Bringing Home a Bachelor Read online

  Then, redeeming himself only slightly, he licked it out, giving her a kiss that weakened her knees.

  Pete covered every inch of her with blobs and stripes of the Insta-Wip while she continued to protest, only shutting up when he threatened her with a brown plastic bottle of commercial chocolate syrup, too.

  She had to admit that she didn’t mind the removal process. She didn’t mind the spin cycle on the washer, either, when they shoved the sheets into it and Pete decided that she looked irresistible on top.

  He kissed her, lifted her down, and led her to the couch in the living room. “Okay, sit there for a minute and close your eyes, Mel.”

  “Why?”

  “Just close your eyes.”

  She did.

  She heard him moving across the room, then a drawer opening and shutting. Then something small and cold hit her chest just above her cleavage. His hands were warm as they moved her hair aside, brushing the back of her neck.

  “There,” he said.

  Melinda opened her eyes and looked down. “Oh!” She fingered the small disc of gold lying snug against her skin. “Pete…”

  It was a sand dollar.

  He’d given her a spontaneous gift, for no reason. A lump rose in her throat. He wasn’t using her. He wasn’t simply having fun at her expense. He actually cared.

  “Pete, it’s gorgeous. Thank you.” She swallowed the lump as she tilted her head back, and he dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. Then he rounded the couch and sat down beside her.

  “I thought, since you found one on the beach the night we, um, re-met—”

  She chuckled. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

  “Anyway. I thought you might like the necklace.”

  “I do. I love it. Thank you.”

  He slid an arm around her and they sprawled, naked and content, while his iPod played Green Day in the background.

  A lump rose in Mel’s throat as she realized that never in her life before had she sat, naked and unselfconscious, next to anyone. Especially not a man.

  She’d always covered herself hastily, with a sheet, a blanket, a robe, a towel—even if she was by herself and emerging from the shower. She’d always had the urge to hide her body, her bulk, her imperfections.

  Her eyes filled and her throat ached as she thought about it. She lay her head on Pete’s shoulder, though, and let the music and companionship wash over her. The tears gradually faded and so did the ache.

  Melinda smiled. She could get used to this…

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Pete.

  “Not for sale,” Mel told him. She squeezed his hand. “Someday, I’ll tell you for free, though.”

  20

  THE DAYS CAME AND WENT as Melinda worked on orders for the bakery in the last month before closing her original location and moving to the storefront in Playa Bella. She still hadn’t spoken of the move to her parents, and the rift in her relationship with her mother bothered her. But her mother owed her an apology, and it hadn’t been forthcoming.

  She made a cake shaped like a large wedge of Swiss cheese, with molded sugar-mice playing on and around it. It was for a little girl’s birthday.

  For a nature-conservancy group, she did a rectangular sheet cake covered with fondant; then added a complete woodland forest scene to the top of it, using wire armatures to support trees built out of gelatin paste with royal icing brushed over the top. She used marzipan to sculpt tree stumps, fallen logs, toadstools, woodchucks, raccoons, rabbits and even gnomes with beards and pointed hats.

  Between customers, Scottie helped her do a baby-shower cake with a frilly carriage on top and then an aqua-tinted Sea World cake with sculpted killer whales, dolphins and seals.

  And for Mami, she created duck a l’orange bites, garnished with fresh thyme sprinkled over the tangerine-hued icing.

  Scottie, enraged, immediately got to work on tiny filet-flavored mousses. Mel burst out laughing when she found them in the steel industrial refrigerator. “Cheater!” she exclaimed. “These aren’t cookies.”

  “Cheater?” Scottie looked wounded. “No, that would be Low-Down Lyman.”

  Mel winced. “Sorry.” Scottie had caught his boyfriend with someone else recently, which had resulted in huge drama, untold numbers of consolation martinis and an ongoing legal battle over a chair he and the departed Lyman had designed and built together.

  The chair had been removed to Mel’s townhome for “safekeeping” (aka spite) while Lyman petitioned to get it back. Since it resembled a futuristic dental recliner that had collided with a hooker’s leopard coat, Mel hoped the dispute would be resolved soon. She found it a little disconcerting, especially late at night when she was afraid it would grow fangs and come alive.

  She’d blocked the chair from her mind and was working on a cake for the Fraternal Order of Police, shaped like an officer’s hat, when the jingle of bells at her bakery door announced a visitor. It was her brother, all six-foot-three of him, dressed in immaculate khaki pants and a white shirt, looking exactly like the handsome young lobbyist that he was.

  “Mark!” she exclaimed, and came around the cold case to hug him. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Too true,” said Scottie, who emerged from the back to drool. “Hey, Good Lookin’.”

  “Beam me up,” said Mark, still embracing his sister. He wasn’t Scottie’s biggest fan.

  “Trust me, if I could beam you naked right into my shower stall, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  “Scottie,” Mel said in warning tones.

  Mark curled his lip. “Don’t make me flatten you, little man.”

  Scottie sighed and fanned himself with a menu. “Oooh. Danger. It always turns me on.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Scottie. He’s missing his boyfriend,” Mel said pointedly, glaring at him.

  “And Mel’s missing hers. Check out the new jewelry, Marky-Mark.”

  Her brother eyed the gold sand dollar around her throat and lifted his eyebrows. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  Mel felt her face catch fire. “Nobody,” she mumbled, shooting Scottie an “I’ll-get-you-for-this-later” look.

  “Nobody’s giving you some pretty expensive gifts, sis.” Mark lounged against the counter with his hands in his pockets. “Do I know him?”

  “Nope,” she said dismissively. “Want an éclair?”

  “Nice change of subject. I’ll have a couple of cannoli, please, and a cup of coffee. So who’s your beau, Bug-Eyes?”

  “Don’t call me that, Jerk-Face.” God, how easily they slipped into childhood taunts, even decades later. “How’s Kendra?”

  “Kendra’s fine. She gained about five pounds on the honeymoon, though.” Mark blithely accepted the plate of cannoli she passed him, clearly not at all concerned about his own caloric intake.

  “What a crime,” she said dryly. “Did you have her fingerprinted and booked?”

  “Funny,” her brother said, stuffing his face. “Mom gave her that old recipe for cabbage soup.”

  “Tasty. Hope you’re enjoying that for dinner.”

  He grimaced. “Are you kidding me? That shit stinks up the whole house.”

  “I remember the lovely aroma all too well.”

  “I’ve been eating at Chipotle on the way home from work.”

  Mel rolled her eyes as Scottie snickered. “Well, gosh. What newlywed domestic bliss, Marky.”

  “So who’s the guy?” he asked again, impatiently.

  “What guy?”

  “Mr. Jewelry. Captain Sand Dollar.”

  “His name is Pete,” Scottie said, smirking. “So, Mel, does Pete have a big peter?”

  Mark set his plate down with a snap. “Pete? Pete Dale?”

  “No!” Mel turned to Scottie. “You are so fired.”

  “He would have found out anyway,” her obnoxious assistant pointed out.

  “Yeah? Well he didn’t need to find out today!” Mel stole a look at Mark’s expression, which was thunderous. “Scottie,
get out of my sight or I really will fire you. I’m not kidding.”

  Scottie vamoosed.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Mark said, sweeping the remaining cannoli remnants into the trash and tossing his cup of coffee after them.

  “You’re not killing anyone,” Melinda said firmly.

  “Yes, I am.” Mark shuddered. “If he’s buying you jewelry, then he’s in your pants. That means I’m going to rip off his head and crap down his—”

  “Mark! My pants—and who may or may not be in them—are not your business. So stop.” She took a deep breath. “Pete and I, we, um…we reconnected at your wedding, and—”

  “I knew it! That lying, conniving sack of shit.” Mark’s face suffused with red.

  “He’s not. Pete and I have been dating, okay?”

  “Not okay!” Mark shouted. “Out of all the women in Miami, he has to hit on my sister?”

  “Stop yelling. He did not ‘hit’ on me. Pete and I mutually decided to—”

  “Ugh!” Mark held out a hand. “Not one more word outta you, Bug-Eyes. I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t you think you’re having a seriously immature reaction to this? Think about it.”

  “I don’t want to think about it. He’s using you, Melinda, and I’m going to make him pay.”

  “He is not using me, Mark! Why would you automatically assume that? What is wrong with you? What is wrong with Mom, that she’d decide the same thing? God, I really hate you both.”

  “Mel, you haven’t had a lot of experience with men. We’re just trying to look out for you.”

  “Well, stop! I am twenty-five years old, I run a business and I’m capable of living my own life without your interference.”

  “Fine,” snapped Mark. “Then what’s next? You gonna bring Pete home for Sunday dinner? Have oatmeal-raisin cookies in the kitchen, just like in junior high?”

  Melinda glowered at her perfect brother. “Yes. I think that’s a fabulous idea, as a matter of fact. Pete is my…my…boyfriend—”

  Was he?

  “—and it’s time everyone accepted that. I’ll set it up with Mom.”

  “When was the last time you even bothered to call Mom, Melinda? She’s really hurt. They haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

  “Right. And have you asked her why? No, I didn’t think so.”

  Mark sighed. “You and Mom need to put your differences behind you.”

  “We don’t have differences. She has a perfectionism disorder, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”

  He turned towards the door and pushed it open. “Gee, I can’t wait for this little family get-together.”

  “Me, either. I’ll be sure to bring something fattening.”

  * * *

  “CAN’T MAKE IT TO dinner that day,” Pete said, full-scale alarm igniting on his face. “Sorry.”

  Melinda paused. “Okay, then how about the following Sunday?”

  “Got plans,” Pete said, a little desperately. A tic started at the outside corner of his left eye.

  “The Sunday after that?”

  “No can do.” He popped out of her bed like a jack-in-the-box, but she caught his hand and pulled him backward. He sat down heavily on the mattress, his shoulders hunched.

  What was wrong with him? Why did his discomfort make her feel nauseous? Did he not want to ‘out’ their relationship?

  She reached for her newfound confidence, confidence that Pete had helped her to find, and pulled it around herself like a blanket. She was being silly. Pete just felt uncomfortable because her mother had been cold to him at the wedding breakfast.

  “Pete,” she said severely. “You don’t have to be afraid of my mother. She doesn’t bite.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She likes you.”

  “No. No, I don’t think she does. In fact, I’m sure of it, sweetheart.”

  “Pete, she was frosty to you at the wedding breakfast because I told her that I’d slept with you, and she jumped to the same conclusion Mark did—that it was a one-night stand. Mom disapproves of those.”

  “You say Mark’s going to be there, too? No. Can’t do it. I’m pretty sure I’m in the Bahamas that weekend…”

  “Honey—”

  “And why would you tell your mother that we slept together, right then? Isn’t there some kind of code against that? She would have carved off my dick with a butter knife that morning, by the way, given half the chance. And I don’t have any reason to think that she’s had a change of heart lately.”

  “You’re overreacting. My mom will be so happy that I have a boyfriend that she’ll start adoption proceedings.”

  Why that should cause an unmistakable shudder to go down Pete’s spine, Mel didn’t know.

  Again, he tried to get up. And again, she tugged him down onto the mattress. “Are you my boyfriend?”

  “What?”

  She felt like throwing up. “Are you my boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” he said, after too long a pause. “Of course I am.”

  “O-kay…?”

  “Mel, I have to get home. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

  Why was he so resistant to this Sunday dinner? She felt her old insecurities awakening, yawning and stretching. Did Pete not want to officially be her boyfriend? Was he happy to screw her in private, but embarrassed to acknowledge her in public?

  “Pete, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  He turned to stare at her, his gray eyes wide and guileless. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

  He was lying, and she knew it.

  “Is it Mark you’re afraid to see?”

  “I can’t say I’m looking forward to having a fist planted in my eye,” he admitted.

  “He’s not going to do that.”

  “Yeah? He left an extremely hostile message on my voice mail. Go figure, but I haven’t had a moment to call him back.”

  Mel got out of bed and stood before him naked, hands on her hips. “Pete, this is really stupid. You and I are dating, right?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze ran appreciatively over her body.

  He couldn’t fake that, and she felt a tiny bit reassured.

  “Then my family needs to accept that, and you need to accept my family. I think a nice way to bridge the gap is for us all to have a Sunday dinner together. So I’m going to ask you one more time—are you available next Sunday?”

  Pete wore the expression of a hunted man. He shifted his weight from one butt cheek to another, and then back. He stood up as if the gallows awaited him. “Sure,” he said, after a long pause. “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

  “Great.” Mel gave him her most dazzling smile. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He fished his boxer briefs off the floor and climbed into them.

  What was he keeping from her? She didn’t like this, not at all. But half to reassure herself, and half to reassure him, she said, “It’s going to be fine.”

  “Right.” He stepped into his pants and pulled them up, then gloomily zipped the fly, slowly and with finality, as if sealing a body bag.

  His omission, whatever it was, created a distance between them. And she didn’t know how to bridge it. She tried to catch his eye, but he averted his gaze from hers.

  Silence stretched between them, a silence that was new and unwelcome.

  “What can I bring?” he asked, at last. “A noose?”

  21

  PETE FELT ACTIVELY SICK on Sunday morning. He really wished that he could punch the dawn back to Saturday night, specifically to the hour when he’d made love to Melinda for what was probably the last time.

  You. Are. Going. To. Pay. Peter. Start wondering when the other shoe will drop. Mommie Dearest’s words echoed in his brain. When would her killer stiletto clatter to the floor? Surely she’d use this dinner as the perfect backdrop to stage her revenge. It was too much of a temptation for her to resist.

  Jo
celyn was inhuman, evil, a demon in a dress. He pictured her cackling wildly as she destroyed his life…

  And Mel? Oh, God. Mel. She’d come to mean more to him than he’d ever thought possible. He saw her face changing in front of him: the eyes that held laughter, trust, determination and lately, something more—he saw Melinda’s eyes go accusatory and cold, like her mother’s. The generous, full, curvy lips that he loved to kiss…Pete saw them narrow and flatten, form a straight line of grim disappointment in him. He saw the natural blush in her cheeks intensify to the ruddy red of shame and betrayal.

  He had to tell her first. It was that simple. Better that she hear it from him than from her mother.

  But the very thought of telling her sickened him. How could he hurt her that way? How could he convince her that he’d never meant to play along? She’d never believe him. And she’d never speak to him again, much less trust him with her heart.

  He knew that if he survived this day, that it would kill him. That he’d never again hold her in his arms, stroke the warm expanse of her rosy skin, get lost in the lush invitation of her body.

  Though he wanted to lose himself in sleep and denial of what was about to happen, he forced himself to get up, shave, shower and pay some bills.

  Pure anxiety had him sweating through his clean shirt, so to kill some more time he re-showered and changed it. Then he paced around his apartment, a caged animal, until it was time to go and pick up Melinda and brave the demon-mother in her professionally decorated circle of hell.

  He would tell her.

  No, he wouldn’t.

  Yes, he would.

  No. He shook his head. He would not.

  And Jocelyn wouldn’t, either. No mother could be that vicious, that hurtful, to her own daughter.

  Pete convinced himself that he was safe, for the time being. That he still had time to figure out the best approach to this situation. That he could somehow sell his side of things; present it in a better light. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong…

  * * *

  MEL HAD A BUTTER-RUM cake and Mami in tow. She wore dark, dressy jeans cut like trousers, an orange top that made her eyes look even more blue, and high heels that made her ass sway seductively when she walked. If she hadn’t been so moody, he might have given it an appreciative squeeze.