Chapter 14 #2
So, despite his denial, Roth had cheated on her. Dancy examined herself for pain but felt only disgust. “Thanks for sharing.”
Bisa missed the sarcasm. “I’m going to take some classes about scripts and acting. Learn how to do what you do.”
“Go for it.” Dancy picked up the backpack and left.
Roth had cheated on her. Interesting. On her drive home, she considered the irony of his reputation as a screen lover. She’d
get so turned on watching him deliver those slow, sensual movie kisses to his acting partner. He’d plow his fingers through
the actress’s hair as if he couldn’t control himself, ply her lips like an oral acrobat. But that kind of touch—those kinds
of vigorous kisses—were his idea of work, not pleasure. In real life, he was prone to rush.
More than once, after she’d watched him hoist an actress by the backs of her splayed thighs and passionately take her against
a wall, she’d mention how erotic she found it. He’d dismiss her with a laugh. “She was barely five feet tall, Dancy. You make
up two of her, and my thoracic spine couldn’t take it.”
It was ironic. She’d been a sex symbol to men all over the world, but her husband had made her feel big, clumsy, and undesirable.
Neither her dog nor her high school boyfriend was around when she returned to the caboose, making it the perfect time to unpack
her purchases from the day before. She lay the Persian rug down the middle of the train car, where the soft rust, dusty blue,
and sage green color palate perfectly complemented the pale walls and warm wood-plank floor.
The lace curtains had been carefully packaged with dried lavender.
She shook them out over the back rail and then hung them from small brass rods in all the windows except for the cupola.
She’d spotted two brass floor lamps and a lamp made from an old railroad lantern.
The blue spatterware tea kettle found its home on the potbelly stove, just as she’d imagined.
She washed the dust from an old earthenware crock and filled it with the larger kitchen utensils. The lithograph of a steam
locomotive looked perfect on the wall by the platform door, and the pair of primitive landscapes belonged behind the couch.
She studied the only purchase she had left, a sign in a walnut frame. With a smile, she hung it in the unfinished bathroom:
“Do Not Flush Toilet When Train Is in the Station.”
The caboose wasn’t hers to furnish, and she hoped Clint liked it. If he didn’t—
The door opened and her dog raced in to greet her, followed by her hunky landlord.
She greeted Watch: “Did the bad dognapper scare you?” She turned her head. “No kisses. I know where that mouth of yours has
been.” Watch rolled over, and she complied with a belly rub before she looked at Clint.
His hair needed a trim, and his jaw stubble had hit that dangerously sexy length between five o’clock shadow and street thug.
She could easily picture him in nothing but a football helmet.
She shook her head to drive out the image. Fortunately, he was too busy taking in the changes she’d made to notice.
“Wow.”
It was a neutral “wow,” impossible to decode.
She rose from the floor. “Do you hate it? I know it was presumptuous of me to do all this without talking to you first, and I can get rid of anything you don’t like, but I think you should keep the rug because the floor is cold in the morning.
And you do need lamps in here. Yes, everything is old-fashioned instead of trendy, but the space seemed to call for it. ”
“Everything’s great.” He wandered over to inspect the lithograph of the steam engine locomotive. “Cool.”
She released the breath she’d been holding. “Really? You like it?”
“I do. What do I owe you?”
“Owe me? You don’t owe me anything.”
He was looking at her oddly, staring at her legs. He looked away. “You’ve made a big difference in here.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“I also noticed the vodka bottle out there still hasn’t been touched.”
“Watch doesn’t like it when I drink.”
He smiled and continued his inspection, glancing at the spatterware kettle with approval, peeking into the bedroom—she hoped
he didn’t notice the ragdoll she’d left on the pillow—and finally looking into the bathroom. He laughed. “Great sign.”
“It seemed appropriate.” She’d come up behind him, and as he turned, they were suddenly standing too close, bodies touching,
his chin only a few inches above hers. Their eyes locked.
She could swim in those eyes.
Neither of them moved. His arm stirred at his side. The blood hummed in her veins. His breath fell soft on her forehead, and
his hand brushed the small of her back. Her palm found its way to his side, all hard, taut muscle. He lowered his head. She
tilted hers. Their bodies met. Lips parted. Touched.
And . . . sprang apart.
“Shit!”
“Shit!”
He glared at her. “What the hell, Dance?!”
“Don’t you ‘what the hell’ me!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Me? What about you? Looking at me with that . . . that mouth. Those legs . . .”
“Legs? What do my legs have to do with it? And what about you and your eyes? Your chest! Your butt!” She took another step
back from him.
They stared at each other, breathing hard.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “This is a bad idea.”
“A horrific idea.”
His jaw tensed with accusation. “That wouldn’t have happened if—“
“Don’t you dare kick me out now!”
“I didn’t say anything about kicking you out.”
“You’re thinking about it!”
“You have no idea what I’m thinking about.” His gaze drifted over her. “Well . . . maybe you do. And it’s not my fault.”
“Go ahead. Blame the woman.”
“Not any woman. Damn it, Dancy! You’re . . . you.”
“And the last time we got involved, I broke your heart. Do you want to take that risk again?”
“Are you serious?” he said incredulously. “You’re not going to break my heart.”
His attitude hurt, and she pulled a dirty trick. Letting her lower trip tremble the tiniest bit, she said, “I’m very vulnerable
right now.”
He ducked his head, looking chagrined. “I know you are. I’m a jerk, and I took advantage.”
“Damn it!” she exclaimed. “You still don’t know when I’m playing you. I’m no more vulnerable than you are.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“It’s true. I’m still the same old Dancy.”
“You’re not.”
“Okay, maybe I’m not exactly the same, but . . . did you sniff my hair?”
“You’re using my shampoo, but it smells different on you. Which has nothing to do with our current predicament.”
“It’s not a predicament. It’s temporary insanity on my part, since I seem to be going through a sexual dry spell right now.
What’s your excuse?”
“Same.”
She scoffed. “You?”
“Despite what you think, I’ve lost my taste for hookups. We need to look at this logically.”
“That’s what we’re doing.” She gestured toward the bedroom. “If we weren’t being logical, we’d be wrestling naked in that
bed right now with Watch looking on.” She shuddered. Not at the idea of being naked in bed with Clint but with having a canine
observer.
“There’s only one way to deal with this,” he said.
In bed? She kept those words to herself. “What’s that?”
“We pretend it never happened.”
“An excellent idea.”
“Agree?”
“Agree.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. She groped for something to say. “So what did you boys do all day?”
“We kayaked.”
“You took Watch in a kayak?”
“He has a canine life vest. And he loves being on the water. Don’t worry. I put sunblock on him.”
“You sunblocked my dog? Are you supposed to do that?”
“Dogs can get sunburned like people.”
“I didn’t know that.” She searched her mind for another topic, but before she could come up with anything, he was on his way
out of the caboose.
This time her dog stayed with her.