handset with her palm.

“Shopping?”

“Yup.”

“Fine with me.” It’d get her out of the house. Staring at four walls wouldn’t help her to get over Vic.

They took turns with the shower and took wagers on the paternity of each guests’ babies. They trotted out the door a scant half-hour after Emma hung up. Betsy and Ali were in sickeningly fresh condition when they arrived in the lobby of El Torito.

“There’s a party on Friday night,” Emma informed them as they stood in the buffet line with their plates. “No jeans.”

“What kind of party is that?” Ali scolded as she scooped sweet corn onto her plate.

“You don’t want to miss this one,” Emma argued. “We’re launching a new book. Ali and I will be there, and we each get to bring a guest.”

“Oooookaaaayyy,” Yukio pointed out, waving the chicken enchilada spatula at her. “So you only get to bring two people.” She didn’t want to get excited if she ended up being the odd woman out.

“So maybe an extra guest pass gets conveniently misplaced. Maybe the event planners have already planned catering for a certain number of guests on the roster to attend, including ten percent of the head count? Hmmmmm… “Emma tapped her chin thoughtfully.

“So it’s just industry types?”

“Should be a little of everybody,” Emma sniffed. “Might do you good to get out and mingle.” Ororo sighed.

“Vic used to hate stuff like that.”

“That’s why you’re not with Vic.” Betsy poured herself some orange juice from one of the chilled pitchers.

“You’re going,” Yukio informed her.


~*~


The happy rush of caffeine was still zipping through her veins as Ororo disembarked from the elevator on the tenth floor. She made her drive-by waves and hello’s to the interns and the news desk manager on her way to her own desk, only to be greeted by a yellow sticky note on her monitor.

“Errrrgh.” She hung her jacket on the peg clipped onto her cubicle wall and snatched it off, not stopping long enough to check her in-basket. It was more of the same.

She rapped lightly on Cassandra’s door and peered around the corner, noting that she was on the phone and already holding out a hand for her to wait. She pulled the door mostly shut and paced in the narrow hall, trying to avoid her usual habit of tugging on her hair. She flicked the corner of the note with her thumb as a distraction until she heard Cassandra’s distinctive alto beckoning her inside.

“You got my message?”

“I have it right here.” She was about to sit down in the chair across from her desk until she stopped her.

“I’m about to go into a meeting, so I’ll make this short. We need you to do the Galliano interview.” Ororo’s shoulders slumped.

“I’ve got to update the article log and pick up that camera-ready artwork! We’re at blueline today!” The proofs for the November issue were quality-checked before print at the bargain price of one hundred dollars per hour.

“Then I need you to work a miracle. I need that interview. Her book launch is this Friday.” Ororo fumed, wishing she were next to her monitor to bang her forehead against it.

“We’ll never typeset it on time.”

“I didn’t get where I am saying ‘never,’ Ororo, and you won’t get far if you include that word in your vocabulary. I had Amara change your three o’clock meeting for a go-see. Charge your Blackberry before you sign in.” Cassandra was already pulling up her contacts list on her email and preparing her phone’s headset. Her platinum blonde hair was clipped mercilessly short, ensuring that nothing detracted from her costly Chanel wool suit. Matte plum lipstick matched her daggerlike fingernails, and she was a regal, imposing figure, seated in the plush leather chair, despite her diminutive stature.

Whenever Ororo argued with her, she felt like a big bully. It wasn’t worth it. And that was how Cassandra Nova stayed ahead.

Ororo left her publisher’s office with a plate that was twice as full as it was before the weekend. Red exclamation points flanked each message in her inbox when she logged on. A light knock on the edge of her cubicle wall interrupted her fantasy of dropping a spider down the neck of a certain wool Chanel suit, and she smiled when she saw Betsy jingling a handful of loose change.

“Snickers?”

“Snickers.” If she didn’t get up now for her sugar break, she’d never see the light of day again. “I just got slapped with the Galliano interview.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault that I drew the short straw.”

“Not this time. Remy hasn’t gotten back from London yet. And Anna’s still chasing down those book reviews that were due last week.”

“It’s not going to be as bad as I think it is, will it?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

“It’ll probably be worse.”


~*~

Betsy had it right on the money.

“Here, try this tea my herbalist prescribed for me. It’s cleansing.”

“I’m not much of a tea drinker,” Ororo excused with a gentle smile.

“Coffee’s horrible for your body. Ruins your complexion and digestion. Makes you peak and plummet,” she tsked, and Selene Galliano’s eyes raked over Ororo with something resembling disdain. Ororo suddenly felt as though she had her dress on backwards…

“It’s my only weakness.”

“My therapist says that’s an excuse. You’re only as weak as you let yourself be. Self-defeating behaviors are like a prison.” Ororo fumbled for her Blackberry until Selene glanced at it curiously. “You’re using that?”

“It’ll help me transcribe things more easily.”

“I always feel like I’m on trial with those things, like a court stenographer!”

“I don’t want to miss a thing,” Ororo replied goodnaturedly, even if it was a blatant lie.

“Well, I guess that’s all right. We’ll start with my new book.” Ororo sighed and mentally discarded the carefully planned questions she’d composed all morning long between updating her logs and checking the interns’ copy. “Did you get the copy that my publisher comped you?”

“I haven’t actually read it yet,” Ororo hedged. And why the heck would I, if I wasn’t supposed to be the one doing the interview? Selene’s face fell.

“Oh. That might make this difficult, then.” She reached into her desk and extracted a thick hardcover tome and handed it over the desk. “Go ahead, look that over! I’m just going to call downstairs for my wheatgrass juice. Want me to order you anything?”

“I already ate,” Ororo replied.

“Oh, I never eat up here. My office is my temple.” Her smile was saccharine; blindingly white teeth declared that she was keeping a cosmetic dentist on her payroll.

Selene Galliano was a five-time bestseller of semi-biographical novels that doubled as self-help books, espousing the benefits of positive thinking, holistic medicine and macrobiotics; she also shunned antidepressants. Her books were cleverly packaged with inspirational seminars, DVDs, book tours, and guest spots on Oprah. She had her own talk show in the works. Ororo found her style of ego-stroking prose and philosophy as gripping as a high colonic.

To her credit, she looked like someone who lived the lifestyle that she preached. She was slender as a reed with a naturally olive complexion and waist-length ripples of jet black hair. Slavic bone structure and patrician features stared out from the book jacket of the edition that took up what space Ororo had on her lap.

Ororo was interrupted from transcribing a rambling story from Selene’s childhood by a shrill, sharp bark outside the door.

“Oh, my baby’s here!” she cheered, rising with a swish of black cashmere knit and hurrying to her office door at a girlish trot. “How’s mommy’s widdle snookum wookums? Who’s a good girl? Yesheeizzzzzzz!” Ororo nearly went into sugar shock as Selene cuddled a lunchbox-sized bichon frisse with a pink bow in its hair against her sharp cheekbone.

She didn’t eat in her office, but she kept her yappy dog there???

“Don’t mind FiFi, she’s a love, she enjoys being close to Mommy,” Selene crooned, more to her dog than her guest. The moment she set the dog down onto the marble floor, she promptly chased her tail until she discovered Ororo’s suede pumps.

“I’m sure…OW!” Her immediate reflex to having a dog treat her shoe, and by extension her foot, like a dog biscuit was to shake herself loose, but she ground her teeth until Selene came to the rescue.

“Oh, snookums, that’s not how we behave,” she tutted, and she plucked her up, cradling her and checking her over for possible signs of mistreatment by the intruder. “You just wanted to say helloooooooooo…” More puckery, kissy-face noises ensued before she plopped the dog into a surprisingly plush little basket hidden behind her desk.

The next hour found Ororo suffering myriad, abrupt stops and starts to her questions, mindlessly rambling digressions of Selene’s childhood, and too little relevant information to draft a decent article. She’d finally managed to wrangle the answers she craved as Selene was sipping the last of her godawful wheat grass juice and making less than gracious motions for Ororo to take her leave.

“You know how it is, busy schedule, engagements, and I have to take FiFi to the vet for her shots ““

“When’s the release date of your book again?”

“The fifteenth; I thought you already caught that?” Somewhere between the last few times that she’d nearly nodded off, perhaps Ororo did. “You should take St. John’s Wort. It helps to slow memory loss. I can’t tell you how much more youthful I feel since I changed my diet and found the proper supplements!” Ororo smiled weakly, and as soon as her heels clicked over the marble, FiFi took that as her cue to skitter out from Selene’s desk and give her pumps more abuse. Manicured little claws scrabbled over her ankle and put runs in her taupe pantyhose.

“GAH!”

“Oh, FiFi, you like …er, what was your name again?”

“Ororo,” she cried as she stumbled into the hall. Selene’s expression was slightly amused as she held her dog tucked under her arm. “I’ll give Cassandra your regards?”

“Don’t worry, we’re all set to have lunch tomorrow! I’m taking her to this quaint little place on Pier 39!” Ororo felt her jaw hit the floor as the door was gently closed in her face.


~*~

Ororo didn’t end up needing Emma’s guest pass to the launch for “Suck it Up: Your Guide to Ending Excuses and Improving Your Life.” Cassandra interoffice-mailed her one two days before the event with the injunction that she would also be covering the event for a short blurb in the magazine’s “What’s New” editorial for the December issue. Naturally, while Yukio, Ali, Emma and Betsy cavorted with the beautiful people, Ororo kept vigil by the refreshment table, checking guests for name tags in the chance they’d tell her something quotable and fit to print.

Cassandra hunted her down, raking her eyes over Ororo’s outfit sourly before she barked out commands.

“Mingle! You should have worn one of the press badges from the front desk!”

“I’m not technically ‘press.’” The banquet room was swarming with reporters and photographers from the Chronicle. Ororo didn’t know why they couldn’t just glean what they needed from the press releases the next day.

“Don’t miss a good opportunity to…hold on,” she hissed before diving into her purse for her cell phone. “Yes…oh, no. That won’t do. All right, I’ll take care of it myself.” She clicked it shut and pinned Ororo in her steely blue gaze.

“Flowers. The florist never sent us the bouquet we ordered for Selene. You were supposed to present it to her after my speech.”

“We can’t just go in the back and see if there was an arrangement that they didn’t use on the tables?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed sharply. “These are the kinds of things we can’t take lightly if we want to make a good impression, Ororo. Go.”

“Excuse me.”

“Quick. Head to the florist, here’s my P card, and get something nice. Not too nice. I expect the expense report on my desk by close of business on Monday.” An American Express was shoved ruthlessly into her palm, and Ororo scarcely had time to retrieve her coat from the mezzanine. Yukio caught sight of her from the crowd and followed quickly on her stilettos, already zipping her own jacket shut.

“Where you headed, ‘Roro?”

“Flowers,” Ororo snarled. “I need flowers.”

“There’s a whole shitload on every table. Good ones.”

“Those are ‘arrangements.’ I need a ‘bouquet.’ They’re not the same. Not the same at all.”

“Ooh. Right. Never mind.” She recognized a “Don’t make me snatch you baldheaded, I’m trying to think right now” moment when she saw one. “Wait.” Ororo was yanked after her best friend before she could reach full steam. “Wrong way. This way.”

“Why?” There was an overpriced flower shop three blocks south.

“I know this great place. Cheap, nice, and the owner’s really cool. He’ll cut us a deal.”

“How many other florists are open at this hour?” Ororo grumbled.

“Do ya want cheap flowers or not?” Yukio quipped. Ororo’s sigh was long-suffering as she hunched further into her short London Fog trench coat, cursing the breeze from the bay. When her hair was in its usual ponytail and she had nowhere special to be, she loved a good, windy day. Today wasn’t one of those days.

Six blocks later, Ororo and Yukio entered a little hole-in-the-wall shop that smelled strongly of cut flowers and peppermint. The front window announced that “The Greenhouse” was having a special on day lilies and that delivery was tax-free.

“This is the place,” Yukio informed her as the bell over the door dinged. “LOGAN!” she called into the empty-looking shop. Ororo perused the selection of exotic plants and enormous buckets of long-stemmed flowers already wrapped in neat bouquets. She gently stroked the leaves of popcorn-yellow gladioluses when she heard heavy footsteps clomp out from behind the counter.

“Whole neighborhood can hear ya,” muttered a compact man wearing a soil-speckled apron. His smile was slow and indolent, reaching its full wattage as he drew closer to the attractive, elegantly dressed women. “What can I help ya with, Wild Thing?” Yukio bent down to kiss his cheek and wiped away the smear of red lipstick she left behind.

“We need a bouquet.”

“That’d be my first guess. Wanna be more specific?” he drawled.

“A bouquet just nice enough to kiss the ass of someone important, but not enough to break the bank.”

“Ass-kissable and cheap. How ‘bout these?” He guided them toward a selection of various purple and white bunches that included more of the glads, agapanthus, enormous double hybrid Dutch irises, tulips, spotted dragonlilies, chrysanthemums, and some subtle greens.

“How much for that one?” Ororo inquired, point to a medium-sized bouquet with dark blue blooms and white and yellow accents. He made a thoughtful sound in his throat as he plucked it from the bucket, careful not to drip water on their shoes.

“I’ll give it to ya for half off.” Ororo’s eyebrows flew up in surprise.

“You don’t have to do that,” she stammered. The flowers looked expensive, and the shop looked modest. Cassandra’s orders still echoed in her head.

“I wanna do that.” He headed behind the counter and fetched a plastic sheath to wrap around the damp stems. “Ain’t any trouble. ‘Sides, figure if the two of ya are out here in my shop at this hour of the night, ya don’t have much time ta quibble.” He shucked his gloves before he wrapped the bouquet in an additional layer of pretty pink cellophane and tied it off with a matching ribbon. He laid the bouquet down as Ororo fished in her purse for the charge card, and she felt his eyes watching her; her hands wouldn’t cooperate as she fumbled clumsily in the dark confines. She produced it with a huff of triumph and handed it to him.

At that moment, time stood still.

Calloused fingers, both long and thick, plucked the card from her grasp and swiped it through the reader. She heard Yukio muttering over the roses in the glass cooler in the back, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her mouth went dry.

His skin was still mildly tanned, suggesting he worked outdoors on a frequent basis, even though it was mid-fall. Dark brown hair that looked invitingly thick and unruly begged to be tousled some more. Heavy but well-shaped brows beetled briefly as he wrote up the sales slip and muttered the figures aloud through chiseled lips. He had a square jaw and strong, broad cheekbones. Laugh lines around the corners of his hazel eyes gave his face character. A fine layer of dark hair ended just below his collarbones, visible where his flannel shirt was unbuttoned. Her mind began comparing his rugged looks to Vic’s more European-looking, rangy beauty, even though he was just as densely muscled. Vic topped Ororo by six inches; Yukio’s friend stood as tall as the tip of her nose.

“What’s yer name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yer name. For the receipt.”

“Oh…God. Sorry. Ororo. Ororo Munroe.”

“Hnh.” He scrawled it on the carbon duplicate and tore off the yellow slip. “That ain’t a name ya hear every day.” He stepped out from behind the counter and handed her the bouquet. “I like it.”

“Thanks.”

“Ya made a nice choice. They match yer eyes.” Warmth bloomed in her cheeks and her stomach fluttered. Or, that could just be hunger setting in…

“Too bad she’s not the one getting ‘em,” Yukio pointed out. “We’ve got asses to kiss, bub.”

“Hold it,” he called out before they turned to go. “Here.” He slid one of the business cards from the deck next to the register. “We’re open later than the place on Third, and ya can’t beat our price if ya ever hafta order anything for a big event.”

“Wish my boss had known that earlier,” she griped, but she gratefully took the card from him and enjoyed that fleeting touch as much as the first.

“Call me if ya need anything,” he rumbled. “Call me Logan,” he added.

“I’ll remember that.” Her feet tugged her toward the door, but she was still peering back at him over her shoulder. “It was nice meeting you.” The closed behind her, his smile her last sight before they hurried back into the night.

They were a block from the party when Ororo finally worked up the nerve.

“What’s his story?”

“What story? Not much of a story at all. I’ve known him for a while.”

“From where?”

“My old roommate dated him for a while before she went abroad.”

“Was that why they broke up?”

“Nope.” Yukio opened the door and let Ororo in first. “He broke her heart.” Ororo’s stomach plummeted in disappointment.

“Why? Was he an asshole to her?”

“No. Not really.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Wanna tell me why you’re pumping me for Logan’s story?”

“No. Not yet.” Yukio tsked and helped Ororo peel out of her coat one sleeve at a time while she juggled the bouquet.

“Then the most you’re getting out of me is this: Logan wasn’t an asshole. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Still not helping.”

“Nope. But you’re the one with the business card burning a hole in your purse.” They waded through the crowd in search of Ororo’s boss, following the sounds of forced laughter and scripted small talk to the long banquet table closest to the stage.

“I want to know if it’s worth talking to him.”

“Talk, my ass. You’re not even over Vic.”

“Yukio…sheesh. I’m not looking for a real relationship. I just want to have some fun.”

“Most people’s definition of ‘fun’ after they break up with someone includes rebound sex and seeing how few times they have to return the other person’s calls. That’s not you.”

“But…I LIKE rebound sex,” Ororo pouted.

“Rebound sex is like the Snickers of relationships. You like three-course meals. You won’t settle for a fling.”

“I can have a fling if I want to. I can ‘fling.’”

“Famous last words, ‘Ro…” She tugged her to a halt. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If you end up going out with Logan, and if things get heavy, don’t blame me if it falls through. I love you, and I like him, granted, he’s my friend, and a decent guy.”

“So no problem.” It was like waving a flag in front of a bull. Yukio groaned at the gleam in those soulful blue eyes, so transparent when it came to hiding her feelings.

“No, BIG problem. If you’re looking for a serious relationship right now, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Then it’ll be fine. I’m not. Shit, I just threw out the rest of Vic’s fast food cup collection from my cupboards.”

“Fine. He’s worth talking to, Ororo. But just make sure when you do, you’re not just hearing what you want to. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Back to index
That Starlight Look in Your Eyes by OriginalCeenote
“Why’d Cassandra call this meeting?”

“You’ve got me,” Betsy shrugged. “The last time she called us in unscheduled like this, they laid off half the mail room.” She peered furtively around the room before adding “See anybody in a suit?”

“If I wasn’t paranoid already, that just kicked me over the edge.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Betsy peeled the gold foil from a pack of RoLos. “Here. Medicate yourself.” Ororo plopped the gooey tidbit into her mouth just as Cassandra strode in on a cloud of Dior.

“Anna Marie’s gone rogue again,” she informed them. “She’s taking another sick day, so I’ll need you to take minutes, Ororo.” Her mouth was glued shut by caramel, garbling her response.

“Errrmmmm…herld arem…urk…hold on,” she stammered, fanning her hand over her mouth. “Let me hook up the laptop ““

“Grab a steno from her desk, it’s quicker.” Ororo smiled tidily and nodded, gratefully sweeping out of the conference room.

Must. Stop. Fist. Of. Death.

Betsy dutifully saved them a seat closest to the door as the staff crowded inside, pressing against the walls.

“I’ll make this quick, since we’re down to the wire,” Cassandra explained. “I’d like to start by sharing two items on the agenda that should please most of you.” No one reminded her that they never received an agenda, at risk of being sharply dispatched and spit out. “We landed the Lady X account. They’ve purchased six months of ad space, full-spread for their new fragrance. They’ve also graciously sent over a case of samples. Feel free to help yourselves after the meeting.

It’s also my great pleasure and privilege to announce that a new columnist will be joining our staff today.” The crowd nearest the door parted to admit a stylishly dressed blonde who reeked of entitlement and Elizabeth Arden. “Everyone, say hello and welcome to Valerie Cooper.” She gave the room a polite nod and then stared at Cassandra expectantly.

“Could I have some introductions?” One by one, each person in the room gave their name and sheepish blurbs of title and position. Ororo only looked up from her notes when Betsy sharply elbowed her.

“Oh! I apologize…Ororo Munroe. Managing editor.”

“Women’s health editor,” Cassandra corrected her. Despite her flat tone, Valerie beamed brightly.

“I just know I’ll be your shadow, don’t mind me!” This was greeted by a muted chorus of chuckles.

Valerie was as good as her word. Ororo no sooner reached her desk and began typing the minutes than the newcomer poked her blonde head around the corner of her cubicle.

“Hi,” she hedged self-deprecatingly. “Could you…help me with a little something?”

“Ooooh…I’m kind of in the middle of ““

“It’s my PC,” she interrupted, offering Ororo a look that claimed butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I was wondering how I would go about getting a logon ID for the network.”

“You’ll be working off-site, won’t you?”

“Part of the time. Cassandra wants to make sure I have a connection to the network in case my emails aren’t received, so I can save my articles without worrying about the attachments. You know how these things get lost.” Ororo sighed in annoyance; she knew all too well, since she was the main contact for the out-of-area columnists and maintained the submission log. That didn’t mean she wanted to take credit for “these things” getting lost.

She wasn’t giving her the satisfaction. The meeting minutes were burning a hole in her in-basket.

“I’ll call Douglas and send him your way.”

“You’re a lifesaver!” She prodded Ororo for directions to the break room until Ororo gave up, escorting her down the hall with her own Wonder Woman coffee mug in hand. More impromptu introductions and a tour of the copy rooms and supply cabinets on the second floor threatened her to-do list for the day. Everyone wanted to stop to talk to the pretty blonde, and she was only too happy to oblige.

“I think you’re in good hands,” Ororo murmured, excusing herself when Douglas Ramsey finally showed up to connect her to the network. He preened like a peacock under her effusive praise and claims that “I’m horrible at technical things!”

Ororo checked her Web email account an hour later as she made the last of her edits in red ink to a piece on the benefits of Pilates. Spam, spam, spam, new services from her bank, a “forward me to ten of your friends” note from Emma, pictures from Yukio’s last catalog party…

“Hellooooooo, what are we doing in here?” She double-clicked the last one, also from Yukio, with “A little bird told me” in the subject line.

Looks like your ears must have been burning before we went back to the party, Ro-chan, because Logan got a hold of me today at work and told me to give you his email and home number. His work number’s already on his card that he gave you. He asked me if you were single. I didn’t tell him how recently…feel free to fill in the blanks at your own discretion.

Like I said, don’t get hurt.

…and I want details. Every single, sticky, filthy detail.
Yukio XOXOXOXO

A warm tingle ran through her bones as she archived the message and added his information to her contact list. The same quirky, sappy little smile occasionally snuck back onto her lips as she reviewed each submission and tucked them into their respective folders.


~0~

Two days later:

Ororo was on a mission.

“You could just wear that nice black dress you already have,” Yukio reminded her.

“I need help here,” she sniped, restlessly sliding metal hangers along a circular rack of jeans. “What should I wear for a guy who works in dirt all day?”

“Anything but dirt?”

“Still not helping,” she muttered, and she held up a pair of skinny, bootcut pair of distressed denims at her waist, eyeballing the fit.

“Where’s he taking you?”

“Movie. I get to choose.”

“Chick flick?”

“I was thinking an action movie…what do you think?”

“Do you want to watch an action movie?”

“No.” She wrinkled her nose and draped the jeans over her arm. “Vic burned me out on bullets, titties and explosions six months into him moving in with me. If I had to watch any of the Mission Impossible movies or Reservoir Dogs one more time, you would have had to have me committed.”

“So pick something you want to actually watch. There’s a novel idea,” Yukio snorted.

“It doesn’t work that way. It’s a first date.”

“And?”

“I have to pick something he likes. It’s an easy conversation opener. I don’t do small talk.”

“You could talk about work while he’s buying you the popcorn.”

“I hate talking about work.”

“Eh. It’s a no-brainer.”

“Only if I want to watch him run screaming from the monotony.”

“Give yourself some credit.”

“Maybe when I get a job that doesn’t make me want to rip my ears off the sides of my head.”

“What did Cassandra do now?”

“Nothing. She’s not the culprit this time. We’ve got a new columnist.”

“She annoying?”

“Bingo. Not to mention one more sheep to herd back into the corral. I’m having a hard enough time keeping Remy on a tight rein. Forty-eight hours or less before deadline is when he slinks back to me with his articles.”

“He back from London?”

“Just for five frickin’ minutes. He’s back on a plane on Friday.”

“He’s hiding from you.”

“He sent me a cool postcard, though.” Their travel journalist’s dark auburn hair zipping around the corner was often the most that the office of Ultimate Woman ever saw of their most popular travel columnist and entertainment reporter. Remy LeBeau took great joy in what he did for a living and kept his personal life personal; few people knew him as well as Ororo did, owing that privilege to their time spent as interns while they each finished degrees in journalism and communications.

Ororo relied on him for pertinent insight on the men in her life, calling him her “subject matter expert.” He was second only to Yukio whenever she began dating anyone new or suffered an ugly breakup in regard to giving him the dirt. Remy also had the distinct advantage of having been divorced from his wife of less than a year, Belladonna; that was long enough to major in the study of female living habits in an immersion program. He’d become fluent in specialties such as I Need Chocolate 101 and Introduction to Taking Out the Garbage.

But more importantly, he was honest and a good listener, and he knew how men thought. He’d played the game long enough to give good advice on how not to play games, something Ororo still hadn’t mastered.

It was too easy, too seductive to fall back into old habits, like a comfortable pair of shoes.

He’d known Vic was cheating even before she broke down at her desk, when he’d approached her to keep their lunch date.

“He ain’ worth it, petit,” he assured her, silently fanning away one of the interns attempting to bring her a handful of press releases. She marked Remy’s initial reticence to talk about Vic with her to the two men not having anything in common. She was the one who had to live with Vic, she reasoned, not Remy. She sniffled more loudly into the wad of Kleenex he produced when he reminded her that when she started dating him, she’d been on the rebound and ever planned on a real commitment from the onset. He’d been stumped when she moved the huge, blond construction worker into her apartment.

“Rem still single?”

“What do you think?” Ororo scoffed. “Stick a fork in him, he’s done. His voice mail’s so full, you just get that long beep that sounds like a fax signal when you try to leave a message. He doesn’t even give out his email.”

“Guess I don’t blame him, then.” Yukio was happily single following a bad breakup with her girlfriend, Carol Danvers, which followed too closely on the end of a five-year relationship with Kenuichio Harada. She was done with both men AND women at this point, and she was contemplating getting a nice golden retriever.

“What color do you think Logan would like if I were to get this top?”

“What color do you like?”

“Yukio, don’t leave me hanging!” She pressed one, then the other of two short-sleeved knit tops against herself. “Black or charcoal?”

“They’re both perfect. Buy both.”

“You’re not helping!”

“I’m not the one going on the date.” Then she added “Half your wardrobe’s black. The charcoal would be a nice change.”

“Right,” she answered thoughtfully before returning the charcoal top to the rack. “Black it is. Stick to what works.”

“Brat,” Yukio muttered, shaking her head. Her dangling gold hoops swung with the motion, set off nicely by her boyishly short, spiky black hair. Her hairstylist fell in love with her the day that she took her suggestion to whack off two feet and let her “try something new.” That was two years ago, and Yukio never turned back. She was no less striking than Ororo, even though she was her polar opposite. Her complexion was fair and had warm, brown undertones. Japanese features were set in a heart-shaped face, and her body was willowy and slender. Most things came easily to Yukio, except for her love life. Her expectations were high, no matter who she was with, and she would seldom bend.

Ororo, on the other hand, bent over backward, left, right, and into a pretzel knot every time she exchanged her phone number with someone new.

“I need a belt with this,” she muttered as they approached the accessory racks in the back of the store.

“Shoot, why not?”

One simple outfit became more and more complicated with each progressive store they perused. Shoes, makeup, leave-in conditioner, earrings, and a new pocketbook went home with her in white plastic shopping bags while Yukio walked out empty-handed except for a cinnamon sugar soft pretzel.

~0~

Six hours later:

So it begins.

Hurry Up and Wait.

Those last, agonizing, ten to fifteen minutes of pacing, checking the peephole in the door, fluffing your hair in the mirror, looking for lipstick on your teeth, making sure your shirt isn’t tucked into your underpants, and deliberating if an outfit makes your butt look big enough to need to change it one last time.

Ororo was dying to eat something, but she was saving room for popcorn. She couldn’t greet him at the door with Cheese Nip breath or crumbs on her hands; butterflies duked it out with hunger, and her stomach was making strange, petulant noises.

She pressed her palm against her abdomen. “Stop that!” she hissed.

Logan picked that moment to knock. She nearly tripped over the hallway throw rug in her haste; her stumbling steps sounded heavy against the hardwood floor. “GAH!”

*Knock, knock, knock…*

“Coming! I’m coming!” One glance through the peephole wasn’t enough to get the full effect of how he looked; she was eyeball to chest with him from the angle where he stood, his body distorted by the curved lens.

She jerked open the deadbolts and stared at him through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, the slender chain from the lock separating them.

“Hey, darlin’.”

“Hi!” She hated how breathy and girlish her voice sounded. He merely grinned. Her stomach graduated from odd noises to performing flip-flops; she wondered if he could hear her heart pounding.

Picture him in his underwear… she coached herself.

No, no, that didn’t help at all.

He was undeniably sexy.

Hazel eyes skimmed over her from head to foot, lingering on the places he liked best. “Ya look nice. Ready ta go?”

“Let me get my pocketbook.” She stepped back to let him inside, thanking herself that she’d tidied up her apartment before she did her nails. “Relax for a minute.”

“Nice place.”

“Thanks!” she called out, digging in her jewelry box for one last detail: Her lucky pendant. She fumbled with the clasp and checked to make sure it was hanging neatly around her neck without catching her hair, but she smothered a curse when she yanked out a few random strands anyway.

She was just looping her strap over her shoulder, choosing her regular, black pocketbook that held all the essentials, when he looked up from her coffee table tome of “Superman Sunday Comic Classics” with a smile.

“Ready ta roll?”

“Reddy, Freddie.” He relieved her of her jacket before she could shoulder her way into it and held it out for her. She felt the faint brush of his hand lifting the fall of thick hair up from the collar before she tugged it closed, and she felt a fresh wave of goosebumps. His voice by her ear was rumbly, deep, and very, very male.

“Smell nice.”

“Oh…er, thanks…”

“Whatever it is, it’s nice on you.” If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn he had crept closer, almost nuzzling her nape to get a better whiff.

“Curve,” she stammered.

“Hmmm?”

“Curve. Perfume. It’s…my perfume.” She saw him nod from the corner of her eye as she fished out her keys.

“Perfume ain’t the kinda thing I’ve ever memorized when I’ve smelled any I’ve liked. Flowers are a different story.”

“What, you know all of them by scent?”

“More than ya’d think.” Again, a faint touch when they reached for the doorknob at the same time.

“Where are you parked?” The night was crisp, and it was early yet; she wagered they’d be able to see their breath by the end of the movie.

“Right over there.” He nodded across the street as they strolled to the stoplight. His car was unremarkable, clean, but showing gradual wear and tear in the paint from living so close to the shoreline. The “H” was missing from the hood. “Buncha kids in my neighborhood went around vandalizing Hondas in the apartment parking lot. They collected these things,” he explained, pointing to the blank outline where they’d scraped off his logo.

“At least they didn’t take the hub caps or the tires,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Any thoughts on what movie you’d like to see?”

“Thought I’d let you pick,” he offered. She stared again at his hands, weathered and rugged as he started the car. She jerked ineffectually at the seat belt until he peered over at her struggle. “Sorry, darlin’, it’s a pain in the ass. Been meanin’ ta get that fixed.” He leaned over without any further excuse and reached for the offending buckle, giving a strong tug “just the right way.”

He was close enough for her to inhale his masculine scent, mingling his own pheromones with a hint of his aftershave and shampoo. She could make out the pending, stubborn bristles just beneath his skin that threatened five o’clock shadow. She felt heat radiating from his body as it brushed hers with the simple task, and she fought back more of those infernal tingles. Get a grip, girl.

The drive to the theater was uneventful; they arrived just late enough to get a parking space toward the back and to miss half the previews. A single, large bucket of popcorn guaranteed more close contact, something that became jitteringly obvious once they sat down in the back row. What was she, twelve?

The Bourne Ultimatum was a safe choice. Logan wasn’t the kind of person who talked during a movie, except for asking her if she wanted another soda halfway through. Vic had annoyed her and half the people around them with a running commentary (loudly) of what was happening on the screen. No wrestling for the armrest, no Vic hogging the soda, no listening to him fumbling for his cell phone when he should’ve turned it off during the previews.

It was nice.

It took a while for her ears to adjust to the sudden loss of Dolby surround sound when they emerged from the theater; she rubbed one absently as he chucked the popcorn bucket into the trash.

“What’d ya think?”

“Mmmm. Not bad. It was decent.” He quirked one shaggy brow and made a thoughtful sound in his chest.

“Decent? That ain’t yer kinda movie?”

“It was fine,” she assured him. “I had fun,” she added, since he was the reason.

“We coulda seen something ya liked more.”

“Even a soppy chick flick?”

“If it had nekkid people in it, sure,” he deadpanned. She suppressed a mild snort.

“You’re awful.”

“Uh-huh. Wanna eat?”

“Yes, please.”


~0~

Ororo and Logan were playing Twenty Questions once the server swept their menus away and left behind tow glasses of iced water.

“Where did ya grow up?”

“Harlem, for a while. My parents went overseas when I was five when my dad was reassigned.”

“Where to?”

“Ghana.”

“Wow.”

“Have you ever been out of the country, Logan?”

“Canada. Lived there most of my life. But yer cheatin’, it’s still my turn.” She chuckled as she tapped her straw to unwrap it.

“Shoot.”

“Got any siblings?”

“No. Always wanted one, though.”

“Eh. That can be overrated. My brother John jacked me up every chance he got.”

“Poor baby.” Her smile was wicked.

“Brat,” he tsked, borrowing Yukio’s favorite nickname. “What do ya do for a livin’?”

“Ah. Work. Right. I’m an editor. I work for Ultimate Woman.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Nice. What’s that like?”

“Oh…boring. You wouldn’t want to hear about ““

“Try me. Do ya write, too?”

“Sometimes.” She found herself warming to her topic. “I manage interns to make sure they’ve done their fact-checking and line edited the drafts.”

“What’s the difference between line editing and proofreading?”

“You’re checking the copy to make sure it was inputted correctly, line by line, with no inconsistencies. Especially with material you received from an external columnist, a wire story, or letters to the editor.”

“Ah. Makes sense. So, do ya like it?” She pondered that for a minute.

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“What don’t ya like about yer job, ‘Ro?” She stifled a laugh.

“Ro? That’s different…nothing above and beyond the things people usually hate about their job, I guess. Meetings. Minutes. Paper cuts. Annoying interruptions.” She bit back “Annoying new columnists and my bitchy boss.”

“How long have ya been there?”

“Five years. Just long enough to have enough experience to compete with the other ten thousand editors in this city who want to work for a magazine.”

‘What about doin’ something else?”

“I’m too stuck in what I’m doing, I guess. It’s safe. Comfortable. I’m in my zone.”

“Bet ya could do anything ya set yer mind to.”

“That wasn’t a question, so it’s my turn,” she reminded him smugly. His answering smile was sheepish, and he held up his hands.

“Hold up. I get one more. Favorite record of all time?”

“Eric Clapton’s Timepieces. You?” she countered.

“Abraxas. Santana.”

“I listen to different kinds of music, preferably something I can dance to.”

“Uh-oh! Ya missed yer question, darlin’.”

“You owe me!” She leaned back into the booth and folded her arms beneath full breasts. “Favorite color?”

“Blue,” he answered easily. His eyes were hooded as he peered up into hers. She felt a current of electricity sizzle between them, and she felt her traitorous nipples harden into pebbles. She cleared her throat.

“How long have you been working in a flower shop?”

“Since I took it over from a friend of mine named Clementine. Her kids didn’t wanna keep the business up and running. Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie both took off ta Paris.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“From hand ta mouth. Rent’s a crime here, but I love bein’ this close ta the action,” he admitted.

“Ever wanted to do anything else?”

“A few different things. When I was a kid, I wanted ta be a superhero.” Laughter made her chest shake this time.

“Superman or Batman?”

“Which one do ya think?”

“Between those two? Batman.” She glanced around the crowded dining room for their server before resuming their talk. “How long have you been single?” He sobered a moment, and she used the pregnant pause to kick herself.

“After a while, ya stop countin’ the days, but for a while now. Single, and not lookin’ that hard. I do all right.” She appreciated his honesty.

“How long was your last relationship?”

“Long enough ta think I knew what I was supposed ta know about her, and for her ta prove me wrong. ‘Bout a year and a half.”

“Favorite TV show?” She decided to let him off the hook for a while.

“Heroes.”

“Good enough.” Conversation suspended itself while steaming plates were set in front of them with the customary warning of “Watch that plate, it’s hot” before they were once again left alone.

“Ya mind me askin’ ya the same question?”

“I’m partial to Battlestar Galactica.”

“The other question.”

“It ended up being a little too long.” She twirled her pasta onto her fork. “But that’s about it.” She didn’t volunteer any more information than that. He didn’t pry any further.

“So I was right ta assume ya live alone?”

“Correct,” she replied cheerfully.

“Works for me.” His smile was wolfish as he cut his petite sirloin.
Back to index
Spirit of the Party by OriginalCeenote
“You’re humming. Why are you humming?” Betsy cut in, interrupting Ororo’s throaty warblings while she updated her article log.

“Meh…just felt like it, I guess. Know how when you can’t get a song out of your head, you just start singing it out of the blue?”

“I know that kind of humming. That’s not what you were doing though, missy. That’s ‘I’ve met a new man’ humming if I ever heard it. Look, there’s the look, don’t try to hide it, you DID!” Betsy smacked her lightly on the arm. “Spill it! I want details.” Ororo tried to stifle a grin with no success, looking like the cat that got the cream.

“He’s sexy. His name’s Logan. He’s a friend of Yukio’s.”

“What does he do?”

“He owns a cute little flower shop.”

“Does he look like someone who should own a cute little flower shop?”

“Nope. If I didn’t see him ring up my order for that bouquet, my first guess would have been that he worked construction or was a lumberjack, flannel and all.”

“Cute?”

“Hot.”

“Nice work. When do we meet him?”

“Betsy! Please! I’ve only been on one date with him so far.”

“Well, hurry up, already! I’m dying to know who made you all giggly and sappy. And ask him if he has a friend!” Betsy stole one of the Reese’s mini peanut butter cups from Ororo’s candy jar. “So do you think you’re ready to throw yourself back out there?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a sigh. “It still feels weird not coming home to Vic, but he drove me nuts. I loved him, and I spent so much time trying to make him happy, Bets.”

“That’s where you went wrong. He said jump, you said ‘How high?’ It was painful to watch.” She peeled off the gold foil and popped the luscious tidbit into her mouth as Ororo scowled.

“Gee, thanks. Sorry my life’s so pathetic.”

“Nonsense. Don’t have a cow. You know what I’m talking about. When you were with Vic, you were with him twenty-four-seven. All you talked about was Vic, all you made time for was Vic, and even when you did things with us, you were on this stupid little curfew. You shopped for him, you kept his appointments, cleaned up after him and practically wiped his bum. You can’t keep doing that; it’s too bloody exhausting.”

“Please! I’m free as a bird! And I’m not really ready for a real relationship right now, anyway. I just want some excitement. I want that butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling of being with someone new. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve just had ‘a date?’ Holding open doors, hand-holding, going to a restaurant that doesn’t involve paper cups, self-serve soda and ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

“That new car smell doesn’t last. What does Mr. Wonderful like to do in his spare time?”

“I’m still figuring that out. We took in a movie.”

“Comedy or action?”

“Action thriller.”

“You never go to see those,” Betsy accused.

“I used to all the time with Vic. When we even went out to the theater,” she added sourly, hitting save on her database changes.

“So why settle for more of the same? What do you like to do?”

“Girly stuff. I haven’t been to a craft fair or a museum in, like, forever. I wanna see that exhibit of the sand paintings at the DeYoung.” She grabbed her purse from the hook on her cubicle wall and keyed in her desktop security password to bring up her screensaver. “I also miss going to the pier.”

“So go. Whether he wants to or not. Do something you like for a change. You’ve got time on your hands.”

“Speaking of which, I need a complete overhaul. Hair, pedicure, facial, the works. I’m tore up from the floor up.”

“Baloney,” Betsy tsked.

“I need some heavy duty pampering. Vic never noticed unless I had a pimple on my forehead.” She still felt indignant thinking about it. Vic could eat what he wanted without gaining a pound, and he looked handsome after getting his thick blond hair cut the same way each time he went to the barber. Life was unfair.

“So then what?”

“I’m going with him to a Giants game.”

“You hate baseball.”

“I like stadium dogs,” Ororo shrugged.

“That’s pitiful. You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

“Cold stadium. Crowded seats. We can practically cuddle. Think I’ll manage.” Ororo’s face was smug. Betsy rolled her eyes as they made their way toward the exit.

“Wouldn’t hurt to be yourself.”

“I’m still trying to figure out who that even is.”

The sound of scurrying feet rushing up behind them and “Ororo, could you hold on a second?” made her stop in her tracks and cringe.

Valerie. Great. “I need you for a minute. Do you have a minute?” Before she could say no, Val was already tugging her by the sleeve toward her desk, as Ororo craned her neck back around to Betsy and mouthed “What the fuck?” Betsy gave her a cavalier wave and made hand motions of “Call me” as she disappeared.

Ororo didn’t relinquish her hold on her purse, hoping Val would take the hint that she was on her way to lunch.

No dice. “I just finished that article on Hashimoto’s disease, and I need it set. Cassandra gave it the green light.”

“Hold up. We were saving that one for next month’s issue.”

“Not anymore. She wants this one moved into the queue. I already sent it to layout downstairs.”

“I was the one who was supposed to send it once it was logged,” Ororo reminded her. “We’ve already edited the final draft. I don’t want us repaginating the whole thing at the last minute.” Valerie’s smile didn’t waver.

“I know that you’re discouraged about creating more work, Ororo, but I’m following Cassandra’s wishes, so it would help if you were on board for this and if you could move it onto your plate.” Ororo’s face settled into a calm (albeit stunned) mask as “Psycho” fiddles played in her head. “I also saw the table of contents. I wasn’t listed yet as a contributing columnist?”

“We weren’t expecting your article to go in this issue,” Ororo explained through gritted teeth.

“Maybe just make a note to whoever’s typesetting it,” Valerie suggested, this time smiling more beatifically, now that she was getting her way.

“That would be Piotr.” One more email Ororo would have to send on top of the mountain she already had.

“I really appreciate it, Ororo!” There it was, the perky voice. “Do you think you could add that to the log and do the final edits by two?”

“It’ll be a tight squeeze, I’ll have to rearrange things.”

“You know how it is,” Val cajoled. “Sometimes you have to take one for the team.” She turned back to her computer, effectively dismissing her.

“Sure,” Ororo murmured as she departed. “Just bend over and grab your friggin’ ankles…”

Ororo retraced her steps to her desk, plopped her purse next to her chair and logged back on, fuming.

All she wanted was lunch. Lunch, fer cryin’ out loud.

So down went the screensaver, up went the article file, and her hour out of the office went kaput. Betsy cooed her sympathy into her mobile while Ororo muttered under her breath of the evils of a certain columnist and publisher the world revolved around.

She was changing the cutline just as restlessness began to set in, and then she thought of Logan. A lot. By the time she absently finished half of a panini, limp from its journey in Styrofoam, it was time to go home.

What the heck was she supposed to wear to a Giants game?

She casually ignored the staff memo that personal ‘Net use was going to be rigorously monitored and checked her Web mail. Hunh…one from Yukio. One from Emma. Two joke emails from Betsy.

One from Logan.


October 1

Subject: Hey, darlin’

Had a lot of fun at dinner. I’ve got more questions for you. I’ve got a little surprise, too.

Anyone ever tell you that your hair smells really, really nice?

See you Saturday.

- Logan ;)

Pixie dust. That described the warm, yummy tingles sparkling in her stomach and dancing over her flesh. She shot Betsy a wave over her shoulder on her way to the elevator. She was just hanging up her phone and leaning out from her cubicle as she pushed the button.

“You’re humming again,” she sang.

And she was.


~0~

Ororo’s leg muscles were still smarting from their brisk walk from the street, making her wish after the fact that they’d taken the Baylink Ferry to the stadium. She didn’t question Logan’s choice to skip parking at the stadium, though. It was mobbed.

Their brisk walk had the added advantage of giving her an excuse to hold his hand as they strolled uphill. “Let’s use those long legs of yers, darlin’!” That stilled her grumbling and made her smile. And his hands were nice; big, strong and warm, and he rubbed her chilly ones while they were standing in line with their tickets.

“Cold hands,” he murmured. “Feel like icicles.”

“I’m one of those people who always gets cold.”

“Maybe this wasn’t what we shoulda done today.” He huddled closer to her and tucked her hand, still linked with his, into the deep pocket of his black wool peacoat.

“I just wanted to get out today.” That wasn’t a lie. “This was a nice way to do it.” And it was slowly becoming just that.

Her toes felt like little ice cubes inside her black and white Adidas sneakers, and the frigid wind was teasing her hair out from her ponytail. On her head she wore a Giants baseball cap, one of Logan’s surprises for the day.

AT&T Park was huge and windy, and Ororo couldn’t escape the smells from the vendors making their way up the aisles. Logan bought them two cocoas and two hot dogs that tasted even better than they smelled, and they proceeded to get pummeled by neighboring fans every time there was a double. When the Giants scored a run, Ororo more or less went deaf. But somehow, it managed to be fun. Logan thoughtfully remembered to bring a fuzzy, careworn orange and black Giants blanket with him, both to sit on and to wrap up in, so at least there was something between her buns and the hard bleachers.

“Ya warm enough?”

“I can’t feel my nose,” she admitted. His response was to reach out and tweak the reddened tip. Her sense of smell wasn’t impaired, at any rate, since she caught his pleasant, masculine scent again on his clothes. Her own clothes were giving her second thoughts. She was casual again, this time in a long thermal shirt in white waffle knit and some acid-washed, boot-cut jeans, topped with her Levi’s denim jacket. Two new dresses whispered to her from her closet that morning, but she rummaged through her drawers instead.

There was just as much of a snag in the corridor as they left that there was when they came. The sun was just beginning to set over the cove, and Ororo felt her stomach growl.

“Somebody’s starvin’,” Logan commented, once again taking her hand.

“Somebody else better get me somewhere that I can eat whatever’s not nailed down!”

“North Beach?”

“North Beach.” He’d definitely gotten that right. Ororo loved the pier.

They continued their game of twenty questions over a luscious pizza heaped with pepperoni and mushrooms. Logan ate the crusts; Ororo hated them, thankfully passing them across the table.

“What do you when you’re not working?”

“This, when I’ve got anything extra after payin’ rent,” he shrugged. “Gym. Rent a DVD every now an’ again. Just bought Die Hard, finally, after I saw the last one in the theater.” He reached for the shaker of red pepper and liberally sprinkled his third slice. “You?”

“Me? Oh. Hmmmm. I read. Scratch that. I read a lot. I’m on a first-name basis with the folks at Borders. You’d think I’d get sick of looking at print all night after reading it all day. I like music.”

“What kind? Besides Clapton.”

“A little of everything.” To Ororo, “everything” included house, R&B, world music, or anything that she could dance to until she dropped. “And once in a while, I like to head to the clubs.” His eyes glazed over.

“I can’t stand the club scene,” he admitted. “Too much of a meat market. And I don’t dance.”

“Why not?” she chided playfully. “There’s something about it that just gets me. Lights. Music. Getting dolled up. Having a buzz.”

“How much of a buzz?”

“Enough not to be thirsty, but not enough for numb teeth and a hangover.” He grinned; she knew she gave him the correct answer.

“Anything else ya usually get dolled up for?”

“Different things. Stuff for work. And a party every now and again. Community club dinners.”

“So ya get ta play as hard as ya work.”

“I don’t do anything as hard as I work,” she offered. Her fingers plucked the slices of pepperoni from her slice, leaving behind craters in the cooling cheese. His eyes challenged her from across the table. They settled the bill and headed out into the sunset, perusing shop windows and watching the sea lions in the bay, wrinkling their noses at the smell.

Old Stevie Ray Vaughn tunes filled Logan’s tiny Civic on their way up the hill. “Are ya tired?”

“That dinner almost made me want a nap, but I’m good.”

“Feel like a movie?”

“Not much of anything I want to see at the theater.”

“I’ve got some discs at home, if ya wanna check ‘em out and take yer pick?”

“That might be more my speed. Lead on, MacDuff.” She watched his hands as he steered them down a street she wasn’t familiar with.

He lived on a busy neighborhood dotted with older, two-story houses. They managed to parallel-park outside a smaller home with brown siding and white trim, closely sandwiched between its neighbors with a tiny strip of front yard. She was fumbling again with the sticky seat belt when he got out of the car and circled it, opening her door before she could even touch the handle.

“Here,” he said, stilling her hands and once again reaching over her to undo the buckle. There was that wonderful little Logan smell again, and his hair held a hint of sea breeze and sunshine in it. She itched to run her hands through it, and the edge of his coat tickled her. All she would have to do was lean forward a bit to feather his cheek with her lips and taste him. He had that effect on her, and she felt her body warm up at the prospect of touching him, if the opportunity presented itself.

They climbed the concrete steps to his front door. Ororo peered inside the beveled glass window in his front door as he dug the key out of his pocket, catching a glimpse of an empty foyer.

She caught the scents of male occupancy when they strode into his living room. “Not bad,” she mused aloud, taking in the hard wood floors and sparely furnished living room.

It was cluttered. Not dirty, but definitely cluttered. A thickly stuffed mail holder hung by the back door. A side table next to the couch was piled with sports magazines and an unfolded copy of the Chronicle. A large toolbox on the floor next to his dinette set. The small round table was big enough for two and dressed with faded denim placemats. An Ansel Adams black-and-white print hung in the living room, elegantly framed. His couches were upholstered in dark tweed, a nondescript brown that could pass for coffee. Like any good bachelor, the TV was the focal point of the room, flanked on either side by a tall, potted ficus and a short bookcase.

She perused the offerings as he hung his coat over the back of one of the dinette chairs. She thumbed through his books and tugged a glossy book of Calvin and Hobbes comics loose, chuckling at the cover.

“Love that one,” he informed her. His voice rumbled from just over her shoulder. She felt a light pull at her sleeve. “Lemme take yer coat so ya don’t roast.” He’d turned on the thermostat already, and she felt the chill slowly leave her skin. She plunked the book atop the case and eased out of her jacket. His eyes seemed to drink her in; she felt suddenly awkward beneath his appraisal. She was in his home, his personal space, and she couldn’t think of anything socially correct to say. He laid her coat over the arm of the couch and nodded for her to sit.

“Where are those movies you promised me?” She sank more deeply into the cushions than she expected, a low “oomph!” escaping her lips.

“Take yer pick.” He popped open the TV cabinet below the set and tapped each case as he rattled them off. Batman Begins. Fast and the Furious. Meet the Parents…”

“That one,” she piped up.

“That one it is,” he murmured. He fiddled with the player while her eyes continued to roam around the room. Eventually they settled back on Logan.

There was just something about him. Comfortable and easy in his skin. Low-maintenance and earthy. She knew he was tactile and enjoyed his sense of humor. She had the feeling he was affectionate, despite Yukio’s warning that he kept to himself. Burning curiosity welled in her gut. There were no pictures of anything resembling an ex-girlfriend hanging on his walls, just one cute photo of him and a man who bore a strong resemblance, with the 49’ers stadium in the background.

“What was your last girlfriend like?” She saw his body jerk and still as he shut the movie case.

“Damn. Hm. Dunno. Nice enough. Fun. Quiet. Mariko didn’t feel like stayin’ in the states after we went our separate ways. I didn’t try ta stop her.”

“Where did she go?”

“Tokyo. Back ta her family. Yukio keeps in touch with her. She’s got her own family now. Said she had a son.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never been to Tokyo. It’s on my list.” He warmed to the subject.

“Any others?”

“Italy. Spain, to see the Alhambra. Germany. And a few places that aren’t so far away, like Alaska and Mazatlan.”

“Ya’d like Mazatlan.”

“Lucky! I haven’t been there yet. I’m too busy.”

“It ain’t cheap. Be ready ta spend a lot of money on the fun restaurants and shopping. And pack a swimsuit. Ya can’t beat those beaches.”

“Yup, I’m definitely jealous now. I’m not much of a swimmer, but I love the beach.” He seated himself on the couch, also sinking into the yawning canyon of cushions. The momentum pulled her closer to him, making her lean against his solid body so their legs touched at the side seams of their jeans. She shivered; this time, she wasn’t cold. “Did she always want a family?” she inquired, revisiting the other half of her question. What she meant was Do you want a family? Then she silently kicked herself.

“Eventually. It came up before she gave me back my key.”

“Was that what ended it?”

“Uh-uh.” The television threw dim light over their faces, illuminating his rugged profile. “It was just one more thing ta throw on top of the pile.” He didn’t bother to fast forward through the previews. “Kids weren’t outta the question. They’re just at the bottom of the list. So there ya go, I’ve gotta list, too.” Her laughter was quiet but shook her chest.

“What else is on the list, Logan?”

“Hangin’ out with someone who’s smart, funny, good company. The usual stuff. Doesn’t hurt if she looks cute in a baseball cap, either,” he amended.

“Doesn’t hurt, huh?” No blushing or giggling, just a knowing, crooked smile.

“Nope. Not at all.” They reached her favorite scene in the beginning of the movie, when Ben Stiller’s character, Greg Focker, signaled to the kids in the classroom to hold up the letters spelling out his proposal. Just like she always did, she winced with reluctant laughter, pitying him. “Poor bastard,” Logan muttered, agreeing with her thoughts.

“It’d be hard enough asking someone if you wanted to marry them.”

“I’ve never gotten that far.”

“Ever been in love?”

“Yep.”

“Ever regret it?”

“Nope.”

“Think you’ll ever repeat it?”

“That’s on the list, too. But not necessarily on the top. ‘Ro?”

“Hmmm?”

“Ya know…damn it. I had fun today. And the other night. I enjoyed the hell outta bein’ with ya and spending time together. So don’t take this the wrong way…”

“Don’t finish that sentence. People always take it the wrong way. And I won’t. Not ready for a relationship. It’s not me, it’s you. I get it, Logan!” She took the edge off it by laughing and squeezing his hand. “I took back my key. I didn’t roll up the welcome mat, though. I like you. And I like this. Just like this.” His face relaxed, and he took a minute to stare at her face, studying her features. He nodded to her cap.

“Mind if I take that off?” He plucked it off by the bill and tossed it onto the table before she could reply. She groaned to herself, knowing she had hat hair. Her forehead cool as he exposed it to the air, freeing it from the hat’s sweaty binding. “There.”

“Thanks.”

“Ya look nice without it, too.” He hadn’t let go of her hand during her speech; if anything, his fingers laced through hers, squeezing them more tightly and sending little thrills up her arms.

“Thanks. For the hat. For the game. Everything. This was a good day.”

“It’s still early, ‘Ro. It ain’t quite over yet.”

“It’s not?” Her voice lost its confident edge, but it lowered itself, becoming husky. “What else did you have in mind, Logan?” He gently disengaged her hand by way of reply, and he gently pulled her into the crook of his arm. She felt comfortable and safe, instantly cuddling into his side.

“Have ya seen this a few times already?”

“Yup.” His flannel shirt felt soft beneath her cheek. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, but his heartbeat picked up. Her face was already tilting up toward his deep rasp and sensual mouth. Her hand drifted up to trace the notch in his upper lip.

“Do ya wanna watch the rest of it?”

“I don’t have to.” She reached over him for the remote and aimed it, hitting stop. The sound cut off just as he bowed his head, and her eyes drifted shut before their lips met. His palm molded itself to the crown of her head, and his fingers clutched sheaves of her wavy, thick hair.

The kiss was perfect. Moist enough, dry enough, soft enough, firm enough, and delicious. A teasing caress of his lips excited her, making her crave more. He heard her small sigh of contentment and brought her closer, pulling her into his lap. She allowed him entry, and his tongue probed her mouth, slowly exploring it and spiraling around hers. He didn’t rush; he savored her, drinking in her tastes and textures. His stubble rasped against her palm, and she enjoyed the feel of his crisp curls sliding between her fingers when they plowed through his hair. It felt as good as she thought. His body was solid and firm, sculpted generously with muscle. He stroked her, his hands skimming over her curves and kneading the long, lean line of her back, tangling his hands in that glorious hair.

She couldn’t get enough of him, her kisses growing more frantic. More. Please, more. More. More. She gasped as he tugged her hair until her throat was exposed, and he nibbled a hot trail over the tip of her chin to her pulse. “Oh, God, Logan! That feels so good!” He didn’t speak, but she could tell she affected him. His groan vibrated through her flesh, fingers drifting up beneath the hem of her shirt to discover the silky skin that jumped at his touch. She was responsive and addictive.

His hot breath fanned out over her cheeks as he kissed her again, and again, and again. He mapped out the contours of her face tenderly, even while his hand gripped her hips firmly, encouraging her to grind against the hard bulge in his jeans. She was on fire. She needed him. All she could think of was need, and getting them both out of their clothes.

She felt another rush of cool air on her fevered skin as her shirt was whisked over her head and chucked onto the floor.

“Look at ya, darlin’,” he whispered hoarsely. “Yer so damned beautiful.” His fingertip traced her bra strap, tickling her until it skimmed over the satin cup and drew lazy circles over the burgeoning peak. His leisurely fondling was almost maddening, even though she didn’t want him to stop. He didn’t disappoint her. The cups of her bra were peeled away, the straps dangling uselessly down her upper arms as he kneaded her breast. It was full, perfectly rounded and supple. His thumb flicked over her nipple, hardening it into a tight, succulent little bud. She moaned for him to continue. His eyes were soft and reverent as he stared at her, seated astride him, looking tousled and wanton. He silenced her with a hard kiss, then made her cry out even louder as he sucked her into his hot mouth. Arousal spiraled in her stomach at the low sounds that escaped him and the pull of his lips. Her hips bucked with each lap of his tongue as she rode his hardness. His shirt parted as she almost tore the buttons from their holes. Her hands slicked and smoothed over his chest, clawing at his cotton undershirt.

“Want you. C’mon, baby, let’s go. Need you.” She was so reluctant to abandon her perch, but her legs screamed in relief at being bent for so long to straddle him, and she imagined his own lap was growing numb. He hooked her legs around his waist as they rose and carried her down the short hallway.

His room. Understated and cluttered, just like the front of the house. He nearly tripped over a spare pair of ragged cross-trainers, but he kept his balance and kicked the door shut behind him. The moment her back touched the sheets of his queen-sized bed, he was on her. He divested her of the rest of her clothing, caressing and teasing every inch that he revealed. He touched her everywhere, first with his hands, then with his lips. She didn’t try to speak. Her eyes were liquid, blue as tourmalines and yearning for him as he closed in on her, delightfully bare. The first contact of his body against hers was nearly her undoing. His chest was broad, pecs rippling sinuously as his body moved over hers, stroking her to a frenzy. She grew acquainted with the planes and contours of his shoulders, back, neck, glutes. There was no spare fat on him. Her feet tangled themselves between his legs and slid along his calves, just as well proportioned as the rest of him.

“Need you, Logan,” she cried raggedly. “Please. Oh, please.”

“Okay, darlin’.” The press of his erection made all rational thought leave her brain, the head plump and engorged as he raised and lowered his hips. With each pass it plowed through her curls and dipped into the moisture growing beneath her clitoral hood. He continued to tease her like that, tearing garbled profanities from her lips. “Damn it. Too much. Too damn much. Yer too fuckin’ sexy, darlin’!”

“Let me have it! Get in me,” she moaned. Her legs were hooked around his waist as he reared up on the heels of his hands and sank inside her in one hard thrust. “Ohhhhhhhh!” Her breath shuddered out of her as he filled her. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he rode her, burrowing more deeply into her snug warmth.

He moved, responding to her unspoken needs, whispering to her that she was sexy, and hot, and felt so damned good. Sensation rocked her womb as the friction between them built. The tips of her breasts tingled with the impact. He slammed into her harder, faster, his balls slapping her ass. He moved within her, following the dictates of that pulsating, wet heat as she squeezed him, milking him dry.

Their breathing grew heavy and charged with need. Sweat glistened on their bodies and dripped from his brow as he loved her. Her cries increased in volume and pitch; coherent speech was impossible.

She still tried. “S’good,” she moaned. “So good!” She opened her eyes and stared him in the face, moved by how focused he was on her, on her pleasure and response. The sight of him was erotic; the movement of his body, the flex and smooth contractions of his muscles and the hungry look blazing in his eyes. His skin was flush with color. I did that. Me. It was all she could think before she decided to stop. Pleasure bloomed in her belly, and she felt ripples in her womb signaling that she was close, oh, so close to falling over the edge. She wanted him to go with her. It excited her when she felt that faint cramp inside her as he stiffened, his erection more swollen, more rigid. His eyes squeezed shut as he slammed himself faster, harder until she wrenched a long, loud cry from him. His body spasmed and bucked, those final shocks giving her what she needed and bringing her to sweet, exhausted completion. Euphoria washed over her. Her skin sang, every nerve ending replete.

He felt her lips moving over his hair, her caress soothing as she ran her fingers through it. “Mmmmmmmmm.” His voice was a rumbling purr, throaty and seeming to vibrate through her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as he stretched himself and settled between her legs, letting them tangle with his. She cradled him and let him listen to her breathing. His fingers stroked the sensitive flesh of her upper arm and drew lazy circles over the crown of her shoulder.

“Yer welcome. And thank you, too, darlin’.”

“I can’t move.”

“Me, either.”

“Okay. Good.” He raised himself up and studied her.

“And I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait. I know that was kinda fast.”

“Kinda,” she agreed. “But I didn’t stop you.”

“Wanna stay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve gotta be out early ta open the shop.”

“I can manage that.” She could become a morning person, she decided. She’d just increase the dosage of her caffeine fix, and it was all good.

“Good.” He captured her hand as she lifted it to stroke his cheek and drew her finger into his mouth. He suckled it gently, running the tip of his tongue nimbly down its length. She shivered. His eyes were full of devilment. Each of her fingers received this treatment, and he moved exquisitely slow.

Then came the nibbling. All over. And Ororo was lost.
Back to index
Chain Reaction by OriginalCeenote
A draft across Ororo’s tush drew her from a languorous sleep. Drafty butt, she fretted. It happened every time…

Logan’s house was old but well-insulated, and he was surrounded closely by his neighbors. When Ororo admitted that she hated sleeping cold, he merely kissed the tip of her nose and padded naked to the window to close it all the way. The gesture made her feel giddy. Logan was one of those men who always got hot easily. She was growing accustomed to his quirks.

It felt like he had a built-in heater. Their bodies fit together easily through slumber and several changes in position during the night.

If Logan had one itsy bitsy, teeny tiny flaw, it was that he was a Covers Kicker. One moment she was comfortably bundled with the quilt pulled up to her chin, and the next she was shivering with goosebumps dotting her skin. Brrrrrrrr…

Her front “ breasts, belly, knees, shins and her ankles, tangled with his “ was all toasty warm, plastered against his broad back.

Meanwhile, the covers had disappeared over the foot of the bed. To gather, or not to gather, that was the question.

Her front was warm and yummy. Logan felt so solid and relaxed in her arms and was sawing logs.

On the other hand, she could freeze ice cubes on her fanny.

She tried to remove her arm from around his waist, but he captured it and clamped it more firmly around him before she slid it two inches. A hearty snort escaped him. She smothered a giggle. He was so damned cute…

Okaaaaaaaayyy…

She tried again, vainly, this time disengaging herself and trying to ease and slide her way down the bed. Creak. Creak. Creeeeeaakk. It was impossible to do it quietly on his bouncy, old mattress. His snores grew choppy.

She hated waking him up. Poor thing had to be exhausted.

Frankly, she’d worn him out.

She slithered. That was the only word for it. He sputtered and snorted briefly as she unbunched the covers and painstakingly unrolled them, slowly spreading them over them both.

As soon as she eased back against the pillow his arm coiled around her waist and snuggled her close. “Oof!”

“What’re ya doin’ up, darlin’?”

“I got cold,” she admitted.

“Uh-huh,” he rumbled, nuzzling her cheek.

“Sorry I woke you.”

“S’okay. Yer still cold.” Warm fingers crept over her cool skin, stroking it with languor. He didn’t even object when she ran her icy toes up his calf; if anything, he sandwiched her foot between his ankles for safe keeping.

He felt delicious. All of him, sliding over her body and cradling her.

“Lemme warm ya up.” She moaned raggedly as his erection pressed against her core.

Soon it was hot enough to kick the covers off again.

“We should eat,” Logan murmured absently, a considerable time later.

“Mmmmmmmm.”

“Hungry?”

“Mmmmmmmm,” she purred again, rubbing her cheek against him. He tweaked her nose.

“Can I take that as a yes?”

“Mmmmm-hmmmmm.”

“Yer makin’ this hard,” he complained, feathering his fingers around the crest of her shoulder.

“You’re making this too easy.” She leaned over and nipped his nipple. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”

“Ya gotta stop before…Jesus help me.”

“Don’t worry.” Kiss. “I’ll feed you.” Kiss. “I won’t leave you hungry.” Kiss kiss.

“Yer gonna leave me in a coma. Yer so damned sexy, but if we don’t get goin’, someone’s gonna post a missing person poster on my front door. I gotta open up the shop.”

“No fair,” she pouted.

“Gotta pay the rent,” he shrugged thoughtfully. He studied her face and caressed it, tracing her features with his fingertip. “Ya have this funny little mark. Right here.”

“What?”

“This little thing ya do with yer forehead. A little “ya’ve gotta be shittin’ me’ thing ya do with yer eyebrows. It’s funny.”

“Hmmm. Thanks…I think.”

“Yer welcome.” He scraped back the tangled curtain of white waves from her face. “And yer smile’s crooked. Just by a millimeter.”

“Logan!” she protested, but she beamed at him. Mischief danced in his eyes, and small thrills made her belly flip.

“Yup. There it is. And ya always bite yer lip…”

“STOP!” She tweaked him. “Why are you up here picking me to pieces?”

“M’not. Just pointin’ out a few of the things that make me think about you whenever I close my eyes. Like that sweet spot on yer neck, right behind yer ear. An’ that tiny mole on yer breast. Did ya know yer belly button’s an inny?” His stare was hazy with arousal.

“You think about me?” She smoothed one of his shaggy brows and kissed the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. I do. C’mon, let’s get up.”

He led her into the bathroom and started the water in his tiny shower stall. She already knew where everything was in his medicine cabinet and cupboards; she rooted for his Dove shower gel and Head and Shoulders, taking them with her beneath the spray once he’d tested it.

He washed her hair, plowing his fingers through the lather and luxurious tresses. It was his favorite ritual. He loved her hair, she mused. He lapped at her throat with his velvety tongue as the foam ran in runnels down her back. Everything about him felt right.

It was the perfect fling. Three weeks and counting.

Breakfast. He liked his eggs over-easy. She liked them bone-dry.

Logan’s coffee was black, so it tasted like coffee. Ororo’s was ten shades of pale and cookie-sweet.

He left stubble in the sink when he shaved. Strands of white hair tangled in his hairbrush and gathered in his shower drain.

He was a snuggler. She was a toucher.

It worked.

She sailed into her office with a giddy smile plastered on her face.

“Gads. You’re bloody sickening, and that’s the truth,” Betsy tsked.

“Morning, Bets.”

“Could you tone it down a bit? The little bluebirds chirping around you are making a racket, I can’t hear myself think!”

“Thinking’s overrated,” Ororo pointed out as she hung up her purse. Everything was fine until her gaze landed on a yellow Post-It on her monitor.

See me. “ Val

“Ohhhhh…just shoot me.” She whisked herself from her cubicle and prayed it wasn’t anymore more complex than unclogging a three-hole punch.

Valerie’s sweet perfume tickled her nose as she approached; she mustered the impulse to sneeze. Her blonde mane was sprayed obediently into a pageboy that gleamed beneath the office’s fluorescent lights. She looked deceptively angelic.

Her smile was serpentine as she turned to greet her after listening to her last voice mail. “Hi!” she chirped.

“You asked me to see you.”

“Yes. I did.” Ororo waited for the other shoe to drop. Why did people always give you half the answer?

“What’s going on?”

“I need another week for the piece on psoriasis,” she said briskly, with the same casual ease most people used to share a cookie recipe.

“Uh, no. You don’t. Today was the deadline, Val. We’re almost ready for layout. And Piotr’s been holding it for three days already just for Remy’s column. Yours was supposed to be finished in tandem with his. What happened?”

“I was out of town,” Val reasoned.

“You didn’t have your laptop?”

“It wasn’t a working trip.” Ororo’s eyebrow flew up in the air; she felt Logan’s favorite “yer shittin’ me’ mark emerging before she could stop it.

“Every trip’s a working trip when we’re at deadline, Val.”

“I got Cassandra’s signoff. It’s going into this issue. Don’t worry.”

“I’d still like to talk to her first.” Val’s smile died a slow death.

“I can show you her email if you like.” Before Ororo could reply, she was already turning away from her and hitting ‘forward.’ With red exclamation points in the subject line. Great.

“I’m going to have to update my project log and article sheet. When you’re late, the whole issue’s late, Valerie.”

“Sometimes you have to move things around on your plate. You know that pretty well by now.” Val’s voice was smooth and dared her to argue. “I’m confident you can manage it, Ororo.” Ororo dimly heard Psycho fiddles squealing in her ears. A tiny nerve in her temple began to throb. Her smile creaked as it stretched itself over her lips.

“Can you project when you think it’ll be ready to send to the copy desk?”

“I’d like to devote my time to finishing it rather than taking the time out to guesstimate when it’ll be done. I can be more productive that way,” she said cheerfully, but her eyes didn’t smile as deeply as her mouth. “I don’t know what you’ll need to update on your project log, but it shouldn’t change much.”

Of course she didn’t know. “I’ll get to work on that. Don’t worry about a thing, Val. I need something from the mail room.” A sharpened letter opener… She was just turning on her heel when…

“Oh, good! Could you check my inbox? I’m not ready to head that way yet until I get my tea and take my herbs! You’re a doll.” Ororo nodded in flight, waving without looking back. Anything to get away.

Betsy caught her murderous look as she rounded the corner. “Late again, eh, ducks?”

“Errrrgh.”

“Right, then. Lunch at 12?”

“Only if it involves massive doses of Prozac and chocolate.”

All day long, Ororo juggled. By the end of the day her feet were killing her from random treks down the hall to Cassandra’s office and to the interns’ cubicle farm to reassign everyone’s workload and make final edits. They were still expecting camera-ready art for two full-page ads. It was killing her. By the time she hung up from her last call, she was diving into her pocketbook for Motrin.

“Turn it off,” Betsy ordered, watching her pop two pills dry. “Pack it in. Don’t make me drag you forcibly.”

“I’ve got no pride left. Cassandra swallowed it with her morning coffee.”

“Any plans with Mr. Wonderful?”

“Uh-uh. We don’t really ‘plan.’ We just hang out. It’s actually kinda nice.”

“That might change, love. Emma’s been champing at the bit to throw a house party.”

“What the heck for?”

“Why else? To show off her new boyfriend and her boyfriend’s house.”

“Wait…not the deejay!” Ororo had a vague memory of brown hair, a nice smile and laughing eyes, to say nothing of the free pitcher of sangria. “She hooked him?”

“He’s her big fish story come true. He seemed awfully nice.” The elevator floor rumbled beneath their feet. Neither one of them was in the mood to take the stairs.

“He was. I liked him.” Ororo sighed. “I just hope she’s good to him.”

“Shouldn’t matter, if he knows up front what to expect. He has eyes, Ororo. She has ‘high-maintenance’ written all over her, God love her.”

“So she gets to throw a bash and wave him in everyone’s face. Should be plenty to drink.” She didn’t add that they’d need it.

“Ulterior motives, love. Word’s out that you have a new friend. Ask him if he has a nice shirt.”

“Shit.” Dimly she wondered about Logan’s shirts. The only time she gave them any thought when she was removing them.

“Don’t be a chicken.”

“I’m not…c’mon, Bets. You know how it goes. I meet his friends, he meets my friends…that’s relationship stuff.”

“So?”

“We’re just having fun. A little fling. A roll in the hay.”

“You have to leave the stable sometime, Ororo.” She snorted and gave her a look. “Plan on coming and on bringing him. It won’t be so bad. Scott’s letting Emma host it at his place. There’ll be other men there for him to commiserate with.” Ororo reminded herself that Yukio was likely to show up; at least Logan would already have a friend there besides her.


~0~

“Alright, darlin’, this one I can at least understand by lookin’ at it,” Logan grumbled as Ororo squeezed his hand. Their footsteps sounded heavy on the polished floor boards of the DeYoung at Golden Gate Park as they gazed at a reproduction of The Procuress.

“Hard to believe anyone painted like that back in 1656,” Ororo murmured reverently. “I know it’s burlesque, but this is one of my favorites. Vermeer did some interesting work.”

“She looks like a real good-time gal,” he chuckled. Ororo elbowed him.

“She’s a working girl,” she corrected him, but she still stared at it fondly. “I just love the textures he painted in this. The ceramic, the fabric of their clothes, all of it looks real enough to touch.”

“Guards over there might take issue with it if ya tried, darlin’.” She sighed as they moved on.

“Can we stop at the gift store on the way out?”

“Whatcha gonna pick up? Paperweight?”

“Uh-uh. Postcards. I get a few every time I come here. I use them to decorate my cube at work once in a while. I also want to see if they have a copy of the print I’ve been promising myself.” Logan looked unconvinced that there was anything in the museum that was worth wanting to see in his own home, had it been him.

“It is anything we saw on the way in?”

“No. We came in through the other side of the entry. C’mon.” He looked relieved; Ororo felt unsettled. She wanted him to enjoy their day out.

He called and asked about her plans for the day. She was already dressed for a day at the park and on her way out the door. It wasn’t a question anymore of “What do you feel like doing today?” All she wanted to know was “Feel like coming with me?” It elated her when he said yes.

They passed a few vases and other sculptures he didn’t recognize earlier and some sedate paintings in oil. They paused at a large canvas with a gilt-edged frame.

“That’s the one. It just does something for me. I just stare like a deer in the headlights every time I see it.” Logan peered at the name plate: The Broken Pitcher.

“Look at her face.”

“She’s just staring you right in the eye. She looks bashful.”

“Cautious. Wary,” Ororo supplied. “There’s so much going on in her body language.” Logan made a thoughtful sound. He gave her hand a tug, and she looped it through the crook of his arm as they headed out. “I have to have it.”

“Little treat for yerself?”

“One little indulgence.”

“Ya live dangerously, ‘Ro.” He looked sly and very kissable. She could wait til they got back out to her car.

They headed back to the pier for lunch.

“Ever tried fried squid?”

“Ew.”

“I’ll take that as a no?”

“No. Never. Ever.”

“Don’t know what yer missin’,” he sang as he paid the vendor for the small basket of tidbits that resembled beer-battered onion rings. He doused them in malt vinegar and lemon juice and waved a piece beneath her lips. “One bite. Then I won’t ever ask ya ta taste anything weird again.”

“You agree it’s weird. And, uh, no.”

“Chicken. Bock, bock!” Then he bit heartily into the morsel, licking his lips.

“Don’t expect me to kiss that mouth,” she tsked as they sidled up to a wooden plank bench on the dock.

“Gonna expect more than that,” he promised, setting his food down long enough to rush at her, wrapping his arms around her. Hers were pinned as he lunged for a sloppy kiss, squid breath and all.

“YuckyuckyuckEW!!!!!!” He managed to plant a loud, damp kiss on her cheek, still holding her captive, even though she was dying to wipe her face of the offending grease.

“It’s good ta try new things,” he lectured, grinning like a demon. She attempted to swat him in disgust.

“That’s like asking me to try mud or fried snails.”

“Yeah, but people do eat snails. And mud don’t scare me all that much, in my line of work. Ain’t ya ever heard the phrase ‘ya hafta eat a pound of dirt before ya die?”

“Not for lunch. You’re demented. Leggo!”

“Only if ya promise me yer gonna try it.”

“Hmmph.” He released her and they sat together, leaning in toward each other against the cold wind. He picked up the greasy cardboard basket. “Open up and say ‘aaaah’.” He held a piece up to her lips. She sighed, scowled and took a hesitant bite. “Whaddya think? Good, huh? C’mon, tell me how ya really feel…”

“Mmm. Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” She reached for a napkin, smiling sweetly as she coughed emphatically into it and smuggled it into her lap. “Yummy.”

“Damn, yer a pill,” he snarked. He nudged her. She nudged him back, before he kissed her deeply, despite the lingering flavor of grease and the crowds filing past them on the pier.


~0~

“So have you found anything living in his apartment yet?”

“Nothing except for a neglected ficus. Why?” Yukio was lying on the upper ceramic-tiled level of the steam room with her eyes closed. Ororo was gulping water from a small bottle and watching the room turn a foggy white. The hiss nearly drowned out her words.

“Mariko used to hate his place. He didn’t cook that often, and he used to forget his leftovers when he did. All of his Tupperware had science projects tucked away in them. He was such a slob.”

“He’s not now.”

“No dirty socks on the floor? Dishes in the sink? Stinky bathroom?”

“Nope. It’s not a palace, but it’s not bad. Well, I take that back. It’s a little cluttered, but at least it doesn’t smell like sweaty feet.” Yukio shuddered in disgust.

“Ew. Ask me why I started dating women and I’ll show you the apartment of any man I was ever with that never had to make their bed as a kid. Eeccccchhh…”

“It’s a little bare.”

“Mariko said she took all of her stuff with her when she walked out.”

“He’s got a typical bachelor fridge,” Ororo mused.

“What’s in it?” Yukio sat up and poked her, gesturing for her water bottle.

“Gads. A pitcher of unsweetened iced tea, Lipton, no less, which tastes like pencil shavings smell. The heels of a loaf of wheat bread. Half a tomato. Half a withered head of lettuce in the crisper, and it ain’t crisp anymore. And a packet of those really, really paper thin slices of turkey meat, so dried out that they fold at the corners.”

“Yeek.”

“I’ve gotten into the habit of fixing dinner.”

“How often does he come over?”

“I dunno,” Ororo mumbled.

“Rooooooooooo…” Yukio scolded.

“Sometimes. It’s no biggie. I just like my place more. I think he does, too.”

“Sounds like someone’s forming a habit.”

“Pfffftt.” She waved her away dismissively as she adjusted her sloppy ponytail and wiped the sweat from her cheeks.

“You were the one who said you weren’t trying to get serious or have a real relationship.”

“We both just want to have fun. And it’s fun. We went to the DeYoung.” Yukio giggled.

“I can’t picture that.” Ororo rolled her eyes.

“The Oceanic art display wasn’t his thing. He started talking in monosyllables when we walked through the textiles.”

“You would’ve had to drag my snoring ass outta there,” Yukio agreed.

“Philistine,” Ororo shot back. “He works with flowers. He likes pretty things.”

“Wrong. Flowers don’t have to be explained. They’re just flowers. He’s pretty ‘no frills,’ Ororo.”

“He’s different,” she admitted thoughtfully.

“I never would have seen you two together, if I hadn’t, kiddo. It’s just weird. He’s not your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Intellectual. Metrosexual. High-maintenance. Carefully witty and micromanaging. Compulsively organized. Compulsively neat. And someone evasive that you have to pursue, not the other way around. Did I miss anything?”

“Shit,” Ororo muttered. “Thanks a lot.”

“That’s what you have me for.”

“He doesn’t see me like that,” she boasted.

“Then he’s blinder than the rest of us. Not that we don’t love you, muffin.” Ororo made a noise like a cat coughing up a hairball. “You’re a chocolate mousse girl. He’s Jell-O pudding. The green pistachio kind with the weird brown things that might not be nuts.”

“He’s not complaining so far. I’ll do what I’ve been doing.”

“Meaning what next?”

“Oh. That.” Ororo gestured for Yukio to hand back the water. She fortified herself before garbling her answer.

“What was that?”

“Monster trucks,” she answered sheepishly.

Yukio crowed. She emitted cracks of shrieking, knee-pounding laughter that echoed off the tile and disturbed their slumbering neighbors. Ororo’s pout was sour.

“Not cute, Yukio.”

“Ahaha. Ahaha. Hoo. Do yourself a favor, sweetie.” She wiped her eyes.

“What?”

“Don’t wear anything nice.”
Back to index
Whenever Dark Has Fallen by OriginalCeenote
“Logan said ya work for one of those fancy women’s mags,” bellowed the burly Sasquatch who’d introduced himself as Walt. Well, not “introduced” so much as muttered and nodded when Logan ran down the line, naming each of his companions.

Walt was a piece of work. Tall though she was, she strained her neck looking up into his face. He easily topped six and a half feet. She regretted making eye contact instantly. He lost any semblance of good looks once he opened his mouth, and he spent the rest of the day staring at her chest.

Their names all ran the gamut. Walt, Mac, Cable (aka Nate, but he worked for a wireless company, go figure), Wade and Puck.

In the meantime, she was shouting herself hoarse. “WHAT?”

“Ya work for a magazine, right?” Before she could reply, the featured truck skidded and reared up on its back tires, revving as it rolled over six cars. Crunching metal deafened her despite the earplugs Logan brought along. Thundering, stamping feet among the bleachers registered a five-point-one on the Richter scale as she tried to find her voice.

“Yes!” she bellowed back.

“Ya oughta go ta work for somethin’ like Sports Illustrated. Whaddya think, runt?”

…and Runt. Logan’s friends weren’t the only ones with nicknames.

“Admit it, Walt, ya know ya only read books with pictures, anyhow!” Mac slapped Walt’s back hard enough to endanger his beer. Ororo rolled her eyes, confident that no one was paying her any mind.

“Wanna nacho, darlin’?” Logan rumbled beside her elbow, nearly shouting in her ear.

“No, that’s…I’m fine,” she smiled back, warming up to him as he bumped shoulders with her. His grin was rakish.

“Know yer fine, sweetness. But are ya hungry?”

“Maybe later?”

“Fair enough.” He risked the integrity of his chips by setting them down on the bleacher and looping an arm around her waist. He kissed her soundly, leaving behind the faint flavor of corn chips and processed cheese. Coming from him, somehow, it worked.

One set of screeching tires sounded like the next several dozen; her jaw went numb from clenching her teeth by the time Mac jumped out of his seat.

“Aw, yeah, baby! GRAVEDIGGER!” He pumped his fist in the air. “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

The stadium light show began pulsing at a frequency to cause seizures and torture most small mammals. Ororo cleared her throat, attempting to rid if of the dust and grunge that seemed to cling to her and collect in her hair.

Gravedigger.

“Chee maneez!” she muttered, cringing. It looked like something out of Stephen King’s The Mangler. She stared at the pyrotechnics illuminating the distinctive skull motif stretched across the grill and wondered who the heck took the time…

“Bout fuckin’ TIME we got what we CAME here FOR!” Walt ranted before chugging the other half of his beer.

After that, everything just became a blur.

~0~

“So, what did you say you did again, Wade?”

“I didn’t,” he replied into his beer. They ended up back at North Beach for pizza and wings that Ororo could barely taste after inhaling half the dust in the stadium. She picked at a crouton in her Caesar salad.

“Logan said you worked in a gun shop.”

“Firearms. They’re called firearms,” he corrected her, elbowing Walt with an expression that shouted that she didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Ah. Got it. My bad. D’you like it?”

“Been doin’ it fer ten years,” he shrugged. He nudged his cap up a notch with his thumb. “So what d’you think?” he asked her cleavage. “Say, Rory…”

“Ororo,” she piped up.

“Ya say ya work for a magazine…ever been in any?”

“My bylines have,” she explained. Almost predictably, his eyebrows shot into his hairline. Chee maneez… She smothered a groan.

“Hear that, Mac? Logan’s girl here has bylines in the magazine!”

“I wanna subscribe ta that!” Raucous laughter surrounded her. She suppressed a shudder until she felt Logan’s hand at the small of her back, stroking it in warm, lazy circles before he twirled a lock of her hair around his finger.

“Jimmy here still likes ta play with his pretty pansies,” Walt brayed. He downed half his mug in two swallows and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “By the time we close escrow on the sweet little split-level we’re plannin’ ta flip, he’s gonna be too soft ta swing a hammer.” Ororo didn’t know which part of Walt’s statement baffled her more: a) Logan went by “Jimmy,” or b) Logan flipped houses.

“You flip houses?” She didn’t mean to sound shocked.

“Don’t sound so shocked.” Hurt crept into his voice, but his eyes let her in on the joke.

“Don’t let the innocent look fool ya, doll,” Walt grunted on a belch. Ororo could have sworn she saw flies buzzing away from the fumes. “He can do a helluva lot more’n screw in a light bulb. That guy grabbin’ yer sweet ass is a journeyman electrician! If ya need a guy ta lay pipe, than yer lookin’ at him, right here,” he bragged. Right. Walt was a plumber. Got it, she sighed to herself. Yeesh…

“Fuck off,” Logan snorted, reaching for a hot wing.

~0~

“You’re full of surprises, did you know that?”

“Ya mean this still surprises ya? Don’t remember addin’ anything new ta the routine,” he muttered. “Hm.” He nuzzled the sweet spot behind her neck and tightened his arms around her waist. She rubbed back against him greedily, enjoying the rasp of his hair chest against her bare skin.

“You’re an electrician.”

“Eh. That surprises ya?”

“No. Yes.” She puffed out a breath and felt his chuckle through her lush hair. “So how long have you worked on houses?”

“Few years, but this is the first time we’ve tried ta flip a whole home.”

“Wow.” Calloused fingertips traced the slope of her arm, echoing the caress of his lips at her shoulder. She shivered. “A house. I can’t imagine working on something that big. A whole house!”

“Can’t work on it til we get the loan. Slingin’ plants pays the bills.”

“But it doesn’t build much of a down payment.”

“Bingo.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Give up a few luxuries. Do whatever I hafta do not ta beg, borrow or steal. ‘Cept for the mortgage. Gonna hafta borrow for that. Aside from that, I’ll work. Walt had it right when he said I can do more than screw in a light bulb.” He heard the crack of her smile as he ground himself against her rump. “Got a few jobs lined up. Gonna be busy.” There was a wistful note in his voice. “Might hafta talk ta my answering machine a little more often.”

“I can talk to small appliances. I yell at the garbage disposal and bribe the coffee maker all the time. Beats being at work, where no one listens to me anyway.”

“Who’s yankin’ yer chain, darlin’?”

“Cassandra. My publisher. Except the chain’s wrapped around my neck.” Her sigh was heavy. “My job’s hectic. I get that. But I shouldn’t have to babysit one columnist at the expense of a whole issue’s deadlines! At the end of the day, I’m drained, unappreciated and pissed off!” She turned in his embrace, scowling. “And I’m beating you over the head with my crappy job.”

“Sounds like yer damned good at doin’ it, though.” He caressed her face, lightly tracing her features with his fingertip and staring at her in quiet wonder.

“I don’t know how you do that,” she said softly. “Make me feel good about myself so easily. I feel special around you. When you look at me like you are right now.”

“I was just thinkin’ the same about you.” The kiss he gave her confirmed it.

~0~

“God, you’re cock-whipped,” Yukio snorted as Ororo dashed around her apartment.

“Shut up, you, and help me do this up. I hate these tiny things.” Ororo turned her back to her best friend and continued to struggle with a stubborn clasp on her fine silver chain.

“Hold your hair up.” She relieved her of the trinket, deftly fastening the tiny hook. “All pretty,” she assured her with a pat. Ororo dropped her hair and fluffed.

“I look okay? I mean, I know it’s Emma’s, and I have to look ‘dressed,’ but do you think Logan will like it?”

“Can you say ‘cardiac arrest?’ Look at you. You can’t look in that mirror and tell me you don’t look hot!” She nudged her toward the full-length glass mounted to her closet door, clucking like a mother hen. “You might not even make it to the party; he might do you at the door. Shit,” Yukio considered, giving her a wicked look bordering on a leer, “I might, too!” Ororo swatted her. She resumed her grooming, smoothing the black wrap dress with shaky hands.

“That reminds me, are you bringing anyone?” Yukio rolled her eyes.

“Emma’s my girl, don’t get me wrong, but she gets tongue-tied trying not to say the wrong thing to me or to my girlfriends, when I have one. She was okay with Carol.” Yukio painted her lips a deep coffee, pouting at her reflection.

“She wouldn’t mind if you brought a date.”

“I don’t have one to bring, so it’s moot.”

“You might end up taking one home.” Her eyes swept over Yukio appreciatively. “I always love you in dark colors.” A red brocade vest with a keyhole neckline hugged her lithe body and set off her coloring. She paired it with boot-cut black pants and a pair of kick-ass shoes.

“I know I won’t meet anyone,” she argued, but she looked hopeful. Ororo nearly dropped the cologne at the knock on the door. “Ooh, there he is! Shit! I need my purse.”

“Get the door. A lady keeps a gentleman waiting, though.” Yukio smirked.

“Not this lady, and not MY man,” she scoffed, shooting her a sassy look and switching her hips to the door. She paused. “I’m not overdressed? I don’t want him to feel like I’m trying too hard, or to make him feel like he’s more casual than I am.” Visions of Logan’s comfortable flannels and denim danced through her head. Of taking them off.

“He’s a big boy who can dress himself and use utensils, woman, give him some credit and get the door!”

She unlatched the lock and greeted him, but the words dissolved on her lips as she took him in.

“Hey, sweetie, you’re earl…wow!” He looked equally shocked, giving her a low whistle.

“Call yer friend and tell her we’ll be an hour late,” he drawled, eyeing her hungrily. “Maybe two.” He took her hand and tugged her into the hallway. She feared for her lipstick until he gently lifted her hair and detoured to her neck. Nibble, nibble, nibble…

“Get a room! Wait. Scratch that. Let’s go,” Yukio complained as she approached. “Whoa. Nice. See, Ororo, fix him up enough and look what you get. You’re looking Cro-Magnon tonight, bub.”

“Just don’t forget yourself an’ pick yer nose out in public. We know how ya are.” He winked.

“Can I scratch myself, at least?”

“Just don’t fart,” Ororo suggested. Her neck still tingled with warm fuzzies from his lips. All traces of his usual stubble were gone. Yukio handed Ororo her purse and shooed them out. Logan finished helping her into her jacket and held her for a moment.

“Tell me we don’t hafta stay long.”

“We won’t make a U-turn at the door,” she nagged.

“Damn.” He kissed her cheek.

They spotted Scott’s house from two blocks away, staring in awe at the decorative red lanterns and white lights strung from the trees and porch. Cars were already laddered up the street. Logan grumbled his way into a snug spot and put on the parking brake, helping Ororo out of her sticky seat belt. Before he could pull away, she covered his hand with hers.

“You look so handsome tonight. I can’t get over how different you look…in this!” She feathered her fingers through the short, tamed curls tapering just above his nape, caressing him. She smoothed the lapel of his charcoal peacoat. He kissed her fingertips. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble for Emma’s party.”

“Didn’t do it fer her, darlin’,” he murmured. “Ya got so excited over this party. Made me think ya wanted a chance ta dress up an’ mingle.”

“Are you okay with this? Promise me if you get bored, you’ll tell me and we’ll go!”

“I can handle a party.” He came around to let her out. “There gonna be decent food?”

“Fantastic food.” This was true of Emma’s parties as a general rule.

“Beer?”

“Got a pretty good feeling there’ll be some. Might have to drink it out of a wineglass, though. One with a little pendant on it.” He made a face as they knocked on the door. She giggled. They were greeted by Emma, flushed and breathless as she jerked it open and yanked Ororo inside.

“Quick, come in. I’ve been waiting for you all night! I LOVE that outfit! I never saw that necklace before,” she clucked, maintaining a running monologue as she nagged her out of her coat. “Food’s in the living room, punch is in the kitchen so that people won’t spill it on the carpet. Beer’s in the fridge. I saw Yukio come in here ahead of you, did she come alone? I knew she wasn’t with Carol anymore. It’s too bad, she was actually…oh! Wow, I’m sorry,” she greeted Logan, briskly raking her eyes over him approvingly and extending her hand. “I’m Emma.”

“Logan,” he offered. “Ya throw a nice party.” She beamed and gave him the same treatment, strong-arming him out of his lush coat.

“Wow! I mean, wow!” She stared at him, taking in his solidly muscled body garbed in a gray silk shirt and dark slacks. His customary work boots were replaced by gleaming leather loafers. “What did you say you did again?”

“Uh, I didn’t yet,” he reasoned. “I run a flower shop. I’m a florist.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice. I got my flowers for tonight at the little place on Third, but hey, maybe next time,” she trilled. “All right. Go, go, go! Eat food,” she ordered with a sharp clap of her hands. They watched Emma’s departure helplessly as she sashayed away.

“Surprised she took a breath,” Ororo muttered.

“Throws a good party, though.” They no sooner emerged from the foyer than Betsy swooped down upon them and brought the cavalry with her.

“H’lo, ducks. Oh,” she observed, eyeing Logan up and down. “Hell-oooooo.” Lorna and Ali tipped over to them and made gushing introductions.

As the night progressed, Logan and Ororo became joined at the hip, linking hands as they answered a barrage of questions. She occasionally fortified herself with a sip of wine.

“How long have you two been seeing each other now?”

“Three months next week,” she blurted. “Er…I think that’s how long we’ve been, ah, seeing each other.”

“Dating. Three months we’ve dated,” Logan added. He squeezed her fingers and felt the frisson of tension run up her arm, winding its way through her body. “Time kinda flies.” His smile was thoughtful as she studied her; her shoulders relaxed as she returned it, then leaned into his warmth. Phew.

“Tell me about it. Seems like it was five minutes ago we were peeling Emma off of Scott at the club where they met. Now look at them. It’s sickening.” Ali nodded at the attractive couple seated on the couch. Emma threw back her head and laughed as he tugged her onto his lap. She focused on every word out of his mouth. “They’ve got that glowing, ooshy-gooshy, couply thing going on.”

“Finishing each other’s sentences,” Ororo agreed.

“Mindless shopping trips for things they wouldn’t need if they were single,” Betsy chimed in, sipping her appletini.

“Hanging on each other like monkeys,” Yukio snarked as she sidled up to Ali.

“’Yes, dear,’” Logan quipped in a mock-submissive tone as he popped open his beer. Ororo nudged him. He nudged back. They flirted with each other with their eyes, silently sharing the joke.

“And speaking of joined at the hip,” Yukio interjected, giving her friends a measured look, “will you two knock it off? I’m trying to eat, here.” She bit savagely into a pretzel.

Emma had gone all out. There were no pizzas, hot wings or “big sandwiches” to be found. Fruit and cheese platters, Caesar salad, veggies with three kinds of dip, a chocolate fountain, melted brie and garlic in a sourdough bread bowl and other snacks were arranged around a tray of sliced prime rib, and a grilled salmon with wafer-thin lemon slices and cracked pepper.

“Who’s up for Jenga?” a cheerful blond man announced as he set up the tower of blocks.

“Dirty Jenga?” Ali inquired, eyes hopeful. Betsy made a noise of disdain.

“Not for this crowd.”

“Rats.”

“Maybe next time, if I ever throw a party. This is the Tupperware, candle, and Pampered Chef set. Bet no one here’s every played ‘peel the cucumber’ at a Passion catalog party.”

“Please tell me that game isn’t what it sounds like.”’

“The hell it isn’t.” Yukio’s smile was knowing.

They assembled themselves around the coffee table. Logan stood, kneading her neck until she patted the place beside her on the arm of the recliner.

“Ain’t enough room,” he pointed out.

“Then we’ll make room.” She rose and stepped aside, beckoning to him to sit. He did, reluctantly, until she moved to his lap, easing back against his warm bulk with a sigh. She felt safe and cared for as he wrapped his arms around her waist, much like Scott had.

The game became raucous. Accusations of cheating flew around the room as the tiles repeatedly hit the table with a clatter. Scrabble and Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon followed. Guests moistened throats hoarse from laughing with Emma’s special punch.

In the meantime, Ororo waded through questions. She was helping Emma stack used dishes in the washer.

“How did you even meet Logan?”

“At his store, buying flowers for a work thing.”

“He’s not your usual type.” Ororo was taken aback. She flicked Emma with a dish towel.

“Why does everyone act like I have a type? That’s such bullshit!”

“He’s just so…GRRRRR!” she growled, making claws out of her manicured fingers. Ororo shook her head.

“He’s a teddy bear. And he’s sweet.”

“Does he make much?” Emma cut back to the chase.

“He’s self-sufficient.” Emma stared in disbelief.

“Does he at least have a nest egg?”

“He’s saving to buy a house.”

“Aren’t we all.” With Scott purchasing his house while Emma scurried to sublet the lease on her apartment, she had no room to talk, and she knew it.

“He’s also an electrician.”

“Oh. Wow. That puts a different spin on it.”

“Tip of the iceberg. He’s fantastic. Funny. Nice. Cuddly. Sweet. Holds doors and pulls out chairs.”

“Eavesdrops, too.” Her breath caught as Emma’s eyes floated to the doorway. Logan was smiling at her expectantly. She wanted to sink into the floor.

“Ororo was regaling me with your career choices,” Emma informed him.

“Choices, huh? Well, it was either flowers or quantum physics.” He was unphased.

“You look cute together. Different, but the same.”

“Kinda like plaids and stripes?” Ororo prodded. Emma bumped her playfully and took away her dish towel.

“Ugh. Of course not. More like DKNY with Vera Wang.” Logan raised his eyebrows and shrugged in a “whatever” gesture as Emma fanned them both away. “I’m just going to finish this up. Logan, it was great to meet you, now that the two of you have come out of hiding.” She looked at Ororo accusingly. Ororo stuck out her tongue.

“I’ll crawl outta my hole more often.”

“Drag Ororo with you.” She pecked Ororo’s cheek.

The ride home was quiet as Ororo mulled over their evening out, already looking forward to their evening in.

“Did ya have fun, darlin’?”

“Mmmmmm,” she sighed, tilting her face toward him. Her smile was luminous in the dark interior of the car. “Did you?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad. I had fun,” he qualified absently.

“Hope it wasn’t too hard on you, not knowing anyone.”

“Nope. And I did. Summers. Knew him in college.” Her eyes widened.

“You’re kidding. Wow. Small world.”

“Decent guy. Used ta blast his music, though. Caught up with him for a minute while ya were hangin’ out in the kitchen.” He turned back to the road. She studied his handsome profile.

“You look so nice, Logan,” she repeated. He chuckled.

“You like this, huh?”

“I love it.”

“Didn’t embarrass ya too much, did I?”

“Are you kidding? Logan, please!” She turned back to look at him and her smile faltered. “Logan, you’re joking, right? Everyone loved you. Next time, they might just say ‘send Logan, and your sorry behind can stay home.” Despite her easy manner, she felt a flicker of dread.

“Dunno how often I’ll be able ta go with ya ta stuff like this.”

“I was glad you came out. I’m always glad when we can spend time together.” Her hand slid over his, covering it as he shifted gears. His sigh was low but did nothing to quell the knot slowly forming in her stomach. Warning bells were going off in her head.

Logan was uncomfortable. She suddenly felt like she was reaching for him through a thick, chilly fog.

“So’m I, ‘Ro. It’s been great. Fantastic.”

“It has been,” she argued, hastily adding, “it is.”

“Can’t even say that I wasn’t expecting things ta be this good, because I didn’t expect any less after we went out the first time. Yer easy ta be with. Even addictive.” Her skin tingled with a happy glow that warmed her from the inside out.

At the same moment, in as long as it took him to tear his eyes from the road and meet hers over the console, she felt the cold, hard thump of a “but” coming on.

“But, ‘Ro, I need ta be straight with ya.”

Shit. Fuck. There it was!

She cleared her throat. “Okay.”

“Whaddya think about these past few weeks of spendin’ time together?”

“They’ve been great!”

“We’ve been havin’ fun, right?”

“Right!!” Get to the point, don’t leave me in suspense!

“So what would you call it? Seeing each other?” He paused. “Dating?”

“We’ve been on a few dates,” she conceded, hedging slightly. “And…it’s been nice. Really nice.”

“That’s what makes it hard.’

“Wait…makes what hard? I’m making it difficult for you somehow? Logan?” Her heart thudded in her ribcage, making her dizzy. Her fingertips suddenly felt like ice, but Logan grasped her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Protectively.

“We’re back. C’mon, darlin’. Let’s talk more inside.” They pulled up to her place and she shivered as much from him leaning over her to undo her seatbelt as she did from the chilly night air.

She bit her tongue all the way inside, letting him lock the door behind them as she deposited her purse and shed her coat. She busied herself with taking off her shoes and lining them up neatly beside the couch. “Want tea?”

“Nah. Eh. Sure,” he waffled. Her hands begged for any small chore. She was relieved to hear the scuff of his shoes as he removed them, the slide of his coat sleeves whispering against his shirt. She fetched two mugs; they clattered loudly against the counter as she set them down. She dropped the teabox from nerveless fingers. Her body thrummed with tension until she heard him approach. His heat covered her back, enveloping her, dispelling the steely chill.

“Is this when you tell me that it’s not me, it’s you?”

“Nope. Just that it’s not us, it’s life.” His hands assisted her as she fixed their cups, and he nuzzled hers as he spoke. “Timing’s just a little off.” Her stomach dropped into her shoes.

“If not now, then when?”

“Wish I knew.” Her brow crumpled in confusion.

“Then what would make it the right time? Why is it the wrong time now?” She hated how it sounded coming out of her mouth. Needy. Helpless. Clingy.

Desperate.

“If I had more time ta give ta doin’ this right. If I could offer ya more than a fling…and it sounds shitty even callin’ it that.”

“It doesn’t have to be a fling. It could be a relationship if we gave it a try.”

“I’m afraid ta try,” he admitted, and frustration pricked at her eyes, making the sugar packet in her hand blur. “Because I’m afraid of disappointing ya. I wanna do it right and give ya the world, but my shit ain’t together fer much more than tuckin’ ya in at night right now.”

“It’s more than sex that I feel for you; it’s a lot more than that, Logan. I like you a lot, and…” her voice trembled and she exhaled through her nose.

“I like you too, darlin’.” His embrace was almost possessive. She felt the press of his lips through the sheer silk of her dress.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I need time ta sort some things out. I’m gonna be takin’ on extra jobs outside of runnin’ the shop. Got a few contracts this month.”

“That’s good; you said you might ““

“I won’t be around that much. I wanna say that I will, but the most yer gonna see of me is me snorin’ as soon as my head hits the pillow, and my ass headin’ out the door first thing in the morning. It’ll be like that for a while.”

“But I’ll still get to see you. That’s all I care about. It doesn’t just have to be for stuff like we did tonight.” She reached for the microwave door; he took the cups from her and keyed in the time. Finally freeing her hands, he took them and wrapped her arms around her waist, covering them with his.

“Ya enjoy stuff like what we did tonight. Dressin’ up and bein’ with yer friends. Hanging out with Yukio. She mentioned that ya hadn’t exactly come up for air since you and I started…’Ro, you okay?” Her teardrops hit his bare arm where he’d rolled up his sleeve.

“Sure.” Then she shook her head.

“Shit,” he rasped. “Damn it, I’m sorry. It’s okay, darlin’, talk ta me.”

“I…I’m fine w-with taking a breather, if you want.” I just don’t want to. He gently turned her around and kissed her. “Please don’t say that this is it. I’m not trying to smother you, Logan…”

“Hell no, ya ain’t!” he exclaimed, flicking away her tear. “That ain’t it. I don’t wanna see other people. I don’t even wanna stop dating, ‘Ro. But I don’t wanna set expectations that I can’t meet.”

It hit her like a wrecking ball, what she hadn’t admitted to herself: She’d fallen for him.

And now he was leaving her. If she could even call it that.

Her voice was numb and hurt. “Are you staying with me tonight?”

“If ya want me to.”

“Stay.” He embraced her. Frustration and defeat choked them both and sent their hands roaming slowly over each other’s backs. He held her as though she was precious. When she drew back, his arms tightened around her, and he kissed her with shocking hunger. She gave herself up to it, wanting to climb inside him and take shelter. They ignored the beep of the microwave and stumbled from the kitchen, groping, kissing, sighing and cursing.

They undressed each other frantically, craving skin and fevered kisses. He kneaded and caressed her as though it were the first time; desperately, as it could be the last.

It’s not us, it’s life. His words echoed in her head, but she thrust them away as he moved over her, those dark eyes staring reverently into her face, making his earlier claims feel like a lie. Why couldn’t they make it work?

Why?

She was needy. Greedy. Insatiable. She consumed him, drank him in, absorbed every drop of him for as long as he’d allow. Having sex once that night wasn’t enough. It was to be coveted, and valued. She intended to hoard it away for the inevitable famine.

Sleep overtook them, but it brought them no solutions, nor the miracle of making what they had “the right time.”
Back to index
Need the Evening Action by OriginalCeenote
“I wouldn’t wish marriage on my worst enemy, a dog, or my worst enemy’s dog,” Yukio groused as she bit savagely into a waffle cone.

“That’s enough, Yukio, I get it.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Doesn’t make me feel better.”

“You had that whole wedding bells and heirloom lace look in your eyes, even though you said ‘I’m only having fun,” Yukio accused, doing her best, high-pitched, simpering mimic.

“Fuck you,” Ororo spat, stabbing her dish of peanut butter cup ice cream that had seen better days. It was half melted, the thick globs of fudge slopping over the edges of the sundae glass. “I was having fun.”

“Too much fun, too soon, with the wrong guy.”

“He wasn’t the wrong guy!” Ororo slapped their table with the flat of her palm, so hard her glass rattled. Yukio cringed; as she jumped back in her seat, strawberry ice cream dripped from her cone. “He said it was the wrong time…”

“Bullshit.”

“Was it me?”

“Women always ask ‘was it me?’ No, it wasn’t you.” Yukio sighed impatiently. “Did he say he really wanted to end it?”

“He might as well have,” she murmured despondently. “I guess I wanted him too much. It was working, Yukio. We got along so well, and we’ve had such a good time.”

“Even for crap like monster trucks and baseball?”

“Yes!” Ororo insisted. Her voice was louder than she meant it to be; other patrons of the ice cream parlor peered at her furtively before settling back to their treats. “It didn’t matter. I just wanted to spend time with him and make him happy!”

“That’s your first mistake.”

“What, wanting to make him happy?” she snorted back, stirring her ice cream into more of a puddle.

“Basically. Wanting to mold yourself into some image of the perfect girl. Shit, you did this with Vic. With Cameron. With Arkon…” Yukio ticked Ororo’s previous men off on her fingertips. She never called her old beau, Chuck Arkon, by his first name.

“That’s such bullshit; I’m my own person.”

“And you’re a nice person. But you bend over backwards every time you have a new man and then complain that your back hurts! ‘Ro, I hate to break it to you, but you knew Logan had commitment issues going in.”

“That wasn’t the reason why,” she insisted miserably. She shoved her ice cream away and leaned over the table, cradling her forehead in her hand. A lone, silver tear dripped onto the table before her shoulders shook. “He just said he needed more time! He didn’t say he wanted anyone else!”

“Ororo…”

“He…didn’t…want a-any-one-elssssse,” she sobbed. Her plaintive voice broke her best friend’s heart, and she took matters into her own hands, with a more tactile approach. Yukio pushed her red vinyl upholstered chair around the tiny round table to where Ororo sat and embraced her. Ororo’s cries were nearly silent, gasping, shuddering breaths. She didn’t give a damn who was listening now. “I don’ know…why I let myself like him that much.”

“He made it hard not to. He’s one of my oldest, closest friends, sweetie, but so are you. I wanted this to work as much as you did, for his sake and for yours, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to put a boot up his butt.”

“Leave his butt alone.” Ororo was still attached to it; for all intents and purposes, it was once her butt. She sniffled, trying to compose herself, but her eyes were still dripping. She found comfort in Yukio’s slender arms, inhaling the light fragrance of her deodorant and hair gel; she never wore much by way of perfume out of long habit, since it used to give Carol headaches, and because Kenuichio used to drown himself in cologne, duking it out with any hint of scent she used to put on. Yukio rubbed her cheek against her thick, soft hair and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

That’s what best friends were for. Listening. Shopping. Talking you down from the ledge. And breaking up tantrums in public.

“You can’t keep compromising on what you want. Look at you. You’re hot, smart, have a good job and your own place, and lots of great single girlfriends to commiserate with. Me included.”

“Not Emma so much anymore.”

“Her boyfriend’s a doll, but pussywhipped. By the time he’s conscious again, the preacher’ll be telling him ‘you may now kiss the bride.’ Emma defines herself by the kind of man she can catch. She’s human bait. That’s not you, but you DO tend to undervalue yourself when you face a rejection.”

“He did reject me,” she sighed, sitting upright and shaking Yukio off. Yukio nudged her chair back but still held her hand.

“Has he called you?”

“That’s just it. We’ve played phone tag, but I haven’t seen him. It’s hard. I want to talk to him, but I don’t know what to say. I want him back.”

“What does he even say when he calls?” Yukio retrieved the remains of her waffle cone that she’d briefly laid aside on a stack of napkins and munched on it thoughtfully.

“He just plays it safe. ‘Just wanted ta check up on ya and say hi, see how’ve ya been,’” Ororo pantomimed, making Yukio choke on her food and nearly snort it through her nose.

“Gads, that’s so him!”

“I don’t want to just hear his voice. I want him. With me. Period.” She sighed heavily. “It doesn’t help that he’s not really being a dick. Not really. Not like Vic…”

“No one’s a dick like Vic.”

“I don’t even have any of his stuff to give back or get rid of.”

“Well, that’s good…did he leave anything at all?”

“Little stuff. His toothbrush.” Then her expression grew dreamy. “And my baseball cap. That was the first thing he gave me.”

“You could chuck it.”

“No.” Her voice was petulant.

“Stinker. Don’t you pout at me.”

“I need a night out.” Magic words. Yukio brightened.

“Then what are we waiting for? Get dressed! To the nines! Let’s ditch this popsicle stand.” Yukio’s eyes danced and she was already up, tossing her cone into the trash. She snatched the spoon out of Ororo’s hand before she could go back to her ice cream and grabbed both their purses.

“I was just thinking of a movie…”

“No, no, and no,” Yukio barked, dragging her so quickly from the shop that she nearly tripped. “Big poufy hair. Little itty-bitty outfit. Kick-ass shoes. Mani-pedi. Stat!”

“Help,” Ororo yelped. And they were off.


~0~


Logan was eventually as good as his word. Most nights she tripped inside her apartment, darting to the answering machine to check her messages. Zip. Bupkes. Her heart plunged, and she spent the rest of the night kicking herself for her lack of pride. Rejection and questions knotted her stomach.

She had no problem living by herself, but suddenly her apartment felt empty without him. The bed felt too big. Dinner was always for one.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny, childish voice begged that it wasn’t really over, til it was over. He didn’t not want her. He didn’t have time for her. Big difference…wasn’t it?

Ororo tried to be pragmatic about it all. Work had been a bear all week. The only positive aspect of it all had come from the least expected source.

Cassandra.

She sent Ororo on yet another interview (sigh) while Remy was covering a fashion show in Milan. If anything, it gave her the chance to get out of her stifling cubicle and take the BART downtown. She took a ten-minute walk through Nordstroms, breathing in the scent of crisp, new leather from the exorbitantly priced shoe section. Her favorite pastime with Betsy was walking through the shelves, holding up spangled, overly sequined shoes with three hundred dollar price tags and saying “This is you, this is you; what a bargain!” Any shoe was fair game, from granny loafers to leopard spots.

But back to business. She cruised out of the indoor plaza and emerged in the street, crossing four busy lanes for Forge Steel Industries, Inc., the site of her interview.

Ororo could vaguely remember his real name, Jonathan Silvercloud. All she knew was that he was a hot property in the field, self-made, a minority, and brilliant. Rumor had it that he was the next Howard Hughes, and just as enigmatic.

She breezed into the front lobby of the high-rise building. The entryway was large enough to echo, and her heels sounded loud against the tile. A cruelly coifed, razor-thin secretary looked up and gave her rendition of a smile as she approached the desk.

“Sign in, please.” She shoved a clipboard across the circular counter before she could open her mouth. Ororo perused the columns and the headers at the top of the page.

“Er. Right. I believe Forge was expecting me?”

“Who was expecting you, miss?”

“Oh. Oops. Mr. Silvercloud.”

“All right. Sign in. Sit down. I’ll announce you in a moment.” Ororo scrawled her signature and printed her name, checking her watch for the sign-in time. Her cheeks burned with frustration; she felt confident and on top of it all when she left that morning, but she felt punctured, even paltry beneath this woman’s gaze. She might as well have had B.O. or spinach in her teeth.

It was like her first meeting ever with Cassandra.

The next ten minutes was an equally awkward game of eye tag.

The receptionist, whose name plate introduced her as Charity (*gads*), took roughly five calls, signed in a delivery man carrying a box “ without asking who he was there to see “ and chatted randomly with several people wearing name badges. Ororo would periodically peek at her and turn away when her gaze was returned with the same icy, polite look.

Just when Ororo was ready to nod off in her chair, Charity piped up, “I’ll escort you back now. Mr. Silvercloud is out of his meeting.” Both sets of their heels clop-clopped down the hall after she was buzzed in with a swipe of Charity’s badge. The interior had that gluey, leather-and-tweed scent of a newly remodeled room. They walked past long rows of cubicles and turned left toward an office with glass panes that reached the ceiling. Mini-blinds were pulled, and Ororo heard a deep, masculine voice with a tinge of a Texan accent that sounded like the man was on the phone. She sighed, resigned.

“One moment.” Charity knocked briskly and ducked her head inside before being acknowledged. From around the back of her head, Ororo only saw the edge of the chair that faced his desk and a tall potted plant. The man himself was obscured from her gaze. Charity ducked back out and nearly collided with Ororo’s nose before she jumped back.

“In you go,” she tossed before she turned on her heel to leave. Ororo hedged for a moment, and then she rapped lightly on the pane of the door. Gold letters had his name and title printed as “Director and CEO”.

“I’m finished. Come in,” he beckoned. His voice was slightly impatient, feeding her annoyance with his staff, and now, with him. She threw back her shoulders, smoothed her skirt with her palm, and strode inside. He was just setting down the handset of his phone and closing out the teleconference screen on his PC when he looked up and met her eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Silvercloud.”

…was that her voice, really, sounding that squeaky and shocked?

“Er…good, ah, afternoon.”

She cleared her throat. “I’m…hmmm.”

She forgot her own damn name.

“Charity said Cassandra was sending you over today. Miss Munroe, was it?” Obsidian eyes raked over her from head to toe, pausing on her lips.

“Ororo Munroe. Call me Ororo,” she corrected, ending on a stammer. She remembered her manners and approached his desk to shake his hand. He stood in tandem to come around the desk…

She tripped over a tiny rug laid out in front of the desk and went sprawling.

She released a small “ooph” as she landed against him, incongruously wrapped, as it seemed, in his arms. Which were very nice arms. Her mind took her in directions she didn’t want, automatically comparing him to Logan.

He was taller than Ororo by perhaps in inch, in her stocking feet. He was clean shaven except for a neat mustache, and his hair was glossy black, clipped cruelly short in a Julius Caesar cap that emphasized sharp bone structure and a slightly high forehead. He smelled expensive; he was wearing Burberry, both the scent and the suit, or her name was mud.

His lips twitched. “It would be moot to tell you ‘I didn’t expect to bump into you today,’ except you’re on my day planner, thanks to Charity.”

She licked her lips. His eyes tracked the movement and burned into her face. Her fingers tightened around his arm, stroking the rich texture of his raw silk suit.

He set her back on her feet and let go. She reached up to brush her hair back behind her ear before she could stop the impulse to groom. Belatedly she extended her hand. His felt warm.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“What do you need to know about me?” All trace of the trance that held her dissipated as he got back to business. “We’ll need to make this short. I have another meeting in a half an hour.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” She sat down and fished quickly in her purse for her Blackberry. “This will run in next month’s issue if we set it on time…”

“What do you mean, ‘if’?” He sat back in his chair, still allowing his desk to separate them. “Cassandra assured me the item would run once it was received; I assumed that meant next month.” She was taken aback, feeling slapped.

“We’re planning several features for that issue, and typically we might get different items to print over the course of about three to four issues before they see the light of day.” She pictured the article spreadsheet with a small shudder.

“Isn’t that flattering,” he chided her, shaking his head. “And educational.” Her cheeks burned, and Ororo felt her hand clenching into a fist in her lap. “I wanted to give you an interview that would be worth Cassandra’s while…” And hers, Ororo wondered? What about her own busy day, and having to run across town to talk to his uppity butt?

“You can. I don’t expect any less. Cassandra’s very interested in this piece. About how you built this company, and a few of the things inquiring women’s minds want to know.”

“Ah. Like a favorite ice cream flavor or what side of the bed I sleep on?” He wasn’t looking at her now, instead picking up his mouse and clicking away at something on his desktop. Ororo fumed, hearing a ringing and the beginnings of Psycho fiddles in her ear. “Rye or white? Boxers or briefs? My Zodiac sign?”

“We won’t need that,” she decided. “The moon’s rising in the house of Conceited Jackass.” She stood abruptly, forcing him to look at her again as she loomed over his desk, lightning sparking in her blue eyes.

“I see.” He peered over her shoulder at his wall clock. “Twenty-eight minutes.” She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I come for an interview, and I get a countdown instead. And the bum’s rush. Fine.” She clapped her Blackberry shut and shoved it into her purse. “You’re busy. Or you can’t be bothered. Either way, I’ll leave you to whatever you’re doing. Which you can’t seem bothered to tell me for the sake of an interview.”

“There’s a lot you can learn about me in twenty-seven minutes,” he challenged, but his lips curled.

“Only if I feel like putting on a pair of hip-waders.” She felt her face betray her, now burning and flushed.

“You might look nice in hip-waders. If BCBG made a pair?” She snorted in disgust.

“Maybe Armani designed that stick wedged up your ass!” Her eyes flashed. Her heart pounded while blood raced in her ears. His breathing quickened to match hers, even though he sat back in his chair, hand resting completely still on his mouse.

His chiseled lips moved. “Twenty-six minutes.” It infuriated her.

This’ll shut your lying mouth. “I see I’ve caught you indisposed, Mr. Silvercloud.”

“Forge,” he corrected her quietly.

“That’s fine.” She never planned to say his name out loud ever again. Wounded pride made her taste sour bile. She reached back into her purse and flicked a small business card onto his desk. “I don’t run a company. I’m an editor with ten thousand deadlines and a staff of writers and interns to beat into shape, if not submission, every month to put out a quality product. You’ve been in the business of letting people work for you for a long time, so perhaps you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be the peon instead of the one pissing on everybody!”

“Spoken like a true martyr.” He looked nonplussed. His smile hesitated a moment but didn’t drop.

“Why did you agree to an interview, then? Why balk at it now?”

“Cassandra and I go back a bit, and I owed her a favor. She said she was sending someone very capable to interview me today whom she trusts to get a relevant story without pandering to your magazine’s taste for pulp.”

“PULP?”

“I’ve been on the cover of Forbes’,” he shrugged.

“We’ve sold three times the ad space,” she snarled. It didn’t matter that she, personally, didn’t sell it.

“I’ll remember that the next time I pick up a copy and smell the perfume samples.” The way he cocked his brow…his elegantly, arched eyebrow, black as a crow’s wing…infuriated her. And made her tingle. He appeared to be enjoying her discomfiture.

“I don’t even know what I think I have to prove to you right now.” She straightened up and headed for the door.

“Twenty-four minutes.”

“Time’s up. You have a meeting. I have to go back to Cassandra to try to convince her that the article we have on Ten Most Embarrassing Hygiene Problems is more compelling reading than a one-on-one piece with the owner of a multimillion dollar-“

“Multibillion,” he sighed.

“…CORPORATION,” she emphasized sharply, spinning on him. Her chest was rising and falling within the snug confines of her blazer.

“Bully for you. I wish you the best with that.” He went back to his PC and resumed typing and clicking. “Could you close the door on your way out and sign off at Charity’s desk? Security likes to track when people exit and leave. Here, feel free to have a mint.” She stiffened and paused, hand clenching around the knob. Slowly she turned back around to face him, wishing that her breathing didn’t sound so heavy and harsh. He’d winded her. That bastard actually made her lose her breath, arguing with him! He nodded to the tiny gilt-edged, marble-enameled black dish sitting on a shelf. “Give Cassandra my best.”

“I’ll do that.” She took one of the proffered mints and bit down on it savagely. “But you can close the door yourself.” With that, she left.

Forge watched her walk out, spine ramrod-straight, her slender, tapered calves flashing in that skirt. Her long, thick waves of hair, bright and fair as platinum, rippled behind her with her quick strides. He stared after her in a mixture of masculine appreciation and amusement. Belatedly, he picked up her business card, noting her email address and desk extension. He tucked it into the breast pocket of his charcoal gray suit before he resumed getting ready for his meeting.


~0~

She was still pissed off by the time she returned to her office and signed back into her computer.

She dreaded the inevitable take-down from Cassandra when she went to look in her inbox.

The red-flagged emails were conspicuously absent, making Ororo feel like she’d missed something. She hit “Receive new messages.” Nada.

“How did it go?” Betsy murmured, sidling up to Ororo and setting a bite-sized Snickers on her desk blotter. Ororo turned and gave her friend a long-suffering scowl. “Bloody hell. That bad, Duckie?”

“Just shoot me now. An elephant tranquilizer might be nice. Or more of these. Lots more,” she decided, waving the candy at her before tearing off the wrapper and scarfing it down. She savored it like water after a week-long drought.

“Was he boring? Stuffy?”

“That was the best that I could hope for. I went in. Said hi. Got the nasty, bitchy treatment from his admin. Then he raked me over the coals.”

“WHY?”

“Because he could. I felt bullied. And like a flea. A bullied flea.”

“Ouch,” Betsy tsked, wincing. Before they could say anything else, a breathless Val showed up.

“I just wanted you to know,” she informed Ororo, “that the hygiene feature is going to be a week late.” With a degree of control she never knew herself capable of, Ororo pursed her hands in her lap to prevent herself from grabbing the letter opener and stabbing her in the eye.

~0~

The day was thankless. She ducked Cassandra all day long, avoiding the inevitable report that her interview crashed and burned. The nubby carpet felt comforting against her stocking-clad toes beneath her desk; she’d already kicked off her pumps and was just wrapping up the rest of her unanswered email.

“Day like this makes a woman feel like Hope Diggin’ Potatoes,” she muttered, hitting delete on a row of fifty read messages that were a month old.

A new message popped up before she could close the program. “Gads, people, can you just save it til tomorrow?” she whined petulantly, tilting back in her chair as she opened it.


Sender: jsilvercloud@forgesteel.net
Subject: Interview

Miss Munroe,

I’m done with meetings today. I have more time to talk to you, if you could spare me any out of your busy, busy schedule. Perhaps you think I don’t deserve it after today.

For the record, I’m an Aries. Briefs. And toffee crunch. That may cover some of the easier questions you had for me. I’d be glad to give you more reader-friendly material to print in your feature.

And to the best of my memory, Armani doesn’t design sticks…? Although I’m not infallible, I could be wrong.

If you choose not to hit reply, then I can have my PR team send over some materials to help with the feature. I had discussed this with Cassandra before, but she wanted something that would bring readers in touch with what my company is, and how I got here. Now, however, I’m afraid the truth might bore them to tears. I hope it doesn’t bore you.

For the record, I feel the need to point out three things.

One. You weren’t what I expected. Two. I’d like it if you could change my mind. Three. I’m sorry for being so abrupt.

And you’re not a peon.

F.


“For cryin’ out fuck’s sake,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Ororo mulled the message for several more seconds, rereading it twice before she closed it and saved to one of her Outlook folders for safekeeping. She pasted his contact information into a contact file and logged off, mentally planning a night in. Alone. Again.


Sometimes a smell, a taste, or the feel of something familiar can evoke memories that plunge you back into the moment of their conception.

Ororo keyed her way into her home and sniffed the air; it had that distinctive “lived in” smell that told her that it was time to vacuum, do laundry and clean out the refrigerator.

Finishing one sinkload of dishes led her to the garbage. Emptying that made her notice the scuff marks on the kitchen floor. Mopping that made her feel guilty that her dining room hadn’t been Swiffered in longer than could be called decent. Her newly buffed floor reminded her that the plants needed watering, the tables needed dusting and that she needed to pack away her summer clothes in Rubbermaid boxes.

She was just stuffing a stack of folded halter tops and tanks into the bin when something stiff fell off the top shelf and beaned her on the head, nearly putting her eye out as she looked up.

“Shit!” she hissed, retrieving the fallen object as she rubbed her head.

Logan’s cap.

She fingered the bill gingerly and dusted it off. She suddenly lost interest in cleaning, curled up in a ball and cried into her folded knees.

Each tear that dripped from her face brought with it a new question.

Did she want too much? Why did she let herself become so attached? When did it stop just being “We’re having fun together” to “We have a relationship?” Was he just tired of her? Didn’t she give him enough space? Did he sense how crappy things were with Vic, and did it leak into what they had now? Did she have “damaged goods” stamped on her forehead???

One sobbing fit turned into hiccupping gulps until she picked up the hat to put it away. That triggered another and she slumped back down against the wall.

“Wasn’t…s’posed to fall for you, Logan!” she grated aloud. Her houseplants and tank tops didn’t have an answer for her.

So she got up. She rummaged through her refrigerator and found nothing even remotely appealing. She changed into snug, tapered jeans so broken-in they were almost velvety and a black sweater to match her mood. Just for posterity, she added her lucky pendant. A glance in her kitchen mirror told her that her eyes still looked like hell, puffy, bloodshot and despondent, but she scraped her hair into a ponytail.

Then she topped off her look with the baseball cap. She lied to herself that she didn’t look like a woman taking one last gamble as she locked up and climbed into her car.

Frustration made her stomach tumble and roll as she drove up the hill toward Logan’s house. It was almost liberating, once again following the groove she’d worn in the road when they were still together, blissful in their ignorance “ rather, hers “ when she didn’t have to worry about crowding him. He was the one who frequently called her. He was the one who came to her place for a change of scenery over his own four walls. It felt good to follow that familiar path. She buzzed with the anticipation that she had when she was going home.

Her heart fluttered and tripped all the way up his front walk, and her toes felt like ice. At his front porch, she bowed her head in silent prayer and picked at her fingernails before working up the nerve to knock on his door.

She heard him flick on the light in the hall; it illuminated his silhouette, casting it against the glass pane before he turned the knob. She licked dry lips as he met her eyes. His brow crumpled at the sad hope etched on her face.

“Ro? Darlin’? What’re ya doin’ here, I wasn’t expecting ya.” He crossed the threshold and reached for her hand out of long habit; she noticed that he still wore his work boots, telling her that he’d barely gotten home. She picked up the aroma of his sweat and a hint of cigar smoke trapped in his clothes and hair. He’d just started trying to kick back and relax. Shit. Guilt suddenly replaced everything else, but she had to talk to him. Reason with him. She squeezed his hand that felt so strong, thick and warm in hers, clutching it.

“Logan.” Seeing him, touching him made it so damned hard. She didn’t waste time on preamble or greetings. “Just tell me why.” Her lips worked around his name again, then quivered. Her voice seemed to clog her throat. “I…” With her free hand she fanned away fresh tears and tried to duck her face before he could see them fall. The hat had its uses…

“Damn it,” he cursed; his sigh was almost a growl, but whether he was annoyed with her or himself, she couldn’t tell.

She didn’t want to let him go when he opened his arms for her.

“We talked about this. I thought ya were okay with it, darlin’. An’ I’m sorry, but this is what I was afraid of,” he soothed, stroking her while she shook. “I didn’t wanna start anything with ya that we couldn’t finish. And I meant it, sweetheart. This is what I didn’t want.”

“You didn’t want me?” Ice trickled through her veins at the thought.

“Ya know that ain’t it.” She smothered a sob in his shirt, well-worn and soft as he rubbed her back.

“We could make this work. I don’t know what I can do to make you see that! What we had…what we have is great! Logan, you just don’t know how I feel about you!”

“That’s just it. I think I do.” He gently unwrapped her arms from around his neck and uncurled her fists, turning them face up. He stroked her palms with his thumbs and kissed them; his eyes never left hers. “Whatever ya do,” he murmured low, “please don’t tell me that ya love me, cuz I don’t deserve ya, ‘Ro.” Panic gripped her and she buckled.

“No. No. Nonono. No. Don’t say that. Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel!”

“I know yer hurt.”

“Big surprise, genius,” she carped, tugging her hands away and backing up a step.

“Damn it.” He plowed a hand through his hair helplessly. “Whaddya want me ta tell ya, darlin’? That this has a happily ever after over the horizon?”

“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” she sniffed. “I just know how I feel. And how I felt about you, how I feel about you is one hundred percent real, Logan! We could be together. Start over if you want. Just tell me what you want!”

“What do you want, darlin’? Tell me, ‘Ro.” She shook her head.

“Only if it will make a difference. Only if you tell me you want me back.” She was laying herself bare, but he was shrinking away from her by degrees. It tore her apart. Left her bleeding.

“We could go back ta seein’ each other.” Her flare of hope was dashed as he held up his hand. “But that won’t change everything else that’s goin’ on in my life. We’ll both still be busy. Yer still gonna want ta spend time with yer friends doin’ some of the things ya enjoy, like gettin’ dressed up and goin’ out with yer girlfriends. Fancy parties like Emma’s. Stuff like book launches and rubbing elbows with important people and showing up in the society pages of the Chronicle.” Earlier that week, she glowed when Logan clipped a photo of her with Cassandra and the author of a bestselling novel they’d launched and hung it on the fridge with a Giants magnet. “If this hurts ya now, what happens if we ever break up again?” She folded her arms protectively over her stomach and leaned against the porch post.

“I like doing things with you. Whatever you like to do. I thought you knew that about me. Do I look like someone who just likes fancy parties? Is that what you think of me?” Hurt pricked at her. “Am I too shallow?”

“Hell, no, baby! I never said that, so don’t put friggin’ words into my mouth! Yer fuckin’ perfect! Yer hot, and smart, fun ta be with and ya make me feel…God, darlin’, I don’t even know how ta explain it. All I’m gonna say is that this is my fault. All my fault.”

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Ororo quipped miserably, repeating her words from the night when he told her he was putting things on hold.

Now he was ending it.

“I won’t see you anymore, will I?”

“That ain’t how it is, darlin’. I wanna see ya again, but…just not like it was. And only after things have cooled off. We can still talk. Ya can still call me.”

“Look how that turned out,” she accused sharply. “You’re right. If I stand here and fight with you, all I’ll do is make this worse. I never should have come here.”

“It ain’t that I didn’t wanna see ya tonight, ‘Ro…darlin’, don’t just take off, I’m sorry!” His voice was suddenly more plaintive than gruff, but she didn’t want to hear it. Her footsteps were swift and long as she stalked back to her car.

“I won’t bother you anymore,” she called over her shoulder. She didn’t look back toward the porch as she turned back into the street and dug out. When she opened the window for some air, her wet cheeks felt numb.


~0~

The next day she felt hollow.

She clicked open her email and instantly received a pop-up reminder for a status meeting that she’d forgotten she facilitated. She blandly made her introductions to everyone on the line. Cassandra was taking the call from her desk in lieu of booking a conference room. Ororo knew half the staff attending would be playing solitaire on their Blackberries while she was taking the minutes.

Fifteen minutes into the meeting she broke down and was heartily grateful she had the phone on mute.

She heard Val’s voice break through. “Ororo? I said I have that article finished and it just needs to be set? Ororo, are you there?” She shook her head mutely, knowing she couldn’t see the gesture over the phone.

Just let me die in peace… And just like any other time in her life when her whole world fell apart at the seams, she began to hyperventilate.

She didn’t even look up at the sound of footsteps coming up behind her. She had her face bowed into her palms, and she was trying to draw in longer, slower breaths until the dizziness stopped. The cubicle walls felt claustrophobic, and her heart pounded in her ears.

“Ororo?” Val’s voice wasn’t supposed to be hovering over her shoulder. Her Chanel perfume wasn’t as overpowering as usual as she plucked up a tissue from Ororo’s box and handed it to her, thought better of it, then handed her a whole folded clump. Dimly she heard Cassandra wondering aloud if Ororo stepped away from her desk.

“It’s all right.” Val’s voice was strangely soothing in her ear as she rubbed her back in wide circles.

I’m supposed to hate you. It’s the eighth sign of the Apocalypse. Don’t be nice to me.

Val held up her hand to halt Ororo’s protests when she reached for her phone’s mute button. “Cassandra, could we postpone this for later today, or even tomorrow morning? I have some edits and another source I need checked before this goes into the queue, and I don’t want to heap more work onto anyone’s desk.” Ororo sat mute in disbelief when Cassandra spoke up.

“All right, Valerie. Ororo, you can send us the reminder for tomorrow morning, same time.” She heard several voices saying goodbye as they rang off. That left her alone with Valerie.

“Maybe you don’t want to talk about this right now.” Ororo nodded in agreement. “It’s okay. Just take a minute to get yourself together.”

“It’s not okay. I’m not okay.”

“Got dumped?” Ororo managed a wobbly smile.

“That obvious, huh?”

“I’m impressed you came in to work at all. I would have had the covers pulled up to my chin at home, chocolate on one side and a pair of scissors and his pictures in another, making paper dolls.” A strangled giggle escaped Ororo’s lips.

“Paper dolls,” she huffed. “Gads.”

“I’d also block ESPN on my cable package,” she shrugged. “You’ll never have to watch extreme sports, competitive eating or Ultimate Fighting Challenge ever again. You’re better off.”

“I love him.”

“That’s fine. Just change that to past tense. You’ve just gotta do what you can to make it through the day. Then make it through the night.” She studied Ororo and smiled. The expression wasn’t cajoling like it normally was when she expected Ororo to bend over backward with her deadlines. “Come on.” She reached for Ororo’s purse and dangled it out by the strap.

“Where?” She was already rising from her seat and fishing in her desk drawer for Motrin and her eye drops.

“Lunch. Out. And we’re having something big, decadent and obscenely chocolate. Woe to the man, woman, child or canine who gets in the way.” She was heedless of the fact that it was only ten AM. Val’s voice was devoid of its perky cheer and she spoke like a woman on a mission. As they cruised toward the elevator, Ororo felt her heart lift.


~0~

One heaping slice of Godiva chocolate, black forest gateau later found Ororo feeling human (for the moment).

“Eeerrrggh. Much better. I needed that,” she groaned, patting her stomach as Val hailed the server for their bill.

“It’s therapeutic,” Val shrugged simply. “I ate myself sick after I broke up with my last boyfriend.”

“How long were you together?”

“Five years.” Ororo winced.

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it. Look up noncommittal in Webster’s and you’ll see his mug shot,” she grinned, shaking her head. “He kept waffling back and forth after we moved in together. He wouldn’t set a date.” Then she dropped the bomb. “He had kids. He kept saying he didn’t want to get married again after he left his first wife. Then I found out that he never finalized his divorce. He used that as his get out of jail free card when I gave him an ultimatum about a ring.”

“Oooh. Damn, Val.”

“The night he moved out, I climbed into a half-gallon of Ben and Jerry’s Wavy Gravy and didn’t come out for three days. It wasn’t pretty.” Val was pencil-slim and never ate anything for her lunches at work that wasn’t organic and cruelty-free.

“He was an idiot.” Ororo meant it.

“I thought he was my idiot,” she sighed, waving it away with her hand. Val’s light blue eyes were solemn. “So where do you go from here?”

“I’m done. No more men.”

“They aren’t all assholes.”

“He wasn’t even an asshole. I was stupid about this. I walked right into it. I don’t want any guy who isn’t for real and who won’t commit. None of this ‘just seeing each other’ crap. I don’t want a friend with benefits. Or one without. I want a real man who’s in love with me and my dirty drawers.” Val snorted. “Warts and all.”

“Dirty drawers and warts. That’s scary.”

“Damn skippy.” Ororo continued to scrape her dessert plate with her fork for the last smudge of icing.

“Then you go out and get that man. When you find one, set me up with this twin brother. And tell him I make a mean chicken picata.” Val dampened her thumb and plucked up the last shaving of chocolate from her dish, licking it off.

~0~

The rest of the day was unremarkable, but Ororo dutifully reset her calendar and finished updating her logs. She lost a boyfriend, but at least she found an ally, even if she and Val didn’t have much in common. It just helped.

She checked the last of her email and noticed that the one Forge sent her had a return receipt flag on it. She drummed her fingertips on her mouse for a moment and considered it.

Her mouse guided the little white arrow to the ‘Reply’ button and clicked it.


Sender: omunroe@ultimatewoman.net
Subject: RE: Interview

You mentioned a possible reschedule of our interview. I can make time for it…it might help if you’re direct about what time and where so we don’t get our wires crossed, Mr. Silvercloud.

And perhaps I was a bit hasty.

I look forward to talking with you. Again.



She sighed. Now she could finally shake that guilty feeling that tightened the skin across her nape ever since she opened his original message.

She was shocked when a new message popped up not even twenty seconds later.

Subject: RE: RE: Interview time and place?

Lunch?

Tomorrow?

Whatever tickles your fancy?

Let me make it up to you?



Ororo didn’t know if it was just the last of her chocolate buzz or the prospect of a lunch out with someone who could easily afford not to argue with meeting somewhere nice. That made up her mind. She’d get that interview. She’d be civil and friendly and dressed to kill. And she’d keep herself busy enough to take her mind off of Logan.

Subject:RE: RE: RE: Yes.

Tomorrow. Noon. Somewhere with a view. See you then.
Back to index
A Place to Dine, a Glass of Whine by OriginalCeenote
“I hope you’re hungry,” Forge mentioned casually, stealing another look at her from the other side of the car.

“Oh, I could probably eat.” Baloney. She was starved. Maybe even hungry enough to eat baloney, heaven help her.

Ororo’s toes were screaming in complaint, but she squelched the urge to slide her feet from her red and black Jimmy Choos to soothe the burning cramp. Nordstrom’s had a sale. They didn’t have her exact size. Ororo weighed the lesser of two evils and walked out of the store swinging the bag from her wrist.

If the way Forge’s eyes occasionally darted to her long, tapered calves was any indication, the shoes were working.

“Did you bring your Blackberry?”

“I never leave anywhere without it. Take away my oxygen, but expect to find my corpse still clutching that thing in my bony hand. A person needs to be prepared.” His smile was tidy but knowing. He gave a slight nod and glanced out the window.

“We’re here.” Ororo felt puzzled that Forge’s driver didn’t simply take them to the pier, figuring that every restaurant would have a view of the harbor, since that was a stipulation of their emails.

“Not to sound dense, Mr. Silvercloud…”

“I thought we decided on Forge.”

“Habit,” she admitted. She got back on topic. “But in the meantime, where is ‘here?’”

“Take a gander.” He rolled down the window smoothly. Its slow whirr provided fanfare for a sight that left her breathless.

Postrio. Four-star, heart-stoppingly expensive, and owned by Wolfgang Puck himself.

“Oh. Oh, my.”

“Tell me if you’ve been here already. We can go somewhere else, if you l-“

“Where should we park?”

“Henry, I’ll call for you in an hour.” His voice was crisp and authoritative. Ororo noticed he didn’t give an approximate time. Her mouth was still hanging open.

Her legs seemed to move of their own accord as they strolled inside. Forge was the perfect gentleman, holding doors and letting her walk ahead of him. She was staring stupidly at the original paintings and glass sculptures while tantalizing smells beckoned to her.

“Reservations, sir?”

“Two. Under Forge.” Ororo didn’t know anyone who used their first name to book a reservation somewhere that fancy. Obviously, there could be fifty “John’s” or “Bob’s” trying to barge their way in to a place owned by someone famous. But Forge. That was a name that opened doors.

This wasn’t pizza or fried squid by the pier. Remembering back to Logan’s idea of lunch, Ororo shuddered. Then she suppressed a pang of nostalgia.

She hadn’t tried to call him. It was still too raw. The message light on her phone was black. Forge, on the other hand, emailed her three more times to confirm date, time and their ride arrangements.

He took her coat and pulled out her chair.

“I can start the interview now while we wait for them to take our order.”

“Nonsense.” He waved over a server as soon as he made eye contact, nodding briefly. She watched, transfixed, as the man hurried over, already preparing his pad and pen.

“What can we do for you today, Mr. Silvercloud?”

“The special.”

“Which seafood would you recommend?” Ororo could have sworn she spied lamb on the sign in the lobby as the special. It wasn’t particularly her favorite. Forge watched her expectantly, measuring her.

“Oh, the prawns. You’ll love the prawns.” He rattled off a rapid-fire description of “lobster” and “curry” and “garlic” along with more elaborate cooking terms than she could count, or care to translate. She merely nodded.

“That sounds great.”

“We’d also like the pinot, and I don’t think my companion will argue with today’s dessert choice.” Ororo salivated. If she was put off by his assumption that he’d ordered wine for their “luncheon interview” she gave no sign.

Ororo was already scanning through her PDA with her stylus, clicking away until she found her .doc of questions she’d assembled, with a few additions made since their first appointment.

“Here we go.”

“Fire away. I’m an open book.”

“What kind of toys did you play with as a kid?”

“Excuse me?” He looked taken aback, setting down his water glass before it reached his lips.

“Toys. Sailboats, Matchbox cars?”

“Ah…hmmmm.” He looked thoughtful, and he raised one brow her way, telegraphing that she’d irked him, and amused him. “Well.”

“You couldn’t have had that deprived of a childhood.”

“No. I had toys. I just had other things to do. But I liked toys that did something. No little action figures. Linkin Logs were nice. Model cars that I could put together myself.”

“Word on the street is that you’re good at putting things together.” He offered her a quirk of his lips. His smile was far from full wattage.

“You could say that.” He nodded to her PDA. “You could print that.”

“I just might. Promise I won’t misquote you.”

“A promise is a promise,” he conceded with a brief nod.

“Pinky swear.”

“You have small hands.”

“Er…excuse me?”

“Your hands. Pinkies included.” Naturally she paused over her notes and stared down at her left hand.

“I always thought I had big hands.”

“No. Not for someone as tall as you are. What are you, about five nine-ish?”

“Five-eleven,” she admitted, cheeks flushing. “Moving on…”

“Shy?”

“No.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be.”

“Fine. I’m not.”

His scrutiny was making heat rise beneath her skin. His eyes focused on her so intently, taking in different details about her every time she picked up her stylus or her water glass. They both murmured their thanks to the server when he brought the house bread basket, but neither of them broke their gaze.

“How tall are you?” she prodded back.

“Six-two.” Rats. She loved tall men. Taller than she was, at any rate, and he easily fit the bill. He was making it hard for her to hold onto her previous resentment.

That, and the way that he smelled. He was wearing that addictive Burberry aftershave again, and he’d definitely shaved that day. The man had almost invisible pores and skin that made a baby’s backside feel like sandpaper.

“Did you have a happy childhood?” He shrugged, and his face clouded for a moment.

“I didn’t mind kissing it goodbye. Came from a broken home. No siblings. Moved around a lot with my father. Finally settled in Texas. He loved ranching, once he ‘found himself.’”

“That explains the accent. Where in Texas?”

“San Antonio.”

“You a Dallas fan?”

“Of course.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“West Central High.”

“Oh…sorry. College?”

“Duke.”

“Nice.” She was impressed.

“Then Dartmouth. I wanted a change of scene.”

“Transferred schools?”

“No. Grad school.”

“Master’s?”

“Two of them.”

“Oh. Wow.” She looked up from jotting it all down to stare at him in awe.

“Eh.” He shrugged. She almost liked him. Almost.

“Where did you study, Ororo?”

“Pardon?”

“You went to college?” All right. Her resentment was back, full force, until she noticed the mischief dancing in his eyes.

“No. Someone just handed me a typewriter on a dare after feeding me too much caffeine.” She paused to break apart a fresh-smelling loaf of bread and help herself to a piece. “NYU.”

“That explains the accent. You don’t sound like a typical Bay Area woman.”

“How is that?”

“Phrasing statements like a question.” He was kind enough to demonstrate. “So, I walking my dog yesterday? And, I went to Starbucks for a double latte? And I couldn’t find my wallet, right?’” He affected the faintly tilted vowels, making single syllables sound like several. Ororo snorted around the crumb of bread she popped into her mouth.

“Oh, that’s just not right.”

“Too affected?”

“No. Too true. You’re an evil, evil man.”

“Why?”

“I nearly aspirated the appetizer, and I haven’t even made it to the real questions.”

“I’ll try to curb myself.”

“Has anyone else ever tried to curb you? As a minority? What’s your heritage?”

“Yes. And yes. I’m Cheyenne; both of my parents were.”

“Oh.”

“I lost them both last year; Dad in a car accident, Mom to breast cancer.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a horrible loss.”

“I manage. It doesn’t hurt any less with time. It just hurts differently. My dad was a good man.”

“Did he offer you any insights that you live by personally?”

“Always look people in the eye. Always give a firm handshake when you enter and when you leave. Never leave people waiting…although I might have fallen short that time, in my office. I didn’t mean to be so hasty. I know you came a long way, and I’m sorry, Ororo.”

“That’s all right. We’ll keep that off the record. After all, you’re buying my silence with lunch.”

“Not that much silence. When did you start working for Cassandra?”

“After I finished my internship at the San Diego Mercury. I had a couple of bad months at a little quality management monthly after that. I half-figured that would kill my career as a copyeditor out of the gate.”

“What do you think Cassandra saw in you that made you the woman for the job?”

“I’m still figuring that out.”

“I could hazard a guess.”

“Shoot.” Talk about putting a woman on the spot…

“You’re blunt.”

“I’m hardly that!”

“No. You are. And that’s a compliment.”

“Convince me.” Ororo raised her brow and restrained herself from folding her arms beneath her breasts.

“You don’t seem like a woman who would shine someone on to stroke their ego.” His words recalled their argument. “Cassandra doesn’t like ass-kissers. She told me that was one of your better traits. You get the job done.”

“Cassandra talked to you about me?”

“Frequently.”

Now Ororo was afraid.

“And?”

“You’re worth her money.”

“She gets her money’s worth out of me more than you think.” If the dark circles under her eyes were any indication.

“You’re articulate and intelligent. Very elegant. Witty.” She hadn’t pried a laugh out of him yet, but his smile rose another notch.

The inevitable comparison to Logan socked her in the gut. She had laughed with him all the time.

But this wasn’t about Logan. This was about lunch. And work.

“You have your finger on the pulse of what other women want from life.”

“Ahhhh…that sounds suspiciously like publicist lingo. That’s one of Cassandra’s personal mottoes if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked guilty, and this time he stifled a low chuckle. He had a nice laugh.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice was so calm, so contemplative when he said it that she almost thought she heard him wrong. She nearly dropped her stylus.

“Cassandra doesn’t think that.”

“I wasn’t talking about Cassandra’s opinion this time.” Her hot cheeks were betraying her again. The rest of her body followed suit; her stomach was already flip-flopping and her pulse raced.

“We can wrap this up with a few more questions.”

“Take your time.” She watched his firm lips press themselves against his water glass, steaming it as he gulped down a few swallows; the cords of muscle in his throat were easily visible as they worked the fluid down. He stroked a hint of moisture from his mustache with his finger and thumb. “No rush.”

“No teleconferences?”

“Charity cleared my calendar.”

“How nice of her.” There was no love lost. Ororo loathed Forge’s secretary.

“She’s a soft touch, once you get to know her.”

So are jellyfish, before they sting. “I’ll keep that in mind, if I ever end up back in your neck of the woods.”

“Will you?”

“Excuse me?” she blurted.

“End up in my neck of the woods again?”

“Oh. Well.” So help her, she felt twelve. This was bad. Oh, so bad…

Why was it so easy for him to fluster her?

Logan never…scratch that. Yes, he had also made her feel flustered. When they first met. When she tried to please him.

Ororo made up her mind right then, right there: She wasn’t going to do back flips trying to impress Forge. He had to take her, or leave her. Period.

“I’m on deadline this week.” She was always on deadline. “And it was nice enough of you to take the time to meet with me today.”

“I take time out for the things and people I find important.” He reached for her Blackberry. “Hand it over.” His tone was imperious. He was straight-faced.

“Why?” And why was she passing it across the table.

“Because I’m turning it off.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t worry. I hit save.” He plucked the stylus from her hand, grazing her fingers. The brief contact made her shiver.

“On the record, you’ve interviewed me. Off the record, I want to see you again.”

“Not for business.”

“For a date. No notes. No press releases. No articles or teleconferences. I call you, or you call me, and we go out on a date.”

Just when things couldn’t get anymore awkward, the server arrived again with the wine. Forge nodded to the server, who poured about a tablespoon of wine into a crystal goblet. Forge eyed it, swirled it briefly and took a tentative sip. His approving nod and smile signaled him to pour each of them a glass before she could protest.

Really, she didn’t want to protest.

They’d passed “business lunch” two minutes into the interview.

Ororo tasted the wine, watching Forge over the rim of her glass. It was slightly tart as she sucked a droplet from her upper lip. His eyes dilated with the gesture.

“The wine’s fine!” he announced easily.

The server scurried off, promising that their food would be arriving any time.

“I’m starving,” Ororo admitted to him once they were alone.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Why?”

“There’s something appealing about watching you take a drink.” His eyes flicked to her hand, still toying with goblet’s stem. “Do it again?”


~0~

“How did it go, duckie?”

“Huh?”

“The interview. How did it go?”

“Oh. That. Right. Fine.” Every other step of Ororo’s aching feet was punctuated by her response.

“Did he tell you what you needed to know?”

“More or less.”

“Oooookaaaaayyyy,” Betsy drawled, watching her friend putter around her cubicle and put away her purse. “What’s the ‘more’ part?”

“Bets, he asked me on a date.”

“Wait…he WHAT?”

“A date. A real, honest to goodness date.”

“This was an interview! This was supposed to be business!”

“I don’t work with him,” Ororo argued.

“I know, but still…you just met him.”

“I had ‘just met’ Vic when he and I started dating.”

“Look how that turned out, sweet.”

“Oh, don’t go on,” Ororo pleaded irritably.

“What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

“That funny little…chocolatey smell. And is that wine?”

“Oh. Er. Well.”

“You had WINE?”

“Just one glass. He had his driver take us to ““

“He has a DRIVER?”

“It was nice. We didn’t have to worry about tipping a valet to park it, he just had him pick us up from Postrio ““

“POSTRIO???” Betsy was more and more aghast by the second. Ororo felt a funny little sense of triumph.

“It was really nice.” Ororo’s voice turned slightly dreamy.

“You had chocolate and wine with a steel magnate at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant, and all you can say is ‘it was really nice?’ Kittens are nice. Fuzzy socks are nice. But POSTRIO???” Betsy shook her head. “Hello, gross understatement.”

“It wasn’t chocolate. It was a cappuccino brownie sundae.”

“Oh, my good Lord.” Betsy fanned herself.

“Did I mention that he smells good? The man smells good,” Ororo included absently. She began checking her emails one last time. It wasn’t time to leave yet, but she wanted to take the rest of her work home. She’d never be able to concentrate stuck in her tiny cube for the rest of the afternoon, even though it was only two.

“So now what?”

“I have to write up the piece. I have everything in here.” She patted her Blackberry carrying case.

“Likely story. Cassandra’s on the war path. If you want to get that article done, not go home and plan your wardrobe for that so-called “non-business related date,” then you should stay put.”

The woman had a point. Ororo fumed, then sighed.

“Fine,” she muttered sourly.

“Cappuccino brownie sundae?” Betsy repeated, nearly drooling.

“Oh, Bets, you haven’t lived.”
Back to index
You Can Throw Out All Your Blues by OriginalCeenote
“Concealer.”

“Concealer.” The tube was slapped into her palm. Blotting and smudging ensued.

“Foundation.”

“Foundation. Check.” She ripped off a wedge of sponge and went over her T-zone, covering the remains of a dried-up pimple. Thank goodness.

“Eyeliner.”

“Got it.” She hoped her hand wouldn’t shake. She hated redrawing a crooked line.

“Eye shadow.”

“Smoky or cool?”

“Smoky.”

“Shadow. Check.”

Yukio handed Ororo each item and watched her contortions in the mirror.

“Man, I hope I’m not overdoing it.”

“You’ve been getting ready for two hours.”

“I’m trying not to look like it, for Pete’s sake.”

“Then what’s the point?” Yukio smeared some cherry flavored Chapstick on her lips every morning, spiked her fingers through her short hair and then just took off out the door. Had it been anyone except her best friend, Ororo would have despised her.

Ororo spritzed on a generous cloud of Pleasures, then sneezed sharply as it stung her nostrils.

“Ew. Germs.”

“My nose had a tickle. I’m fine,” Ororo nagged.

“Sure. Famous last words. Every time I catch a cold, I catch it from you.”

“Liar.”

“You better be glad I like you enough to put up with your cooties. Just as long as it isn’t stomach flu.”

“Hush your mouth.”

“I don’t need any kind of bug that sends me to the bathroom to make weird noises.”

“Ewwww…”

“There better not be weird noises in my future.”

Ororo finally stepped back. “How do I look?” Yukio sighed, knowing what was coming next.

True to form, Ororo peppered her with “Does this make my butt look big? Don’t I look bloated? I hate that. I should’ve took my vitamin B complex last night. Do you think I went too bland with the hair?”

“First, no. Second, no, you tall, skinny heifer, you don’t. Third, well…yeah. Leave it out. Make it poofier.”

“I don’t know if he likes poof-“

“I said poofier! Out with this,” Yukio ordered, snatching off Ororo’s hair clip, “and make with the poof.”

Twenty poof-wrangling minutes later, Ororo’s hair was a soft mass of waves.

“I’ve gotta get me some of that,” Yukio whistled, bumping her with her hip. Ororo bumped back and grinned.

“All right. It’s now or never.”

“Have fun. Doing something you like,” Yukio emphasized.

“I am. We’re going to check out some art.”

“Yawn…”

“It’s a nice first date,” she argued. “A first real date.” No bleacher seats and a cold butt this time. Yukio caught the under current in her voice.

“Has he called?”

“Hmm?”

“Logan. Has he called.”

“Nope. I wasn’t expecting him to call.” It was a patent lie. She’d prayed he would call. The empty pillow on the other side of her bed mocked her.

How would it feel to wake up to Jonathan’s face instead?

Would he snore? Would he have bad morning breath? Worse, would he think SHE had bad morning breath? Was he a cuddler? Would he steal the covers?

Ororo recovered her senses. Did any of it matter? It was a first date. It might not lead to anything more than one less Friday night at home.

And Ororo was at the top of her game. Kick-ass shoes, little black dress, big, sexy hair…she was ready.

“You know the drill. I want details. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“Where are you headed tonight?” It occurred to Ororo that she forgot to ask.

“I…am going out. Kenuichio called.” Ororo’s breath caught.

“You didn’t tell me that!”

“You had other things on your mind.”

“I would have made room in my mind for this. What made you decide to give him a chance?”

“He always had a chance; that’s not the point. I was just in the mood to see him, that’s all.”

“You burned him in effigy when you took back his key.”

“People change.”

“He skipped that dinner with your parents for a Sharks game.”

“I got over it. It’s not like I was gonna marry him or anything.” Ororo opened her mouth. Yukio quelled it, holding up her finger for her friend to hush. “Ah.”

“Yukio…”

“Ah-ah-ah. Nope. Don’t. Zip it.” Her commands punctuated each attempt Ororo made to protest.

Ororo sighed, looking concerned.

“Don’t pout. Might ruin your lipstick. Which would be bad.” Yukio headed toward the door. Ororo reached for her leather jacket, stroking it a moment before letting Yukio have it back.

“Be careful.”

“I’m always careful. But put out a missing person report if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow morning. Just let me sleep in.” Her wink was sly. She gave Ororo a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

Ororo brooded and paced over the next ten minutes, rehearsing her hello and pondering small talk that wouldn’t make her sound deficient. Every idea fled her head as soon as she heard the tentative knock on her door. She nearly galloped across the room and peered through the peephole.

Forge. In a gorgeous casual suit. Looking around her hallway as though wondering if he had the right apartment number.

Ororo took a deep breath and undid the deadbolt.

She tried not to sound breathless as she swept open the door. “Hi!”

“Good evening,” he rumbled, and then he gave her a thorough once-over, from head to toe and back again. “You. Look. Lovely.”

“Oh…you. Silly.” She beamed. “Come in. Let me get my purse.” She scurried back to her room and felt his eyes on her back.

Once she was back in her room, peering once more in the mirror, she began hyperventilating.

It’s just a date. It’s just a date. It’s just a date.

Her eyes fell on The Cap.

She’d kept it. Despite Yukio’s injunction to burn it, she kept that godawful baseball hat as some sort of…well, a talisman. Perhaps a charm to ward off more bad relationships. Or a reminder of what happened when she just “went along” instead of stepping up.

She straightened up, smoothed her dress with dry palms, and marched back outside, purse tucked under arm.

“Shall we?”


*

He wined her. He dined her. She catalogued him, mentally taking notes.

He cut his steak using the left hand to hold the fork, the right hand to cut, then switched hands to eat with his right hand. None of his foods touched on his plate. He was meticulous, even when buttering a flaky roll.

He had a cautious sense of humor. He waited for her to give him the punchline, and even then his laugh was more of a smile that made his eyes crinkle. They were nice eyes.

He was still courteous, holding doors and pulling out chairs. That much wasn’t a smokescreen, the man was incredibly polite.

Yet by the end of the night, Ororo realized something odd.

She’d spent the entire night talking about herself.

And he’d hung on every word.

So she fished. “Er, what do you usually do on the weekends?”

“Hm.” There was a long silence as he steered his way into traffic. He was a careful driver, something she couldn’t blame him for. The man drove a Porsche, for goodness sake.

Ororo cocked her brow, waiting.

“Weekends,” he pondered aloud. “I can’t remember the last time I had one that wasn’t like every other day of the week.”

“No sleeping in? Brunch? Tennis?”

“My internal clock always gets me up at six. I like to beat traffic by getting on the road early.”

“You could take the BART.” He gave her an “Are you shitting me?” look and laughed, this time with more gusto.

“Back to the other questions. I’m not that into breakfast, only because I usually don’t have time for it. Not to say that I don’t like it.”

“I’m an omelet junkie.”

He tsked. “Dangerous habit.”

“Every woman’s gotta have a vice.”

“You don’t look like someone who has any. Life agrees with you.” She glowed under his praise.

“Likewise. You look nice tonight.”

“I’ll mention that to my image consultant.”

Holy shit.

“You have an image consultant.”

“I do.”

“Someone who picks out your clothes and advises you what looks best?”

“She does much more than that, but yes.” Then he added, “I don’t mind getting a second opinion.”

“Oh…I need help dressing myself, sometimes. My image consultant works for peanuts, though.”

“Oh?”

“My best friend, Yukio.”

“Ah.”

“She’s my shopping buddy and partner in crime.”

“I may have to steal you from her. I have need of your services.”

Whoa. What was he getting at, here? It’s just dinner, buddy. Nothing else. Deal with it.

“What kind of services, Forge?”

“I’ll tell you when we get out of the car.” Piqued, she let him parallel park on a crowded street. “Wait.” He rounded the car and helped her out. His hands were large and warm, closing around hers. His cologne was still that heady, expensive-smelling Burberry; a whiff of it rose from his suit, tickling her nose. It felt almost awkward, being this close to him. Her pulse skipped at the sound of his voice.

“Help me decide.” They strolled toward the corner of a street in the shopping district, puzzling her, until they stopped at a large flower stand.

“Which one of these would I buy for a beautiful lady?”

Ororo marked it up to the food and wine. But her stomach exploded in butterflies.

*

The ride back to her place was filled with more small talk.

“I had a wonderful time. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he countered as they pulled into her driveway. Her mind ran through different scenarios and she still came up blank.

What now?

He escorted her up the stairs and to her front door. Not too eager, she noticed. Just calm and easygoing. He waited patiently for her to unlock her front door, but she didn’t open it yet. They lingered at the threshold.

She made up her mind then. She couldn’t kiss him. Not if she wanted the first date to be the last date.

Did she want it to be the last date?

“Give your image consultant my compliments,” she quipped.

“I’ll pass them along.” Her pulse still raced as he searched her face a moment.

His fingers smoothed a tendril of her hair back from her face, barely touching her, but her cheeks flamed. A current rippled between them when he took her hand, raising her knuckles to his lips.

“I’ll call you.” It wasn’t a request.

“You will.” There wasn’t any doubt.

“Good night, Ororo.”

“Good night.” At least he reminded her what her own name was…

She watched him from the hallway window as he drove away.

Ororo wandered into her kitchen, still in a daze. The cellophane wrap around the flowers crinkled as she set them down and searched for a vase. She settled on an empty pickle jar and trimmed the stems, feeling guilty that she’d defeated the purpose of “long-stemmed” pink roses, but they were gorgeous.

She put away her purse and kicked off her shoes. Ororo was in the middle of taking off her favorite necklace when she saw her voice mail light blinking in the dark. At least one of those calls had to be Yukio, she mused. Or, maybe not, if she was still out with Kenuichio. Ororo grunted in disgust. Why, Yukio? Why?

She hit play.

“Hey, ‘Ro. It’s just Logan. How’ve ya been?”

Someone dashed icy cold water in her face. That was the only way she could explain her heart pounding in her ears.
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Save the Date Cards by OriginalCeenote
“I want the leaf cutter when you’re done with it.”

“I’ve got a whole three pages left to go. Here, go with the pumpkin.”

“I can’t find that little sticker set with the baby baseball cap. I’m going to surprise Adrienne next week at her shower.”

“Your sister hasn’t had that big-headed boy yet, Em?”

“Taking her bloody long enough.”

“I so don’t want kids.”

“They love you, though. Ken wanted kids, didn’t he, Yukio?”

“Number one on my list of why we didn’t work out and we’re just fuck buddies. Pass me the dip.”

“You’re not done being a kid yourself,” Emma said bluntly. She nibbled a pretzel stick over the span of time it took a normal woman to eat a foot-long stalk of celery with peanut butter.

“Ix-nay on the rug rats. I’ll leave the breeding up to you, Miss Thang.” Emma beamed, resembling a Colgate ad. She was in her element.

“Scott and I are on the same page about that. He eventually wants kids, a boy and a girl.” Yukio made a face.

“I’m not even thinking about settling down yet,” Betsy said. Her last attempt ended badly; her ex was a boy billionaire, emphasis on the “boy.” Warren blew his way through his trust fund and had a short attention span. He didn’t get the memo that the girl he dumped Bets for wore nothing but platform sandals because she could barely tie her shoes. He needed to “spread his wings.” Betsy was more practical, and she needed someone more grounded who could appreciate her sharp style and quick wit.

Emma’s living room hosted a full house. Ororo came if only to see faces that she hadn’t in ages.

“That’s really cute,” Cecilia cut in, nodding to a border of rose-printed paper she’d scalloped and applied to her page.

“No-brainer Mother’s Day gift for Gram Munroe.”

“Definitely a grandma gift.”

These parties made gift-giving less complicated. Cookie Lee. Party Lite. Pampered Chef. ABC. Tupperware. Mary Kay. The rule of thumb? Bring a friend, buy one or two of the cheap items, and take a catalog on your way out.

Ali set down her tape cartridge and leaned back, folding her arms.

“All right, missy. Tell us about this new man.”

Every eye in the room swung to Ororo. Cecilia grinned with delight and socked her. Ororo cringed, then blushed.

“C’mon, woman, ‘fess up!”

“There’s nothing to tell-“

“Which means there’s plenty to tell.” Ali plowed a Wheat Thin through the dish of hummus.

“Yukio said he has money,” Kitty piped up.

“No, Newsweek says he has money,” Betsy corrected her. “Our Ororo had a date with Jonathan Silvercloud.”

“Forge?” Kitty squeaked. She fanned herself. “Oh. My gosh. He’s just…I love him. I love hearing magazines quote him. And he’s gorgeous.” Kitty had a thing for tech geeks. Kitty Pryde was a tech geek.

“For the record, she had two days with him,” Emma added smugly. “Therefore, it’s high time you brought him out to meet us.” Ororo was aghast.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Too soon.”

“You’ll jinx it if it’s too soon,” Yukio chimed in.

“Sez who?” Kitty argued.

“It’s one of the rules. A big, fat, ugly, important rule. Don’t bring your new man to meet your friends, family of coworkers til you’re one hundred percent, absolutely sure you even want him to be your man.”

“When is that?” Ali asked.

“Could be a couple of months,” Cecilia mused.

“I refuse to wait that long. I’ll throw another dinner party, couples only. Then he’ll have to come.”

“Bitch,” Yukio muttered under her breath. Yukio’s non-couple status nonwithstanding, Emma was shallower than the kiddie pool at Water Works Park.

“Might not even have to wait that long. Fifth date. You’ll know by then if he’s worth your time, or if you’re worth his.”

“How do you figure?” Kitty had fallen for Piotr Rasputin, a burly artist, at first sight. She’d collided with him while glued to her Blackberry and wasn’t watching as she slipped on a slick of wet leaves. He’d caught her, so how couldn’t she fall for him?

“The first date’s a fumbling mess. Small talk and nerves. You don’t remember tasting dinner or what the movie was about. You practically give yourself an anxiety attack wondering if you should kiss them goodnight. So on the second date, if you made a good impression on them, you beat yourself to death trying to make yourself exemplify those tings he said he liked about you on the first night out. If he said you have killer legs, you wear a skirt about up to here.”

“Or you wear the same pair of hot red pumps because he said they were sexy…once,” Ali sniffed.

“Sheesh,” Yukio muttered.

“You get my point. By the third and fourth dates, things are going well enough that you feel your façade crack a little. You can laugh a little louder at his jokes and stop worrying about which shade of lipstick he likes best. By the fifth date, if you like him, and mean ‘like him,’ he’ll be kissing it off you.” Betsy finished with a flourish. “Fifth date.”

“Or, things could suck so badly on the first date you just throw your purse in the closet, put on ugly PJ’s, and eat your weight in Chips Ahoy,” Ali concluded.

“I still want you to bring him over.” Emma pouted. “Logan was nice, but it’s time to bring in some new blood.”

“Some rich blood,” Yukio sing-songed. Ororo snorted.

“But he’s nice, and smart,” Betsy said.

“Logan was smart,” Ororo hedged.

“Earth to Ororo? Hello? The point of dating the new guy is to help forget the old.”

“You never forget the old,” Betsy told Ali. “Unfortunately…”

“Intelligence is useless if it doesn’t make you any money. I’d rather be rich and stupid.” Ali nodded to the glass cocktail dish of sweets. “Pass me a bon-bon.”

“No such thing. ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’”

“A fool and his money are paying for his trophy girlfriend’s boobs.”

“Aw, Bets…”

The party was in full swing for another two hours. Ororo gently folded the thick album shut once her fingertips ached from pressing photos into place and cutting out Sizzix shapes. She stayed behind with Betsy and helped clear empty snack bowls and scrap paper from the table.

“This was fun,” Emma decided thoughtfully.

“I suck at scrapbooking,” Yukio admitted from the corner as she perused Emma’s stack of magazines.

“So why come?” Ororo pressed, raising a brow.

“To shoot the shit.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“C’mon, you know you enjoyed talking about him.”

“I guess.” She was wistful.

“I’m having other parties. We need to find you a nice hobby,” Emma insisted. “Might be a nice distraction.”

“Sure. So I’ll burn my fingers on a glue gun and get ink all over myself stamping cards when I can’t get a booty call. It’s so…girly.”

“Hey, don’t make Emma have to slap a bitch,” Ororo warned. “She might have to get all arts and crafts on your ass. She’s holding that paper cutter like she means it.” Ororo took the edge off her words by air-kissing her cheek. “I’m gonna bale.”

“Think about what I said, Ororo.”

“Okay. Fine.”

Emma watched Ororo from her kitchen window as she climbed into her little car.

“In one ear, and out the other,” she muttered as she nibbled another pretzel.

*

Emma was as good as her word. There was another save-the-date postcard in her mailbox two days later, this time on orange stock. Halloween was around the corner.

In the meantime, Ororo’s emotions toyed with her. Her phone’s digital display still featured a brightly lit red “1” in the message box. It was killing her.

One message in five days. Not that she was counting, or anything.

She’d be well within her rights to ignore it completely. Logan was the one who said he needed time and space. Right?

Right? Right.

Ororo sighed. She busied herself with tidying her apartment, but her eyes darted back to the answering machine every time she came back into the room. Why not just hit delete?

Obviously? Because it was his voice. He was looking for her. He was thinking about her. It silenced the nagging questions in her head that left her aching ever since she cried her way back to her car. She cringed at the memory of it. One more to add to the towering pile of never agains.

He left it open. She could call him, or she could let it go.

Let him go.

In the meantime, Ororo got email from Forge every day. Or texts to her phone; sometimes, he would sneak one in when he was in a meeting. The gesture was mischievous, in a little way. It suited him.

It was nice not to have to guess. He might as well have walked around with “I like you, Ororo Munroe” stamped across his forehead.

But in the meantime, he was just as busy as Logan. Their dinner date was set for Friday. Pay day. Ororo’s lunch out of the office had Nordstrom’s written all over it.

She didn’t just need to get back into the saddle. Ororo needed to feel confident. She wanted to feel pretty. She didn’t want to wallow in polite humility or fish for compliments by being self-deprecating. When she saw Forge again, she wanted to hit him with both barrels.

But…

Ororo set aside her small rolodex card with her stylist’s number on it and contemplated the answering machine again. A bitter kernel of an idea took root inside her.

She needed closure, and what better closure than to not just find a new man, but to show the old one that she wasn’t dying without him?

The battle within her was quickly won.

Her fingers didn’t forget his phone number. She opted for his cell. Ororo’s stomach did a little flip as she waited for the ring.

Two. Three. Four-

“This is Logan.” He sounded out of breath, and for a moment, she remembered other activities between them that left him out of breath. Darn it.

His voice still sounded deep and sexy, with that lazy, just rolled out of bed hoarseness.

But somehow, she didn’t hurt as much as she thought she would.

“H’lo?” he attempted, slightly impatient. Ororo broke out of her trance.

“Hi. Hey.”

“Oh…’Ro. Hey. I, uh, wondered what was goin’ on with ya, lately. How ya been?”

“Um. Good.” She knew she sounded like a moron, like she was reaching. Her heart was still beating too fast, and she felt a clammy flush.

Then her pride kicked in. Don’t be a wussy, Munroe…

“How’s life treating you?”

“Not bad, darlin’, not bad. Just…busy. Real busy. You know the deal.” She cleared her throat.

“Yeah. I do. Work. And I went to a party at Emma’s.”

“Oh, yeah? Sounds great, darlin’. She can throw a decent one, I’ll give her that.” He sounded a little less uneasy. She almost had mercy on him.

Almost…

“It was a girly party.”

“Strippers?”

“No!” The resulting laughter from them both loosened her up, and she remembered her purpose.

“No,” she repeated.

“Ya sorry it wasn’t?”

“Well, duh…” She heard the smile in his voice.

Again, he made her crave. She had a flash of his hard body, hot and supple against hers with low music playing in the background while they made love. The pause between them made her think he remembered it, too.

“So, um, ‘Ro…”

“The party wasn’t the only thing on my plate these past couple of weeks.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Spill.”

“Well, it just so happens I had a date.”

“Date.”

“Yup.” She held her breath.

“That’s…wow. Wow.” She felt a plume of satisfaction once she blurted it out, and it swelled as she heard the apprehension in his voice. “Ya met someone?”

“I interviewed him.”

“Whoa…what does he do ta rate that? We ain’t talkin’ twenty questions, huh?”

“Not this time,” she admitted. “Cassandra sent me out to see him. Things didn’t start off that smoothly, and we ran out of time. He emailed me to rebook.”

“Why didn’t they go smoothly before? Ya know what yer doin’ when it comes ta yer job.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “But the second meeting gave me a better impression than my first, and I guess he thought the same. He took me out to lunch.”

“That sounds nice.”

“He took me out again for dinner.” Silence.

There. She said it.

“I’m glad yer gettin’ out and about, darlin’. Ya deserve ta have a good time.”

“Yeah. It’s nice when I have a little time. You know me. Busy. No life.”

“Baloney,” he almost snapped. “Ya’ve got a pretty nice life, the kind most people would die for, and…” Logan let out a deep breath. “And it’s nice…for ya ta find someone ya like ta share it with.”

“Logan…” Ororo picked at her thumbnail.

“I mean it.”

“It was just a couple of dates,” she hedged. Then it occurred to her: Why was she explaining herself?

She’d called to brag. All of the sudden, it felt like she was checking in.

“Just a couple, eh? Ya like him? It might end up meanin’ a few more dates. That’s usually how it works.”

Why didn’t WE work? “Usually.”

“Well, that’s good. It’s good.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Not like MY opinion matters.”

“It does matter.” Her voice sounded wistful.

“Ya probably don’t need me callin’ ya, then…”

“Wait…stick around. First, Logan…I returned your call because I wanted to talk to you. I LIKE talking to you. You said we could be friends. I thought I would take you up on that.” Suddenly she realized it was true.

Hearing his voice, talking with him, laughing with him, all of it didn’t hurt as much as she feared it would before.

“You called. I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

“Yer a peach, kid,” he teased. She laughed, and it broke the ice again.

“Well, it’s true,” she whined, like a little girl.

“Yeah, yeah, likely story.”

“How’s work?” She steered the topic back into easy territory.

“It’s kickin’ my ass. But good. Lots of business right now at the shop, which I didn’t really expect with the change in season. Not all of it’s Happy Birthday bouquets, though. Got a bunch of orders for funeral arrangements. That’s what sucks about fall.”

“Wow. That’s awful.”

“Yeah. But in the meantime, I’m still working on the flip.”

“Oooo! Goody. What have you guys done on it so far?”

“Fall behind schedule,” he shrugged. “Not a surprise. But we’re still doing the demo. Took out a wall to open up the dining room to the living room. Space was originally too small.”

“Some people like it closed off, but I don’t blame you.”

“It’s airier.”

“I bet. Wish I could see it.”

“Trust me, darlin’, ya don’t.”

And so it went. Her brief call to him ended up lasting twenty minutes. It was so good to hear Logan’s voice, and Ororo felt a sense of relief that they weren’t “on the outs.”

He didn’t have to be her ex. He could be her friend.

“Logan…I just wanted to say, thanks for being honest with me. I know we were just in the wrong place together. Too much, too soon for you. I’m sorry I was such a drama queen, showing up at your place…”

“It’s okay. You weren’t. I don’t blame ya for bein’ mad at me.”

“I got loud. In front of your neighbors.”

“Darlin’, my neighbors are used ta drama, and we didn’t even register on their radar.”

“I understand now.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Feel free.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, ‘Ro. It was good ta hear from ya.” Click. Reluctantly she hung up the receiver.

Part of her wanted to dance around the living room, pumping her fist and chanting “in your FACE!” The other side wanted to weep.

Instead, she called her stylist. She needed a trim and wanted to get her brows done.


*

“All right. Question of the day: What are you planning to wear?”

“I don’t have a clue. I hate this. Here I am, Ororo Munroe, serial shopaholic, and when it comes time to find the perfect little date outfit that doesn’t scream ‘I’m trying to hard,’ I run dry. What’s wrong with me?”

“You need chocolate,” Val replied.

“Okay,” Ororo agreed. “Besides that.”

“You’re not in the right place. Close that,” she nagged, nodding to the spreadsheet.

“I’m swamped…ugh,” she groaned. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”

“You have the entire work day to fiddle with your log and your edits. We don’t have a meeting today, thank the good Lord.”

“Speaking of which, your piece on stress migraines is due tomorrow…”

“Put it on my tab,” Val said, diverting her. “C’mon. Early lunch.”

“Val-“

“Don’t ‘Val’ me. We can go early.”

“What if Cassandra breathes down my neck?”

“You have an hour to find a killer dress, shoes, and other paraphernalia. You have a man who could potentially spend obscene amounts of time and money on you, sends you flowers, and thus far sounds smitten. You have the remaining six hours to blast my article to pieces and leave it bleeding in red ink.”

“Woman has a point,” drawled a familiar male voice, thick with southern charm. Ororo spun around in her chair. Her face lit up.

“Remy!” she whooped, hopping up and clasping his shoulders. “I…have a hot date.”

“Hush yo’ mouth, chere.” I don’ recall tellin’ ya it was okay ta run around in de streets wi’ some boy ya haven’t brought out fo’ my inspection and critique.” His smile was warm and wicked. Val snorted. She felt respectful disdain for Ultimate Woman’s traveling columnist.

“Save the critique. He’s the whole package.”

“Believe it when I see ‘im.”

“I’m the one seeing him. He’s taking me out tonight.”

“Guess it’s about time, sweet pea. Gotta wash de taste of Vic outta yer mouth.”

“Already spit him out. Don’t worry.”

“That’s askin’ a lot of poor Remy,” he chided her.

He was the second person to offer her his “condolences” in the wake of kicking Vic out of her place. His pep talks helped draw her out of her funk, in the form of bringing her pizza and humoring her that she was still hot stuff, even though she was lagging around the house in beat-up sweats with no makeup and hair that resembled a tumbleweed and porcupine’s love child.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” Val corrected her. “HE’S fine.”

“Who is he?”

“Jonathan. Silvercloud.”

“Okaaaay…”

“Forge,” Val told him. “Sheesh. Show some enthusiasm and crack open a paper. Better yet, read the blueline draft of this month’s issue.” Remy’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Movin’ up in de world, neh?”

“I need to find something to wear that shows that.”

“Ya’ve got plenty of clothes. Go shoppin’ in de back of yer closet, ‘Ro.”

“Philistine,” Val claimed, aghast.

“Why go through de trouble?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” And he wouldn’t. Remy fell out of bed looking perfect everyday and he was built like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Even in his most beat-up pair of jeans that he only wore for household repairs and painting, woman still approached him first. His black eyes examined her carefully as he folded his arms and leaned back against her desk.

“De window dressing ain’t what’s important, it’s de view from inside de house, chere.”

“Letting him inside the house comes later. This is only the third date,” she informed him snugly. Val was already jacking her coat from her hook and fanning it open.”

“Go. Now.”

“Onward.”

“Don’ do too much damage at de store, petit. Still gotta eat this month,” he reminded her.

“Forge can feed her,” Val sniffed as they took off. Remy stared after them and shook his head.


Valerie turned out to be a great shopping partner, almost on par with Yukio. She told Ororo what worked and what didn’t before she even lifted a hanger off the rack.

“How about the red-“

“No.”

“This one has a nice hem…”

“Put that back.”

“What about a beige-“

“Don’t even think about it.”

The nights were getting a lot cooler already. Ororo vacillated between whether to go with slacks or her earlier desire for a dress.

Ororo grew frustrated. “It would help if I even really knew what I want.”

“You want to dazzle him.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

“You want his mouth to drop open when he opens the door, correct?”

“Yes,” she repeated with a roll of her blue eyes.

“Then you’re thinking too small. See all this over here? This is all ‘safe.’” She hooked Ororo by the elbow. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going…Oh. Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

BCBG Without even touching anything, Ororo was already going into sticker shock.

“If you’re going to do the perfect sexy dress, do it right.” Val marched over to the closest rack, running her hand over rows of hangers until she found a size ten. Ororo reeled back at the sight of frothy white ruffles and a ridiculously short hem.

“I’ll catch a cold in that.”

“He might offer you his coat.”

“It’s not even really me,” Ororo hedged, but automatically she took the hanger from her, found a column in the middle of the section with mirrored panels, and took a long, appraising look. Val’s mouth quirked as she watched her managing editor smooth the fabric over herself experimentally.

“Try it on.”

“This isn’t something I’d wear, usually. It’s not me. It’s too…runway.”

“What’s your point? You’ve got the bod.”

“He doesn’t just have to like me for my body!”

“Why the hell not?”

Ororo’s misgivings were dismissed. She was shoved into the dressing room and nagged to come back out.

“Show me.”

“I still don’t know about this…”

“Oh, don’t be such a…” Her words died away.

She’d been about to say “noodge.”

“…I mean, what kind of shoe should I even put with this?” Ororo stood to her full height and gave a little turn. Almost a twirl. “Pump? High?”

“Guh,” Valerie said, agog.

“Is that a yes?”

“No. That’s a ‘take the damned thing off and run it to the cash register NOW.”

She was full of assurances as they made their way to the counter. Ororo didn’t want to let go of her Visa after the bag was tucked lovingly into the bag.

Two. Hundred. Dollars. Yukio would have stopped her. She would have wrestled her to the ground, returned the hanger to the rack and dragged her to Wet Seal’s clearance sale.

But Val knew how to power date, and, Ororo admitted, how to social climb. That wasn’t what she was doing, though, Ororo mused. Not her.

She wanted to prove Yukio wrong. She wasn’t going to bend to suit Forge. He could take her or leave her, couldn’t he? She just wanted to re-wrap the package. Sure. Why not.

***

The butterflies from the first date were a thing of the past; now Ororo just felt happy anticipation. She hummed along to the music piping out from her bedroom, Mary Jane Girls and Rick James, of all things. She felt naughty.

She knew her sheer nude pantyhose were no protection at all from the drafty night, but if she had her way, they wouldn’t be outside long. She decided on her black, short trench coat, but she left it hanging on the kitchen chair. She wanted Forge to have the full effect when she let him inside.

Knock, knock, knock…

“Show time.”

She clicked over to the door at a slow pace, even though it was killing her. And yes, the shoes were killing her. But they were hot. Red-hot.

He looked amused as he stood outside; she treated herself to a long look through the peek hole.

Flawless. No surprise.

She undid the dead bolt and cracked the door open. Her smile was bright.

“Hi. You’re early.”

“I don’t keep a beautiful woman…waiting.” The door swung open. He stood agape. Ororo slowly backed up to let him in.

Her stomach dipped. Yes, this was the effect she was trying to make.

Misgivings about her apartment being too humble gave way to the delicious feeling of being admired. The dress, such as it was, served its purpose.

White. Val said they needed to move away from the cliché of the little black dress. The dress was cut for a fit model of about five-foot-eight. Ororo stood closer to six feet, made even taller by her scarlet pumps, so the short hemline was nearly indecent on her frame. It was sleeveless with crisp, pleated ruffles that ran down the bodice and edged the high collar. It had a nipped-in waist and tapered skirt. The color and cut ensured nothing else about her appearance competed with her curvy figure and smooth skin.

Nothing except for her mouth. She glossed it in high-wattage red. She left her hair down, after she scrunched some conditioner and a dab of gel into it and combed it with her fingers. Her only jewelry was her wristwatch, but she doubted she would need to check the time.

Forge reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. His eyes never left hers. The kiss was feather-light and it lingered.

“You won’t be warm enough in that.” Ororo remembered her talk with Val.

“I’ll manage. What did you have planned?”

“A reservation by the pier. Now you’ve changed my mind. I won’t have you freeze to death.”

He turned up the heat in the Porsche once she was tucked inside. Ororo was tempted to tell him that she wouldn’t mind just taking a ride somewhere scenic. The road felt smooth beneath them.

They ended up at Café Claude, another restaurant on Ororo’s short list of places to try. The ambiance was perfect, soft lighting and low jazz playing in the background. More importantly, the front lobby was warm.

They chatted over steak tartare and ahi tuna.

“How’s work? How’s Cassandra?”

I feel like a raw piece of meat thrown to a piranha. “She’s doing well.”

“Good.”

“We have a few different features coming up that I’m excited about.” She paused for a sip of chardonnay. “And your interview is due to go to press.”

“I might have to pick up an issue to show to my mom,” he chuckled.

“Sounds like the businessman’s equivalent of giving her a drawing to tape on the fridge.”

“Something like that. My mother saves them, particularly the covers. She keeps them in a scrapbook.”

“That’s sweet.”

“The way you laugh reminds me of her.”

“Um.”

“Bet your mother’s a knockout.” Her answering smile was sad. She couldn’t stop it.

“She passed away three years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s hard to lose a parent.” She remembered that he’d lost both and stopped her pity party.

“When you’re a woman, your mom’s kinda like a lifeline. She understood me. And she was funny.”

“What did she do to make you laugh?”

“We used to go underwear shopping when I was a teenager. We took turns showing each other really embarrassing underwear, waving them high in the air from across the department sometimes. She’d tell me “this is you, this is YOU!”

“That must have been embarrassing.” He looked aghast. Ororo chuckled.

“We had fun. I miss that. I get a little of that from Yukio. She’s my best friend.”

“Then she’s a friend of mine.” It was presumptuous. Ororo was willing to forgive him, for the moment. “I’m having a good time.”

“So am I.”

“Dessert?”

“I shouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“You can,” he shrugged. He had a twinkle in his eye.

“What’s the best one that they have?”

“Chocolate. Mousse.”

Oh, she was so there…

It was all she could do not to scrape the dish when it was finished. Easy, killer.

He pulled out her chair again and helped her into her coat, smoothing it over her shoulders. She felt his heat at her back.

The drive back to her place was leisurely. He’d read her mind, taking the long way back.

The butterflies were back. Ororo’s cheeks felt hot.

Had she poured it on too thick? What would he expect, this soon?

His music was relatively conservative, a classical piano mix that lulled her so gently that she almost didn’t notice when they pulled into her lot.

She argued with herself the whole way upstairs. He walked behind her. She knew he had a clear view of her legs in the tiny skirt.

“I had such a good time.” She was poised at the door, not even leaning back against it or with her hand on the knob. She resisted the urge to touch him, somehow, even smoothing his lapel or pretending to pick something off him.

What was next, she mused, asking him in for a night cap? Hell, no.

“Up to doing it again?”

“Yes, please.”

“I have something not as low-key, but it would be a great chance to show you off again.” He looked smug. “You look fabulous.” She didn’t get tired of hearing it. It amused her that he considered their dinner tonight “low-key.”

“Thank you. What kind of dinner is it?”

“A corporate dinner and ball.” She reeled from shock.

A ball.

“That…that sounds nice.” She knew her voice sounded silly, too high and junior high.

“It’s set for Halloween.”

“I might be able to mark it on my calendar.”

“Good.” He closed the gap between them, and Ororo already felt the current of energy drawing her in.

“In the meantime,” he said, taking her hands in his, stroking her knuckles with his thumbs, “would I be taking too much of a liberty if I gave you a kiss goodnight?”

Ororo’s voice failed her. She gave her head a small shake.

She leaned in, grateful that she didn’t have to bend low or crane her head; he was just the right height. Her face shifted by slow degrees, angling to suit him before his lips descended over hers.

Logan who?

His lips stroked hers, barely tasting her, and she sighed at how right he already felt. His grip on her hands tightened, tugging her closer, and she freed them to let her palms skim up the lapels of his coat. One small brush of his lips, then two, then three, before he slanted his mouth over hers for a hard, consuming kiss that made her heart pound. His arms looped around her waist, fingers exploring the curve of her lower back.

She couldn’t stop her own from creeping into his hair, from clinging to him. She drank in the scent of his cologne and his warm skin, the masculine tang of his lips.

Her knees went weak; or maybe it was the high heels she teetered on that made her gently bump back against the door. She disengaged. He smiled at her little gasp as she came up for air.

“So…Halloween. I’d…like to see you before then, too.”

“We’ll see. I’m meeting with clients soon. But we’ll see.”

“I understand if your schedule’s swamped.”

“I’ll make room in it. What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t make the rules?”

His words made her feel heady.

“Would you…” She licked her lips as she stared at him. Her gaze held longing.

“I’ll call you.”

“You will.” He’d saved her from jumping over the boundary she’d promised to set for herself, and she was glad. Her body had other ideas…

Another tiny kiss and he released her, taking his warmth with him.

“Good night, Ororo.”

“Good night, Forge.” It took her a while to find her keys and to fit the right one into the lock.

Once inside, she collapsed back against the door.

“Oh. My. Goodness.” What a rush.

She floated on a happy cloud as she kicked off her killer heels and went into the kitchen.

Something orange diverted her gaze.

Emma’s save-the-date card.

Halloween.

Shit.
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