What Have I Done For Me Lately?

Ryan was listening politely, but watching her with a blue-eyed intensity that unnerved and excited her at the same time. What was he thinking?

If she had her way, he’d be thinking thoughts that had nothing to do with her childhood past and everything to do with her womanhood and her future. Especially because being across the table like this for so long, she’d barely been able to keep herself from imagining their first kiss, though she doubted it would happen tonight. But maybe soon? They’d had a nice time so far, talking easily, laughing together and sharing food.

Or was he wondering why he’d asked her out in the first place, this small-town girl from nowhere with nothing of real substance to say? Should she embellish her life? Beef up her education from a two-year degree earned in four years to a four-year degree earned in two? Casually drop some mention of her mom’s catering business and her dad’s club? Ryan would picture elegant cocktail parties, pools and golf courses—things he could relate to. He didn’t need to know Vera Bayer threw kids’ birthday parties, and that the pool at Dick Bayer’s men’s club involved cues and drunken betting.

No. She’d keep to the bare-minimum truth. Any false picture she painted would come crashing down when he met her parents.

“What kind of girl were you?”

“Shy. Lonely. A dreamer.” With iron determination driving her life. “But I knew what I wanted.”

“Which was?”

“To leave Charsville, live in New York and see the world someday.” And marry someone exactly like you.

“Why New York?”

“After small-town living?” She lifted her eyebrows, thinking no other answer was needed, but he still seemed to be waiting for an explanation. “The bigger the better as far as I was concerned. But L.A. has earthquakes, and Cairo and Tokyo were too far away and exotic for me.”

“Makes sense.” He nodded seriously where she expected him to laugh. Was it her imagination or did he look disappointed? What had she said? What was wrong with loving New York?

“So I came here.” She forced herself to calm down. Ryan could undoubtedly live anywhere in the world he wanted, so he must love the Big Apple, too.

“I’m getting tired of the city.” He picked up his beer and tipped it absently back and forth, staring at the shifting liquid. “I’ve been thinking it’s time to move on, maybe back to Connecticut. I’m thinking of looking at houses in Southport or Fairfield.”

Dang, darn, hell and damnation. How was she going to get herself out of this one? It would be so nice when her time with Ryan no longer felt like a job interview.

“Well.” She gave a laugh that, thank the lord, didn’t betray her dismay. “I was just going to say, now that I’ve lived here even this short while, I’ve been thinking I didn’t know myself all that well wanting to come here. But I thought I should give Manhattan a year at least, before I did anything I’d regret.”

“Very sensible.” He nodded slowly, eyeing her speculatively over his glass. “Would you like to go back to a smaller town someday, to settle permanently?”

“Oh, yes.” Sweet Jesus. Was she dreaming? “Definitely.”

“Back to Georgia?” He seemed anxious about her response.

“Oh, no. Not Georgia.” She beamed, her heart enjoying a Texas two-step. “I’d feel like I failed if I went back.”

“I understand.” The tension left his face; he lifted his beer across the table, eyes warm. “Here’s to a new future for both of us.”

“To a new future.” Together. She clinked her glass with his, wanting to shout a few rounds of her sister Iona’s favorite cheer: “Hey, go, go, go, hey, go. Charsville Chiefs…hey go!” Unless she was wrong, she, Teeny Bayer, was under consideration for the position of Mrs. Settle Down In Connecticut.

Please don’t let me blow it.

The waiter came to clear their plates and returned with the check, which he put on the table between them. Should Christine offer to pay? Some men were insulted—as if the woman thought he wasn’t capable of taking care of her. On the other hand, if she wanted to keep the “friends” pretense up, she should probably not assume Ryan had planned to take her out.

She reached for her purse at the same time he slapped a credit card on top of the bill and shook his head at her. “My treat tonight.”

Tonight? As if there would be others? She withdrew her hand from her purse and beamed at him. “Thank you, Ryan. The meal was delicious.”

“My pleasure.”

And there they were, smiling at each other across the table, and warm joy started flooding Christine’s body and her heart. His pleasure. Ohh, she’d love to show him pleasure of all kinds. Pleasure at the front door welcoming him home, pleasure in the kitchen eating the dinner she cooked and pleasure in the bedroom later that night.

One step at a time, Christine.

The waiter brought back Ryan’s receipt; Ryan thanked him and shoved it into his wallet. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She got to her feet, hoping her yellow linen sheath didn’t have too many horizontal wrinkles across her lap, and picked up her purse, even more pleased when he waited for her to precede him out of the restaurant. The last guy she dated had been in such a New York hurry all the time, he’d rush off without even glancing to see if she’d followed. The day she met Ryan, she’d ended that relationship, which was going nowhere in that same New York hurry.

Out on the sidewalk, they strolled along 14th Street. Christine forced her feet, which wanted to skip, to keep a slow, even pace. Strolling meant Ryan intended to prolong the evening. He hadn’t hustled her into a taxi, or fled down the sidewalk so she could barely keep up. Strolling was another good sign in an evening that had already been full of them.

They passed a street musician playing a saxophone, and stores with bins of perfect produce laid out on the sidewalk stands. She loved New York, especially at night. The energy, the lights, the natives out enjoying their city. She loved feeling part of something so huge and so important and so vital to the world. If she and Ryan worked out, she hoped Ryan would want to come into the city often after they left.

“I’m curious about something.”

“Mmm?” She imbued her voice with a touch of sensuality and was rewarded out of the corner of her eye with the sight of him turning to look at her. She made sure she appeared calm and peaceful.

“You grew up in Georgia. What happened to your accent?”

“I lost it on the way here.” She did turn then, to smile at him. “Somewhere over Virginia.”

Her accent had been disposed of deliberately, starting when she was a girl, imitating TV or movie personalities, practicing over and over in her favorite spot, a copse near a stream a short way from home. A place where she could escape two brothers and three sisters and two parents and the all-too-frequent visiting aunts, uncles and cousins, and have room and quiet to think her own thoughts and dream her own dreams. She’d even taught herself rudimentary French from books and tapes she’d gotten from the library, to be ready for the trip she’d someday take to Paris.

She always knew she’d come north to live—New York or Boston or Chicago—because she didn’t belong in a small Southern town and never would. And she’d wanted to fit in here from the start, not be pegged as an outsider the second she opened her mouth.

“Let me hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your accent.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “Why sugah, whatevah for?”

He laughed and swayed toward her so they bumped shoulders, which felt as intimate as a kiss on this crowded beautiful city street.

Way too soon they got back to Bank Street and inside their building, to the familiar smell of wood and carpet and a faint whiff of cleaner. Way too soon the elevator ride was over, their walk down the hall finished in front of their two doors.

“Good night, Ryan. Thank you for a really fun time.” Christine smiled warmly and took a step back toward her apartment so he wouldn’t think she was angling for a kiss, though frankly, she’d like nothing else right at that moment. His lips were as appealing and sexual as the rest of him. Sharply defined, slightly full, but not at all feminine. The kind of lips that would leave you no doubt whatsoever that you were being kissed.

She looked forward to experiencing that, and how. But while men might say they liked a woman who took charge of the physical pace of a relationship, and maybe they did for a time, those weren’t the women they took home to meet Mom. Those weren’t the women they settled with in Connecticut. Deep down in the cave-man depths of their DNA, men wanted power and control firmly on their side.

She could live with that. Even if it meant saying good-night tonight starved for more of him.

“I enjoyed it, too.” He put his hands on his hips and studied her, appearing taller and broader in the low-ceilinged narrow hallway. “Are you free Wednesday next week? My oldest sister lives in the city and can’t use a pair of ballet tickets. Would you like to go? It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Next Wednesday…” She frowned, trying not to show her delight. As if she would possibly say no. She’d postpone emergency surgery to spend time with him. “I think that would be fine. I’ll run in and check and call you in a few minutes. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” He smiled and lifted a hand. “Talk to you soon.”

“Soon.” She let herself into her apartment and gave herself an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Perfect. Not only had he asked her out for a specific day instead of the dreaded, “Let’s do this again sometime” which meant never in this life, but she’d engineered it so they’d get to have a phone conversation tonight. She could speak to him in the seductive tones she’d wanted to use all evening, but where the relative anonymity and physical distance would make it safer—and more tantalizing. There was something so intimate about not being able to see—

She stopped abruptly, her dreamy mood shocked out of her.

Fred.

“Hey, Chris.” He rose from his chair—her chair—and his short stocky frame made the admittedly cheap wood creak. “How goes it?”

“What in heaven’s name are you doin’ here?” Her accent came out as it always did when she got upset, which made her even more upset.

“You told me to come tonight.”

“It’s ten o’clock!”

“Isn’t that right?” He stared at her, dark eyes curious under lashes most women would kill for. “You look beautiful in yellow. Good date, huh? You came in all misty-eyed.”

“I did not. And it’s none of your business how my date went.”

He shrugged balefully and mumbled something that sounded like, “I wish it was,” which she ignored.

“I fixed your shower. Thought you’d like to take a look at it while I was here, so if there was anything you didn’t like I could change it for you.”

“So you’ve been here in my apartment? Waiting for me?”

“Who else would I be waiting for?”

She sighed. All right, Christine. Fred had done her a nice favor on his own time. She’d been afraid to ask Ryan for too much help, in case he figured she was totally helpless or figured out why she was asking so often, but she’d been unable to get the old showerhead off so she could install the new one, a handheld model with a massager she’d gotten from the hardware store clearance bin. Fred, of course, had been more than happy to help. And while he was puppy-dog eager every time he was around her, he didn’t strike her as creepy or dangerous, so she’d do well to be kind to him, if for no other reason than that she might need another favor someday.

“Lead the way.” She followed him into her bathroom, where the gleaming new white-and-silver unit sat happily in its bracket. “It looks fine. Thank you.”

“Wait, check it out.” He pulled down the showerhead and turned on the water, demonstrating the five different settings.

Christine watched, barely curbing her impatience. This much she could have figured out on her own. She wanted to call Ryan. “That will be so nice. I can’t wait to use it.”

He turned off the water and threw her a look as if he were happily imagining that very thing. “He good to you?”

“What?”

“The guy you were with. He nice to you? Polite? Try anything you didn’t like?”

“No.” She shook her head rapidly. Was he going to talk all night? “Nothing like that.”

“Good. You ever have trouble with any guy, you call me, understand?”

She bristled. “I appreciate the offer, but I can take care of myself.”

“No.” He slid the showerhead back into its bracket. “Not you.”

“Pardon me?” She wished she had the showerhead back to brain him with.

“Not you.” He had the nerve to shake his head with utter certainty, feet planted, beefy arms folded across his broad chest. “There’s plenty of women in this city that can take care of themselves. You’re not one of ’em.”

“You…” She started breathing too fast. To hell with the showerhead, give her a crowbar. “I am not like that. How can you—”

“A woman like you…” He took a step toward her, his voice low and gravelly. She stood her ground, itching to move back. This close his eyes were level with hers and the intense way he was staring at her made her desperate to look away. “A woman like you needs a man.”

Not you. She lurched away from him and stumbled. He grabbed her arm with strength that astounded her and held tight to keep her from falling.

“I gotcha.”

“Let go.” He was holding her way too close. And she was registering with confusion that he smelled honest and soapy clean and comforting.

There was something obscene about this coarse man—barely taller than she was, half-bald and older by a decade at least—smelling so appealing.

Of course, Ryan wore the most amazingly sexy cologne she’d ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. One of these days she’d still be able to smell it on her clothes and body after a date. One day soon.

“Look, Chris.” Fred’s voice gentled further from its usual rough heartiness. She tried to pull away, but she got the impression he wouldn’t let go until it was his idea to, and she didn’t have the strength to object. “I wasn’t trying to make a move on you or do anything you don’t want. I would never do that. You got nothing to be afraid of. You get me?”

She nodded, wanting him out of her apartment, and preferably out of her life as soon as possible.

“Okay.” He released her arm. “I’m real sorry I scared you.”

“It’s fine.” Her breath was dropping back to normal and she was starting to feel foolish. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” He indicated she should precede him out of the bathroom, but she would have had to snuggle her rear right by his groin in the narrow space, so she shook her head and gestured him out first. To her relief he went. Out of the bathroom, good. Through the living room, good. All good progress toward his exit.

Finally, she could call Ryan, who must be thinking she was—

“I brought you something.”

“What? You what?” She faced him irritably in her living room, wanting to be alone with her phone call, which she now wouldn’t be able to do as sexy-perfect as she wanted because this little man had gotten her all riled up.

“I brought you something.” He’d retrieved a package from somewhere—she hadn’t noticed it when she’d come in—crudely wrapped in a plastic shopping bag and tied with a crumpled red ribbon.

She had no clue what to say. He was bringing her gifts now? Where was this going to end? How many times could she clearly not be interested before he went away? If he was going to become a problem she might have to speak to Ryan.

Or, of course, she already had Fred’s offer to deal with any guy who was bothering her. Maybe he could beat himself up.

The idea made her smile just as Fred was handing her the gift. Of course he thought that smile meant she was thrilled he’d gotten her something, which was the last message she wanted to send.

She glanced at her watch and sighed. Ryan would think she wasn’t interested by now. She’d have to tell him she’d gotten another call, or—

“I know it’s late. You can open it tomorrow. No big deal.”

The look on his face said it was a huge deal, and Christine couldn’t bear to be that rude. She wearily began to pick at the knots in the ribbon.

“Here.” Fred’s big hands came into her range of vision, holding a knife that jerked up through the thin red line and snapped it in a way that made her have to work to control a shudder.

She slipped her hand into the bag, praying it was nothing that cost more than five dollars, and pulled the package out.

Mercy. It had cost a dollar fifty-nine when she was a girl with her own allowance, maybe double that by now. A tin of Grebner’s pecan praline cookies, made in Charsville, Georgia. She hadn’t had one in nearly nine years, not since she left without looking back.

Her mouth started watering and she jerked her head up to find Fred looking at her with the expression of a man terrified his beloved wouldn’t like the ring he’d picked out.

“Why did you buy me these?”

“Oh, I dunno. I think maybe you mentioned where you grew up. You’re pretty far from there.” He hitched at his jeans, then examined his fingernails, which she’d noticed in the bathroom were clean and neatly trimmed.

“Where did you get them?”

“Just came across ’em.” He rubbed his head, his scalp highly visible through the hair he kept nearly shaved. “Thought you’d like a taste of home.”

She stared down at the familiar pink-and-gold package in her lap. He sure as heck hadn’t gotten the cookies at any of the stores in this neighborhood. Grebner’s wasn’t exactly a household name, especially outside Georgia.

“Thank you.” She nearly choked on the words. She didn’t want to be touched by this man any more than she wanted to be reminded of where she came from. “This was…nice of you.”

“You’re welcome. I gotta go.” He tugged at his ear. “Sorry if I butted in tonight.”

“Oh. Well, it’s…thanks. For the shower and the cookies.” She got up and followed him to lock up. At the door he turned suddenly and she had to step back to keep from being too close.

He searched her face, then gave a quick shake of his head. “G’night, Chris.”

“Bye.” She shut and locked the door behind him, breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to the phone to dial Ryan’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

“Ryan, it’s Christine. I’m sorry to be calling late. I…” She was about to tell him about the fake phone call when it occurred to her if she planted the seeds of the Fred problem now, it might be easier to ask for Ryan’s help later. “Fred was here.”

“Tonight?” His voice sharpened and she couldn’t help a little thrill. Was he jealous?

“He decided this was the perfect time to put in a new showerhead.” She let her full measure of exasperation show.

Ryan chuckled. “Fred is a character. Great guy, but he plays by his own rules.”

“I guess you could say that.” She smiled, thinking if that definition fit anyone it was Ryan. Fred didn’t have power and limitless opportunities. His life was fixed, probably had been for years. He had to play by the rules of the building. No chance for big changes in his life plan. People would move in and move out, and Fred would still be here, year after year, fixing and patching and replacing. Not so different from the people in Charsville, which she’d left for a very good reason.

“I checked my calendar and that night is free, Ryan. I would love to go to the ballet with you.”

“Good.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “Dinner after?”

“I’d love it. Thank you.” She faked a swoon and had to wrench the phone away from her mouth in case the giggle bubbling up spilled over. “My treat this time?”

“We’ll see.”

She smiled. He’d pay. He played by his own rules.

“Have you been to Café des Artistes?”

“Not yet.” She bit her lip to stay cool. Café des Artistes was not the type of place you’d take someone you were only casually interested in.

“Good. We’ll go there.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Same here. Good night, Christine.”

“Thanks again for dinner.” She hung up the phone and did three Charsville Chiefs cheers all around the apartment, cheers she’d learned by watching Iona practice, though she’d never had the slightest inclination to be on the squad herself.

She’d see Ryan again. For ballet. And dinner! If she’d stayed in Charsville, the most she could hope for on a date was chicken fried steak and a crude pass in the back of a pickup.

Things were looking really, really good for Christine “Teeny” Bayer.

She wandered around, window to window, too restless to settle into anything, until the clock reminded her she’d better get some sleeping done, if at all possible. Maybe a long shower and a few more rounds on the sweater—the one she was gambling wouldn’t be too personal to give Ryan for his birthday in September—would calm her enough so she could sleep. Maybe if she was really lucky she’d dream a few sweet dreams that would come true, about a certain tall handsome neighbor and a house in Connecticut, maybe a Parisian honeymoon.

She made her way to the bathroom to start her relaxation regimen. But not before she gave into temptation and stopped by the dining table to pry open the pink-and-gold tin and stuff a pecan praline cookie into her mouth.

Fred had been right. The cookies tasted like home.

4

To: Jenny Hartmann

From: Natalie Eggers

Re: My husband

Jenny, you rock. I finished your book and had to write! Your description of that guy you were seeing was so much like my husband it made me want to scream. He never wants me to go out at night. He never wants me spending any time with my friends. He hates when I buy myself new clothes. I think if he had his way I’d dress in his old T-shirts and sweats.

But your book gave me courage. I’m starting to stand up for myself more now. It’s feeling really good.

Thanks, Jenny! I love you!

Natalie

“THANK YOU.” Jenny smiled at Café des Artistes’ gorgeous young blond bartender, who had just delivered a bright orange passion fruit martini across the narrow shiny wood bar. “What is your name?”

“George.” He glanced at her, poured three types of booze into a shaker in quick succession, then glanced again.

“Well, may I say, George, purely for the joy of spreading good feeling, no strings attached, that you are one serious treat for the eyes.”

He looked taken aback, and the hawk-nosed bartender rinsing a glass next to him sniggered before moving down the bar to serve another customer.

“Uh…thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She lifted the drink to him and took a sip, then closed her eyes to let the sweet-sour fruity taste register. “And that is one hell of a martini. You’re an artist, too.”

“Yeah?” He put the lid on the shaker and shook, a smile trying to break through. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome again. I’m Jenny, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

She winked and he managed to look friendly that time, straining the drink into a waiting glass. His co-worker, who’d moved back into hearing range, raised his nearly joined eyebrows and mouthed “go for it” not very subtly.

“No, no, no.” Jenny waggled her finger at him. “I said no strings and I meant it.”

He snorted and mumbled something undoubtedly snarky.

Jenny frowned. “What’s your name, bartender-who-is-not-George?”

“Chaz.”

“Pay attention, Chaz.” She gave him her most insincere smile. “When a guy tells a woman she’s beautiful, it means, ‘I want to sleep with you.’ Right?”

He shrugged sullenly. “Maybe.”

“Get this. When a woman tells a guy he’s attractive, she means, strangely enough—” she spread her hands “—that he’s attractive.”

Chaz shot her a dirty look and Jenny patted the bar sympathetically, unable to reach his arm. “Complicated, I know. You keep working at it, it’ll come to you.”

George chuckled outright. His co-worker rolled his eyes and moved to serve his next drink.