Chapter One
“I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Why am I doing this?” I said into my cell phone, my hand shaking so hard I must have looked as though I was having a spell. Now that the moment of truth had arrived, I wasn’t at all sure I could go through with tonight.
“We’ve been over this a million times, Zoe,” one of my best friends, Tiffany, said from the other end of the phone line. “You’re doing this because you want to beat that annoying, stuck-up woman. And we all know, the mayor will never choose you over Bitsy if you don’t loosen up.”
I’d worked my way into such a frenzy I’d barely tasted the succulent lobster dripping melted butter all over my plate at the quaint little seafood restaurant on the shores of Cape Cod. How do I know the lobster was succulent? Because it was a foot long, I paid an arm and a leg, and well, we’re talking about the Cape, here, people.
My hand rested on the doorknob to my room at Hilda’s Bed and Breakfast, and a slight frown tipped down the corners of my mouth. Max. The last time I’d visited the Cape was when Max had surprised me on our fifteenth anniversary. I ordered lobster then, too, and vividly remembered the tender meat falling apart in my mouth, seasonings oozing over my tongue, and Max’s finger reaching out to swipe a drop of butter from my lip.
My frown turned to an outright scowl. Now that I knew what a deadbeat Max had turned out to be, the lobster sat in my stomach like a lump of angry crustacean trying to claw its way out. I couldn’t blame it, really. It was a shame to eat lobster and not enjoy it.
“Relax, doll, and you’ll be fine.” Tiffany’s chirpy voice brought me out of my lunchtime lamentation and back to my nighttime nightmare.
Twisting the doorknob, I pushed it open and felt my stomach cramp as the lobster pitched and rolled down Nervous Highway, heading north towards Esophagus Drive. I pressed my lips together, hoping I wouldn’t throw up, but when it decided to take a sharp detour south onto Large Intestine Avenue, my eyes sprang wide.
“Fine my foot. Hang on a sec.” I tossed my phone on the bed and bolted into the bathroom just in time.
Tiffany didn’t get it. Neither did the rest of my Comfort Club sisters. After twenty years of marriage, the thought of sharing my bed with another man terrified me. And now I was petrified even a gallon of Pepto-Bismol wouldn’t be enough to get me through this evening.
Groaning, I stepped out of the bathroom, when I realized I hadn’t locked the door to my room earlier. Good Lord, now I’d become a complete scatterbrain, which was quite unlike me. Then again, so was going on a blind date.
A whiff of the sea floated by, and I took a breath. I loved the sea: the salty crispness, the untamed beauty, the wild unpredictable nature. One minute calm and tranquil, while the next, stormy and raging. I could relate, though today was not a day to lose control. If I could just breathe, maybe I would survive tonight.
I dropped my purse on the lighthouse comforter draped over the king-sized bed and sighed as I picked up my cell phone. “Can’t say I’m better than ever, but I’m back, anyway.”
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just having trouble digesting the enormous lunch I stuffed myself with this afternoon.”
“Now why would you go and eat a big lunch when you knew you were going out to dinner?”
“For that very reason. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat in front of a man I don’t even know.”
“Whatever works for you, honey.”
“Room service would work wonders for me. I still don’t see what going on a date has to do with winning a party-planning job.” I fanned my face, feeling warm all of a sudden. “Goodness, it’s hotter than heck in here.”
“You need to relax, that’s what.”
“I did. The massage was wonderful. I’m all loosey-goosey now.” Maybe housekeeping had turned up the heat. I walked over to check the thermostat. Sixty-eight. I should be freezing. I felt my forehead. “I think I have a fever. Maybe I shouldn’t go. I don’t want to make him sick.”
“Nice try, but you’re going. And if you’re so relaxed, then you’ll be a better la--I mean--date.”
My stomach pitched again. Not a good sign. I started to pace to take my mind off it. “Why won’t you guys believe I’m happy being celibate?”
“What does celibacy have to do with dating?” Tiffany asked innocently. Too innocently.
“What does dating have to do with relaxing?” I countered, knowing full-well my friends had planned tonight hoping I’d have a mind-blowing orgasm that would release all my tension. According to them, Mount Saint Zoe was long overdue for an eruption after lying dormant for the past two years. Well, I had news for them. There wouldn’t be any blowing going on tonight, mind or otherwise.
“Touché.” Tiffany chuckled. “But, come on, Zoe. No one wants to be celibate. You can’t tell me you don’t have urges.”
“Nothing I can’t control.”
“See, now, that’s your problem. Since Max left, you’ve become a control freak.”
Rage surged through me just as it always did when someone said the words Max and left in the same sentence, but then something else registered. Was there a tone in her voice? I stopped pacing, feeling as though I were on an episode of Seinfeld. It was hard to tell with Tiffany, but I was pretty sure there was a distinct “tone” laced through that comment.
“I have not become a control freak,” I said, then thought, Have I?
“Oh, please. You never do anything spontaneous anymore. If you don’t know the outcome, then you won’t take a chance of something going wrong.”
“Well, I certainly don’t know how tonight is going to turn out, but I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Hey, we gave you a choice.”
A choice that involved cold plastic and batteries, not warm flesh and stamina. Gee, let me think. I shuddered. Um, yeah, I’d stick with memories of sex, thank you very much. “I am not using one of those,” I hissed for the millionth time. My heart sped up at the mere thought, and I walked another lap around the room. The CC’s had to be out of their ever-loving minds. If I couldn’t even say it, I sure as heck couldn’t use it.
“Hence the reason we sent you to Hilda’s Hideaway.”
“You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”
“No.”
“You know, I haven’t had a panic attack in over a year, and now I can’t breathe.” I wedged my phone in the crook of my neck and yanked open the window. Inhaling the frigid air, I listened to the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore, the peace and tranquility of the ocean soothing my nerves as I strove to stay calm.
“Breathe slow and deep to the count of ten, and go into the yoga pose I showed you last week. That should help.”
“Already in it.” I lied. Tiffany’s body might be able to go into pretzel mode, but mine hadn’t gone there since the halftime show during homecoming in the late eighties. I chose the saner route: focus on the soft snowflakes falling to the ground and sparkling through the moon’s reflection off the water.
I thought of the shaken snow globe my children bought me for Christmas last year and smiled, feeling my breathing return to a resemblance of normal. Then I remembered this was my birthday, not Christmas, and I was about to receive a gift I absolutely did not want. I had to be insane letting the CC’s talk me into this, I thought as I shut the window with a resounding clunk.
“Better?” Tiffany asked.
“I would be if you guys would leave me alone.”
Just because we had formed the Comfort Club as far back as our high school cheerleading days didn’t mean they knew what was best for me. For years, all I’d had to worry about was taking care of my kids and my husband, making sure everyone was happy, even if it meant I had to put my needs last. It had been worth every second. Then after Max up and decided he didn’t want to be married anymore, my whole world spun out of control. It took me two years to get my life back on track, but I still didn’t feel like I could breathe again.
Tiffany launched into all the reasons I needed their help, and how they would never leave me alone.
I might not be able to breathe easy yet, but I was on the upswing, darn it. I had opened my own business and finally felt like I had something to contribute. I had learned to cope with raising four kids alone, which quite frankly, warranted a medal. Heck, I had even started remodeling my ancient colonial house, though Max used to kid I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a pencil and a pair of pliers even if they jumped up and pinched me on the fanny.
Well, they did, and I could. Okay, so they did with the help of my younger son’s devilish hand, but I still knew the difference. Better yet, how to use them. I nodded. Shows how much Max really knew about me: not a heck of a lot. But life was good again, now. Well, sort of, anyway.
Up until recently, the CC’s had supported every decision I’d made, but they just couldn’t wrap their brains around my self-imposed celibacy. They didn’t understand I couldn’t risk losing everything again. Not to mention, it would take one hell of a man to win over my trust.
Tiffany rambled on through the phone, attempting to justify the insane method to their madness, but I didn’t hear half of what she said. Kicking off my boots, I glanced around the room. Well, I had to give Hilda’s staff credit. They had finished unpacking for me to the state of perfection. I liked perfection. The neat, orderly room calmed me more than anything Tiffany could say. I sucked in a few more deep breaths for good measure and slid my trousers down over my hips.
“Zoe, you’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal, really. You’re going to love Chaz. He’s a great guy, and he’s a doctor. What more could you ask for?” The voice through the phone penetrated my brain.
Tiffany Eisenhower was a master manipulator and entirely too used to getting her own way. She could give a hoot that my old friend Panic Attack had paid me a visit, and judging by my pulse, didn’t intend to leave anytime soon. At least the Pepto had kicked in, and my stomach cramps had stopped, thank God. But with my luck, they’d return in full force later, roaring down the highway as they attempted to exit off Large Intestine Avenue and blast their way straight through Panty Parking Lot.
Darn Metamucil.
I filled my lungs one more time and answered her question. “What more could I ask for? To have met him, for one.” As I stepped out of the beige cotton material surrounding my ankles, I unbuttoned my mauve sweater. “God, this makes me look so desperate.”
“You’re not desperate, doll, you’re forty, but you act like you’re ninety. Max was an ass, but not all men are. Besides, it’s been two years, Zoe. It’s time you got back in the game.” Her voice became peppy. “You can do it. It’ll be fun.”
Good Lord, was this what we’d sounded like in high school? Ick. Cheerleaders were way too cheery, and ‘peppy’ was highly overrated. “Fun for you, maybe, but I haven’t been on a date in over twenty years, let alone a blind date.” I curled my toes into the plush carpet, trying like heck to hold onto what I didn’t know. Most likely my sanity.
“Why won’t you guys believe I don’t need or want another man in my life? I like sleeping in the middle of the bed. The deal was one dinner, not one orgasm.” The knit material of my shirt slipped off my shoulders. I switched the phone to my other ear and shimmied my arms out, then tossed the item on the bed. “I have a feeling this is going to be the longest dinner of my life. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll leave early.”
“Him leaving early is your idea of getting lucky?” Tiffany laughed, then paused. It was never a good sign when Tiffany stopped talking. “I doubt he’ll leave anytime soon since I booked him a room at the same bed and breakfast,” she said as though nothing at all was wrong with that statement.
“You what? Oh, God, you didn’t.” My heart raced like the little plastic ball in a full-speed game of ping pong, and Tiffany was the paddle, knocking me silly with her “surprises.”
“Be reasonable. The poor guy lives in Boston. Do you really want to make him drive all the way back tonight in this weather?”
“Yes!” I started to hyperventilate. “What were you thinking?”
“Well, I was thinking it might be convenient. Trust me; you’ll understand when you see him. Honey, you don’t even have to have sex with a guy like Chaz to have an orgasm. But do me a favor. Please don’t wear those god-awful granny panties and ultra-support bra. First impressions are everything, you know.”
“Granny?” I huffed. My panties were not granny. “He’s not going to see my underwear and certainly not the crotchless number and transparent bra you hid in my suitcase.” I ran a hand through my tangled curls, kneading the back of my neck, wanting to throttle her. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”
“Calm down. You don’t have to do anything. It’s just dinner.”
“You guys promised to lay off if I went on a date, so quit bugging me after this.”
“Whatever you say,” she responded, but didn’t sound convincing in the least.
“How do you know this guy, anyway? Do I at least get to find out his last name?”
“Oops, gotta run.” A squeal rang through the line on the other end. “No, no, Katy. The TV control does not go in the toilet. Your younger daughter’s really ... something.”
“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered to baby-sit. Just try to keep her in one piece, okay?”
“Only if you try to have fun.” The line went dead.
Fun? I hung up and glanced down. Oh. My. God. My panties really were granny. Darn Tiffany. She would never be caught dead in underwear like mine; then again, she hadn’t given birth to four children. She also wasn’t nearly as well-endowed as I was. Even if I wanted to have sex, I wouldn’t subject anyone to my Double D’s unleashed.
I should have just stayed in the kitchen. Lighting a fire in my stove, I could do. Lighting a fire in a man was a whole different beast. The knots in my stomach twisted tighter.
Good Lord, I had never slept with any man other than my ex-husband. I didn’t imagine stretch marks, cellulite, and saggy breasts were a turn-on for most men. I trembled at the mere thought of exposing them, but the CC’s were relentless. I’d had to put an end to their matchmaking somehow, only I should have known better than to allow Tiffany to organize my birthday present. Tiffany taught sensual massage for a living.
Enough said right there.
I had to admit a morning of sightseeing followed by an afternoon at the spa had been just what I’d needed, even if I had been too distracted to remember most of it. And the thought of dinner without any kids in tow had been too tempting to pass up. So long as my date didn’t require me to cut his food or wipe his mouth, I hadn’t cared who he was.
Until Tiffany mentioned the word orgasm, that is.
Now, terror robbed me of the ability to think straight. I would never make it through dinner at this rate. Maybe she had a point about the underwear, though. My date would never see them, but maybe if I dressed the part, I would have the confidence to get through this evening.
I opened the antique dresser drawer where I’d stuffed the appalling garments ... and stopped ... and stared. Okay, more like gaped, but who could blame me? I hadn’t seen any of those in quite a while. What on earth were they doing in my room? In my underwear drawer? My hands shook as I pulled out a pair of royal blue cotton boxers and a white undershirt.
I glanced around the room, my gaze darting everywhere, my eyelids blinking like a seventies strobe light stuck on high. Then the doorknob rattled, and I sucked in a sharp breath, swallowing my gum. I had to run. I had to hide. But where?
Too late.
The door flew open, and I stood there like a nearly-naked imbecile with hideous taste in underwear. A tall man with sandy blond hair, who looked as though he had stepped straight out of the pages of J-Crew magazine, stood in the entrance of my room. Tan loafers, pressed khakis, sky-blue polo shirt, and perfectly groomed hair. A regular Ken doll come to life.
I looked beyond him for Barbie. A man like him had to be taken, but I didn’t see anyone. More important, what in the world was he doing in my room? I noticed the slightly different seascape on the wall, and black luggage on the rack, instead of navy blue.
Oh God. This wasn’t my room at all.
As my body finally got my brain’s message to duck and run for cover, I let out a squeal. Only, there wasn’t any cover big enough to hide my goods, and my clothes were on the bed way over by him. I ran around in a circle like a silly dog chasing its tail and did the only thing I could think of: wiggled my granny fanny into his boxers and yanked on his undershirt. Thank God he didn’t wear bun-hugging briefs, because at this moment, I don’t think I could survive anything of his hugging my buns.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed, I thought as I bit my lip, feeling the blood flood my face. I crossed one bare foot over the other and pressed my thighs together. Judging by his sky-high brows and bugged-out stare, I’d say he got quite an eyeful. I mentioned I’m rather endowed, but let me repeat.
Double D’s.
“Housekeeping?” I squeaked, perspiring right through his undershirt, leaving lovely little rings-around-the-pits.
The handsome male specimen cleared his throat and said in a whiskey-smooth voice I didn’t imagine I would ever forget, “Sorry. Name’s Chaz.”
Even under the ungodly circumstances, a surprising little zing shot straight to my libido. Until his words registered. My jaw fell open, and I gasped. “Ch-Chaz? As in, blind date Chaz?” He nodded, and I closed my eyes, my heart bottoming out.
So much for first impressions.
Chaz cleared his throat, and I jumped, whipping my eyes back open. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Your--your--your room looks just like mine. And--and--and the door was unlocked, so I--I--I just--”
“It’s okay.” He spoke in a hypnotic tone and smiled with sympathy. “I stepped out for a minute and didn’t lock it. It’s my fault.”
Heat oozed through my body, sending goose bumps prickling over my skin and my temperature soaring. At that moment, I would have done anything he asked with that voice. His warm hazel eyes held a glimmer of understanding, and crinkled up at the corners as he took in my attire.
My attire!
I snapped out of my trance and crossed my arms over my chest. His t-shirt would be stretched out and ruined beyond repair, unless he didn’t care if everyone thought he had man boobs. “Don’t worry; I’ll take off your clothes in a sec.”
He arched a sleek brow, and the corner of his lip tipped up.
“I mean, I’ll take off my clothes,” I stammered.
The smile spread across the rest of his clean-shaven face.
“Oh, God, that’s not what I meant at all,” I muttered.
“Keep them if you want. I have more than one pair.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. The shirt’s a bit tight, and boxers aren’t my thing. Not that I want you to think the humongous tent I’m wearing is my thing, either. It’s just I’m into comfy these days, and I have no idea why I’m explaining my preference in underwear to you. I’ll go change in my room, and return them in a jiffy.”
Shut. Up. Zoe.
I bolted to the bed, snatched up my pants and blouse, then turned toward the door. The blocked door. A foot before him, I stopped in my tracks and looked way up. He had to be at least six feet tall, because he towered well over my five-foot-two-inch frame. “Um, excuse me?”
He stared down at me for what seemed like a full minute, the intoxicating green and brown of his eyes swirling together, hypnotizing me, until he said, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
My present predicament snapped me back to reality. Here I was wearing his underwear over mine. Did he actually expect me to engage him in conversation? If he did, then I didn’t stand a chance in today’s dating world. Um, hello, people. Yet another reason to remain celibate. “Am I supposed to recognize you? I mean, that is why they call it a blind date, right?”
“My name’s Anderson. Chaz Anderson. Ring any bells?”
I tilted my head to the side and studied him closer. Anything to get this conversation over with, so I could go back to my room to change. “Sorry.”
“We went to the same high school.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Um, no.”
“I was a few years younger than you.”
I pursed my lips. “Still no.”
“Everyone called me Chuckie.”
I shook my head. “I really am sorry.”
“You were a cheerleader, and I was--”
“Oh, my God, the Dorkmeister!” I clapped a hand over my mouth. My ears burned, and my whole body shook with the need to crawl under something and hide.
He paused. “The what-meister?”
“I mean the water boy.” Good Lord. “Uh, you were the football team’s water boy because you were younger. Four years younger, if I remember right.” Simon and Garfunkle’s Mrs. Robinson ran through my head. Turning forty had never bothered me until this very moment. The CC’s were dead for springing this on me, but first, I needed to go back to my room and die of embarrassment. “Wow ... little Chuckie Anderson. I never thought I’d see you again and certainly never like this.”
“Apparently.” He rubbed his jaw. “The Dorkmeister?”
A bead of sweat trickled between my breasts. “I’m so sorry. We were silly kids, and it was a stupid nickname Tiff came up with. You know Tiff. But we never told anyone. Besides, look at you now, all grown up.” I patted him on the arm. “Why, you’re not little or dorky at all. In fact, I--I’d call you hunky,” I said, my palm tingling from touching his firm bicep. Why couldn’t I just shut up?
He chuckled. “Thanks, I think.”
A draft of cool air passed over my bare legs, and a nervous giggle slipped out. I stepped around him. “I, um, I have an awful headache, Chuckie. I think I’ll go to my room and lie down.”
“Call me Chaz. I haven’t been Chuckie in years.”
Judging by the lean, athletic frame he now sported, he hadn’t been chubby in years, either. I had a hard time taking him in all at once, which immediately made me think of sex. Definitely the wrong way to think of him. “Well, good night, Chaz. I’m sorry Tiff wasted your time, but I’m sure there are plenty of women your age who would love to have dinner with you.”
He looked serious. “But not you.”
I backed my boxer-covered, granny fanny out the door and down the hall, clutching my clothes in front of my smothered girls. “I’m not exactly your age, and under the circumstances, I’m horribly embarrassed. I don’t think I could stomach dinner.” I couldn’t stomach lunch, either, but who was keeping tabs?
“You can’t be serious, Zoe. We’re in our thirties.”
“No, you’re in your thirties. I’m officially forty.” And freaked out. And soooo not feeling fabulous at the moment.
“Age shouldn’t be a factor. Just so you know, it wasn’t a blind date for me. The CC’s told me your situation and asked me to be your practice date, but I--”
“Great, a pity date. Even better.” My back bumped into the door to my own room, and relief washed through me. Until Hilda’s housekeeper pushed a cart down the hall and shot me a weird look.
“Zoe,” Chaz said. “That’s not what I--”
“I really need to lie down,” I cut him off with a desperate need to disappear. “My head’s pounding.” I hadn’t lied. My head did ache something fierce from my humiliation, and my stomach still ached from ... well, let’s just say nerves.
He studied me for another full, intoxicating minute with those swirly eyes of his. “Well, it was great seeing you, Zoe. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”
“Maybe.” I fumbled for the knob behind me, then slipped into my room and shut the door. As I sank to the floor in a heap, one thought pounded in time with my headache.
God, I hope not.
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