Table for Two (21 page)

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Cassie? Hi, Patricia Rodgers. How's the book coming?"

She winced. Although she enjoyed her editor's southern drawl hidden behind an acquired New York accent, she always regretted hearing from her if she didn't have good news. Patricia was always optimistic and full of energy. Cassie had no desire to deflate that energy by telling her the truth—that being stabbed would be less painful than writing this book. "Oh, it's coming along well."

"I'm glad to hear that. Just wanted to make sure we're on schedule."

"Completely," Cassie assured her.

"You realize this book is important?"

Her career breaker or crusher. "Yes. Don't worry."

"Great. Talk to you later." She hung up.

"Hopefully much later," Cassie muttered, replacing the receiver. She went into the kitchen ready for brunch, but stopped at the sight of the big white object in front of her. She stared at it in dismayed fascination, then dialed Drake.

"What is this thing in my kitchen?" she asked, pointing to the object, as if he could see her.

She heard him yawn. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She let her hand fall. "You replaced my refrigerator."

"So?" He yawned again.

"Stop yawning. Didn't you sleep well?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Missed you."

She tried to ignore that, but her face still grew warm. His voice sounded extra sexy when he was sleepy. "You shouldn't have replaced my refrigerator."

"Why not?"

"It was mine. You had no right to replace it."

"But it
moved
."

"It worked."

"Cassie," he said patiently, "I don't know if you realize this, but appliances aren't supposed to move."

"And what about my cutting board?" she asked, spotting a new one near the sink. "And knife block?"

"You don't like them?" He sounded surprised. "I got top of the line."

"That's not the point." She opened the fridge and nearly dropped the phone. "Drake!"

"What?"

"It's filled with food!"

"You're kidding!"

She closed the door. "Don't be funny."

"You couldn't expect me to give you a fridge empty of food."

She opened the freezer, then began pushing buttons on the outside panel. "This must have been expensive."

"It gives me peace of mind. I don't have to worry about your refrigerator attacking you at night. As for the stove—"

She rested a hip against the counter. "The stove stays."

"It's not self-cleaning."

"It stays."

He sighed, resigned. "Fine. I hope you're as loyal to me as you are to broken-down appliances."

"They aren't broken down."

"Okay." He yawned again.

Cassie wrapped the cord around her hand. "I'm going against my better judgment in thanking you, but this in no way means I encourage such arrogant behavior."

"Certainly."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. So when's your date with Greg?"

She unwrapped the phone cord. "His name is Glen."

"Like it matters."

She would always blame his smug teasing tone for her next comment. "I went out with Timothy yesterday."

His voice didn't change. "Did you have fun?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"He didn't hurt you?" he asked cautiously.

She suddenly regretted bringing up the topic. She didn't know how she had expected him to respond, but this wasn't it, "No. It was fine."

"What did you do?"

"We went to see a movie and then he took me to dinner." She told him the name of the restaurant.

"Good place. What did you have?"

"He ordered a nice green salad."

There was a pause. "And?"

"That's it."

"If that—Timothy can't afford to spend more, then he shouldn't have taken you there."

"It wasn't the price, it was a... precaution."

"A precaution?"

She rolled her eyes. She wished she didn't have to always explain things to him. If Timothy knew the statistics she'd think he would too. "You know an obese woman is susceptible to many diseases."

"So is a malnourished one. Fortunately, you're neither." His voice deepened with regret. "He did hurt you again, didn't he?"

It had been subtle, he had wrapped it in the guise of caring, love, and affection, but he had hurt her by making her weight an issue, by ordering for her as if she didn't have the mental capacity to order a sensible meal. "He doesn't mean to," she said, beginning to feel depressed. "He's too self-focused to know that what he says and does hurts." Her voice lowered. "I had two snow cones," she confessed like a naughty child.

"So don't have two today. Cassie, there is nothing wrong with you."

She closed her eyes, wishing she could believe him. Wishing she could imagine what he saw in her. "Drake?"

"Hmm?"

"How do you see me?" Her voice was a whisper as if the subject were taboo. "Truly?"

"I've already told you. I think you're beautiful."

"Beautiful." She repeated the word, but still could not apply it to herself. She was cute, sweet, but far from beautiful. She looked down at herself. Especially with a body like this. "But what about my size? I'm not exactly model material."

"No. They like to choose weird-looking women." He yawned again. "I'm happy with the real thing—true beauty."

She laughed. "I wish I lived on your planet."

"Give me time and I'll take you there."

"Get some sleep."

"I'll try."

She put the phone down and scowled. Damn the man, he always made her feel good. She knew she deserved it, but at what price—marriage? It was impossible. She couldn't risk her freedom no matter how good he made her feel.

* * *

"Was that Cassie?" Eric mumbled into the couch cushions where he had fallen asleep last night.

"You weren't supposed to be listening."

"Blame it on my ears." He stretched and reached for his glasses on the coffee table. "Timothy sounds like a real jerk."

"He is." Drake sat and ran a tired hand down his face, pensive, "I don't like him bothering her."

"I'm sure she can handle herself. If you're not careful you'll end up the villain."

"How do you know?"

"Experience," Eric said smugly. "There was this girl— excuse me, woman—I really liked who was dating a jerk. I had a little face-to-face with him and she told me what a creep I was and promptly fell into his arms."

"Hmm."

He stretched his legs out. "When are you going to see her again?"

"Not sure. She's got a date on Thursday with a guy named Glen. A poetry reading," he added, his voice full of disdain.

Eric nodded. "At Baden's. I heard James Sheffield is reading there. He's great. I helped him through some financial trouble." He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Drake began to grin. "You like poetry, right?"

He straightened, his tone cautious. "I have a healthy appreciation, but that's all."

"That's good enough."

"Whatever you're thinking, don't."

Drake grabbed a pad and pencil. "I want you to help me write a poem and then ask Sheffield to read it."

Eric scowled at the objects. "I'm not a damn poet. I work with numbers, not words." He rubbed his forehead. "Wait... I did do an excellent poem on logarithms once, but that's it. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

Drake scribbled something down on the pad. "Raspberries have to be in it because that's what her lips taste like."

Eric briefly shut his eyes. "I don't want to know this."

"I think I've got the first line. Her raspberry lips capture my heart. I love it when she spreads her legs ap—"

Eric snatched the pad. "This is supposed to be romantic, not erotic. I'm assuming you want this poem to rhyme."

"Of course. Don't all the great poems rhyme?"

"No, but let's not get into that. So her lips are like raspberries."

"Sweetened," he added.

Eric sent him a curious glance, then wrote it down. "Right."

"It was raining outside on our last day together. Mention that. And—"

Eric held up his pen. "Hold on. A poem is not like a recipe. You don't throw in a few words and hope you come up with something." He began scribbling some lines down, then scrunched the page up and tossed it aside. "Leave it alone," he growled when Drake bent to retrieve it.

"But it might be good." He picked it up and began to smooth it out.

"It's not. Leave it or I won't finish."

Drake dropped the paper and sat back. "Poets are such moody people."

Eric worked on the poem for about a half hour.

"Yuh no done yet?" Drake complained, slipping into patois.

"Leave mi nuh. This is crucial." He wrote for a few minutes more, then handed the pad to Drake, who made a few changes and then declared it perfect.

"It will do," Eric reluctantly agreed. "I'll give it to James and hopefully the audience doesn't laugh him off the stage."

Drake grinned triumphantly at the paper in his hands. "It will all be worth the expression on her face."

* * *

The current expression on Cassie's face was disgust. She'd gone through an entire loaf of bread and avoided her computer most of the day. She punished herself by eating nothing for the remainder of the day until she began to feel light-headed and images of Drake occupied her thoughts. Twice she jumped for the phone, wondering if it was him asking to see how she was doing, but the first call was a wrong number and on the second no one replied. She knew Glen was her only chance to break an unhealthy pattern.

* * *

Unfortunately, Glen seemed to be a hard pattern to begin. She tried to hide a yawn as she sat next to him in the cozy bookstore. She couldn't focus on the
mournful
words of the world-weary poet in front of them. His head hung low, his voice was soft, his long dark hair covered his face. Only a straight pale nose stuck out. She couldn't wait until James Sheffield approached the stage. She wished that the event had been televised so she could have taped it and fast-forwarded to someone interesting.

At least Glen was enjoying himself, tapping the rhythm of the poem on his brown trousers. She was glad she came with him. He was a calming presence. None of the disturbing feelings of attraction arose when he was near; his touch was soft and pleasurable like rice pudding, nothing like the sinful rich chocolate caramel sensations Drake raised in her.

She glanced at Glen and saw him blink back tears as the poet talked about death of beauty and spirit in the wake of society's hold on our emotions. She tugged impatiently on the yellow tunic top she wore. Frankly, she wasn't impressed. Wasn't there anything in life to be happy about? Couldn't they talk about flowers, rain, love? Did true poetry have to reflect such doom and gloom? She shrugged, she cared too much. She was happy to be here with Glen. Timothy would have fallen asleep by now and Drake... no, she would not think about him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Glen asked when there was a break for refreshments.

"Immensely," Cassie said, trying to conjure up an enthusiasm she didn't feel. Why did she feel so bored, so restless? This was what she wanted, right? "I noticed that some of the poet's words impressed you."

He popped a grape in his mouth. "Reminded me of my ex-wife."

"A dead spirit?"

He looked shocked by the suggestion. "No, a prisoner of society."

Cassie sighed, remembering Adriana's words. "You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

"No. I just miss her. I miss what we had, or at least what I thought we had." He lifted her chin. "I have no regrets, Cassie. I'm right where I belong."

Cassie felt her heart flutter and a sense of rightness greeted her with eager cheer. She was right where she belonged too.

She was happily munching on a pineapple slice, when James Sheffield approached the podium and read a poem that nearly had her choking on it.

Sweetened raspberries have been my victory

The gift my lover bestows

For in my arms she lays till morning

Her head against my pillow

Outside the rain tapped and cried

Upon the world below

While patiently I waited

To end her nightly doze

At last, I greet her with a smile

And she replies with a kiss

That reminds me of sweetened raspberries

And a soft, gentle mist.

It couldn't be, she thought when the crowd burst into applause. It was too ludicrous, too narcissistic to consider. Yet...

"Are you okay?" Glen asked, taking her hand.

"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "I'm just digesting the words." They were so powerful and had the hint of a sorcerer's spell, casting their magical tentacles around her heart. She stood. "I'll be right back."

He reluctantly let her hand go. "I'll be here."

Cassie made her way through the seats and the people captivated by the next poetry selection and headed for the restroom. She had almost reached her destination when a hand shot out from behind a bookshelf and grabbed her arm.

"Looking for me?" Drake asked, pulling her to him. She smelled the sweet summer evening on his jacket.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, ignoring the thrill creeping up her spine.

He dismissed her outrage. His arm slid around her waist. "You look beautiful. Did you like my poem?"

"You didn't write it. You don't even like poetry."

"I admit I had some help." His thumb climbed up her spine, sending electrical chills through her body. "But we both know who inspired it." His mouth captured hers for a brief wild moment.

"It was lovely," she allowed, not wanting to encourage him, but unable to pull away. "But you shouldn't be here."