The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil Series Book 1) Page 6

  So it was what it was. I’d had my first hookup, which wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. That soothed the inherent good girl in me but ravaged the dreamer I wouldn’t ever let myself be.

  I stared at my horses and dogs.

  This was my dream.

  This was mine.

  This was my heaven.

  It was ordered and it was pretty and it was filled with love. It reminded me of what I had with Mom and my sister, but without all the bad parts mixed in.

  Would it be better with Johnny or a Johnny-type person in the mix?

  Maybe.

  But this was what I had now.

  And it was beautiful.

  So I’d take it.

  And do what my mother always told me to do.

  Just be happy.

  I’d already exfoliated, had just ripped the charcoal strip off my nose and was about to slather the facial sheets on my skin when my phone rang.

  I looked down to my bathroom counter and saw it said, Johnny Calling.

  I took the call and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hey.”

  “No bullshit with you, rings twice and I get a ‘hey,’” was his reply.

  I stared at the curlicue, ivory wire bathroom accessories on my countertop. “Sorry?”

  “Nothin’, Iz,” he said, sounding amused. “Have a good day?”

  I wandered into my bedroom straight to my iron bed with its acres-of-material white coverlet, large, gorgeous sage-green crocheted throw draped along the bottom, lacy white euros at the top sprinkled with dusky flower-printed toss pillows, and climbed in while answering.

  “Did a recon of the kitchen because you’re getting dessert tomorrow night too. This necessitated a trip to the store in town. Came back, rode Serengeti. Got my tomato and strawberry pots sorted and planted some herbs. Looked at chicken coops. They’re not that expensive, but the ones that aren’t so expensive only allow two chickens or four bantams, so I think I need to do more research since I want at least six. Maybe eight. And I want standards. Now I’ve got the lasagna in the oven and I’m in the middle of my regular Sunday night facial. So all in all, it was really good.”

  Johnny said nothing.

  “So, well . . . I hesitate to ask,” I filled the silence, “but how was the rest of yours?”

  “Strawberry pots?”

  “They’re biggish pots with lots of little openings that strawberries grow out of,” I explained and when he made no reply, I shared idiotically, “Mine are dark blue ceramic. I have five of them.”

  His voice sounded funny, tight, like he was choking when he asked, “Chicken coop?”

  “We had chickens once growing up. Mom didn’t eat them but my sister and I did, and fresh eggs are hard to beat. Plus, chickens have funny personalities. They have brains the size of a pea, but they still have personalities.”

  Johnny again was silent.

  He was this for so long, I called, “Johnny?”

  “Sounds like you had a full day,” he noted.

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess so?”

  “Well, I mean, it was just a day.”

  “Strawberry pots. Chicken coops. Horseback rides. Grocery stores. And lasagna,” he oddly ran it down.

  “And my tomatoes, and I’m half into my facial. And then, of course, there was breakfast and, uh . . . other things with you.”

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter that sounded so nice it tingled through my ear down my neck and parts south.

  “What’s funny?” I asked softly.

  “Watched you walk from that sleek, burgundy Murano without a speck of dust on it in those sweet jeans with that cute top and all that hair, and I would not have pegged you as a woman who wanted chickens and planted herbs.”

  “It was car wash day yesterday,” I informed him. “My Murano is usually coated in dust and specked with mud.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “Well, that would be about now since it’s been sitting at the front of my house all day and it’s dusty around here. I don’t have a garage.”

  “Probably should consider that before a chicken coop, babe,” he advised.

  “Perhaps,” I mumbled.

  He chuckled.

  That tingled down my neck too.

  Since he was chuckling, I didn’t want to ask. But I’d mucked things up earlier that day, so I had to ask.

  “You okay?”

  “Don’t do my thing until later. Movin’ out in about an hour.”

  “Okay,” I replied and didn’t pry about what his “thing” was.

  “What time you want me over there tomorrow?”

  I stared at my beautifully crocheted throw.

  I got off at five but usually hung around to make sure my staff met their goals for the day and were off themselves. The commute was an hour, if traffic cooperated. The chicken cooked all day and it was only a matter of separating it, tossing in more stuff, and letting it cook a little longer, but there was that little longer.

  He lived close to town and had a garage in that town (not that he’d shared that last with me).

  And he was a small-town guy with a blue-collar job. Or at least he owned garages that were blue collar, if perhaps owning them made him not so much that.

  Maybe he wanted dinner on the table at five thirty, which was an impossibility.

  “Six thirty?”

  “It’s you gotta be ready for me, Iz, so don’t know why that’s coming at me as a question. That give you enough time?”

  “I work in the city.”

  “Again, that give you enough time?”

  “It’ll probably be more like seven.”

  “How ’bout you call me when you’re ready. It’s earlier, I’ll come earlier. It’s later, I’ll come later.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  “Text me your address and I’ll bring the condoms. You don’t have to worry about that shit.”

  I blinked at my beautifully crocheted throw.

  Was he coming for dinner?

  Or for sex?

  “Okay?” he prompted.

  “I’ll text you my address,” I replied.

  “Great, babe. Now I’ll let you go so you can finish your facial, eat your lasagna and read A through F of the encyclopedia.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Izzy, you do more in one day than a lot of people do in a year.”

  “Hmm . . .” I hummed because I never thought of it, but that was probably true.

  Mom taught me that. Even when we lived in apartments, she had herb gardens in the kitchen window, tomato pots on the balcony, front or back stoop, as many animals as the landlord would allow (and some they wouldn’t), and in the rare occasion we had extra money, she cooked up a vegan storm doing things with tofu, beans and lentils that made my mouth water at the memory.

  Our house was never exactly tidy but whenever she scored skeins of yarn, she also knitted and crocheted. She’d horde bits and pieces everywhere she could find them to get the stuff to make all her own cards and saved up to make huge scrapbooks for any occasion (all of which I had in my bookshelf in my office). She meditated, journaled, read anything she could get her hands on, sometimes wrote poetry or lyrics to songs she’d read or sing to us. She’d often spend hours doodling or turn the music loud and make us get up and dance with her, or sometimes she’d just take us outside, anywhere outside, and lay us down on an old blanket to look up at the stars.

  I always thought it was because we couldn’t afford a TV.

  But I was beginning to wonder, even if we could, if she’d have had one.

  “You camp?” Johnny asked into my thoughts.

  “Is that have I or would I?” I asked back.

  “The last,” he clarified.

  “Well, just to say, it’s yes to both.”

  “Take you camping.”

  My heart leapt.

  “You free next weekend?’ he asked.

  My heart leapt higher.


  Then my brain kicked in.

  “I’m having friends over for dinner Saturday night.”

  “That’s cool. Maybe another time.”

  “I could see if they’d do Friday,” I offered.

  “You’re up for that, Iz, we’ll head out Saturday morning.”

  We’d head out Saturday morning.

  And I was sure he’d bring condoms.

  But if you camped, you didn’t do it just for an alternate place to have sex.

  You did it to spend time with nature.

  And whoever you were with.

  “I’ll change dinner,” I told him.

  “Great, babe. Now I’m gonna let you go.”

  “Okay. I hope, well . . . whatever you’re doing, I hope it brings you some peace.”

  He didn’t say anything for long moments before he said, “It never does, but that’s still sweet, Izzy.”

  “Sorry, Johnny,” I whispered, then knowing he wanted to let me go, I finished, “Take care and see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Iz. Later.”

  “’Bye.”

  We hung up and I stared at my beautifully crocheted throw.

  We were having dinner tomorrow and then spending the weekend camping.

  I wondered if he’d let me bring Dempsey and Swirl.

  I’d still have to ask Deanna and Charlie to look after the rest.

  Another thank-you dinner.

  That wouldn’t be hard.

  And Johnny wanted to take me camping.

  He’d probably camped with Shandra.

  However, next weekend he’d be camping with me.

  Maybe I was an idiot.

  But I didn’t care.

  He hadn’t asked me to mother his children and he hadn’t made any promises of any sort, except that he’d be there tomorrow and we’d be camping next weekend.

  I could live in the moment.

  I had the info I needed.

  I could enjoy Johnny.

  And I could let him enjoy me.

  I was Eliza “Izzy” Forrester, daughter to Daphne, sister to Adeline, and if my mother and sister taught me nothing (and they didn’t, they taught me a lot, good and bad, but mostly good), they taught me to enjoy everything I could.

  So I needed to stop obsessing, ordering, thinking.

  I needed to just let things . . .

  Be.

  Unicorn

  Izzy

  “SO CAN YOU do Friday instead of Saturday?”

  I was in Deanna’s office and had just told her about camping with Johnny.

  And after I finished talking, I studied her face. She was a couple of years older than me, but at times she felt decades wiser than me, and I was trying to get a lock on what she thought of this latest development.

  “That boy isn’t playing any games,” she replied rather than answering my question.

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “Charlie said the same thing yesterday when I told him what was going down. Said if this guy was playing you, he’d not be coming to dinner tonight. He’d be calling you two days from now at around nine thirty and setting up a booty call. Now he’s called you and set up a whole weekend together on top of dinner. So yeah . . . this boy isn’t playing any games.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I told her.

  “That’s ’cause you had a long dry spell before Kent, and also ’cause Kent was a successfully disguised psycho, so when you met him neither of us saw he was a successfully disguised psycho and we just thought he was into you. But, you’ll remember, we met Charlie at that bar and I gave him my number, and he made me wait three days before he called. When he did, I didn’t pick up. I waited two days to call him back, and when he answered the first thing I said was, if he pulled that crap again we wouldn’t even get to our first date. He didn’t pull that crap again. He was a player and he admitted it to me on our first date. But he saw what he wanted in me and the games ended. This Johnny, he’s not playing games right off the bat.”

  I wanted that to feel good.

  Instead, I said, “I don’t think it matters.”

  “Uh . . . what?” she asked.

  “He wants me for sex.”

  She stared at me.

  “And I’m good with that,” I told her.

  She kept staring at me but she did it this time looking freaked.

  “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “He likes me. But I’ve been thinking on things and he’s making it clear this might be about spending time together, but it’s mostly about having sex. He’s not giving me the wrong impression. He told me not to worry about tonight, he’d bring the condoms. He didn’t ask if he could bring a bottle of wine and he didn’t ask if maybe I might want to rent a movie to watch with him after dinner. He assured me he’d bring the condoms. So I know the lay of the land and I’m good with that.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she asked, “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Totally.”

  She stared at me again and didn’t hide she didn’t believe me, and she did this by beginning to look alarmed.

  “I’m not getting a good feeling about this,” she shared.

  “I am,” I replied. “Because, listen, like I said, I’ve been thinking on things and after Kent, this is perfect. I mean, I get to feel pretty and funny and spend time with someone that doesn’t have feathers or fur or a mane or isn’t my best friend in all the world. I also get to have unbelievably good sex. When it’s time, he’ll move on and maybe we can still be friends and then maybe he’ll give me discounts on oil changes or something.”

  “Did Johnny Gamble perform an invasion of the body snatchers through orgasms this weekend?” she asked.

  I grinned at her. “No.”

  “This isn’t the Izzy Forrester I know.”

  “It’s the Izzy Forrester my mom raised and with what went down with Kent”—and with my dad but Deanna knew all about that so I didn’t have to remind her of it, just myself, so I wouldn’t find another Kent, or another Dad—“this could be the best thing that could happen to me.”

  When it looked like she was going to say something, I hurried on and did it quietly.

  “I’ll find the guy for me and it won’t be a lunatic like Kent and it won’t be a loser like Addie’s husband. It also won’t be some guy who settles for me, might fall in love with me the way he can, even if most of his heart belongs to someone else. But I’m thirty-one years old, Deanna. Since I can remember, I’ve done everything right. I’ve researched everything, not including Kent, to the point where I’d never put any foot wrong, never make a mistake, never mess up so bad all I worked so hard to get was lost. It’s time now to have a little fun. It’s time now to do something just because it feels good. I know where I stand with Johnny. But I like him and he likes me. I like having sex with him and he wants to have sex with me. So I know where I stand and I’m good with that.”

  “Okay then, babe.” She lifted two coral-tipped fingers to her eyes then turned them to me and stated, “But I’ll be watching.”

  I grinned again. “I’d expect nothing less. So are you good with changing to Friday?”

  “Totally. And looking after your menagerie while you’re camping. And we’re doing lunch this week. I wanna know all about this unbelievably good sex.”

  I was still grinning when I replied, “You’re on.” I started to the door, saying, “Gotta get back to work. Lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’m in.”

  I gave her a wave, left her office and I went back to work.

  I’d messed things up.

  As I drove up to my house that evening, seeing Johnny lounged in the wicker rocking chair on my front porch, one knee bent, one leg stretched out, two six packs of bottled beer on the deck beside him, his truck parked off to the left so I had a clear view of him, all my calm of understanding where I stood with Johnny Gamble flew out the window and the nerves settled in.

  I was late.

  And I’d made him wait.

  Whi
ch was rude.

  I kept my eyes on him in a state where I couldn’t let it filter through how good Johnny looked coming out of my wicker rocking chair on my little porch with its pillow festooned porch swing, standing, curlicue, iron candleholders with the crystals floating down, the big and small pots filled with flowers, the amazing fretwork at the corners of the roof supports and in the screen door (it might be crazy, but that fretwork was one of the primary reasons I bought the house).

  I had to park, shut down the engine, grab my purse then practically merge with the cushion of the passenger seat while I felt under it for my phone.

  I’d called him when I was twenty minutes away, telling him he could show in forty-five and I did this sharing that I was almost home but had to stop for beer.

  He told me he’d bring the beer and see me at my place in forty-five minutes.

  And then all hell broke loose, part of that hell meaning my phone slipped under my seat so I couldn’t call him and share about said hell, and that I’d be late so he shouldn’t be there in forty-five minutes.

  I found my phone, nabbed it, straightened, got out of the car, slammed the door and expertly motored through the gravel of my wide front drive on my spike-heeled pumps toward him now standing and leaning against one of my fretwork festooned posts, staring down at me.

  I did this talking.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. After I phoned, some idiot who looked like he was texting swerved into my lane and I had to swerve to avoid him, and my phone flew across the car, settling under the seat. This means I couldn’t get to it to call and tell you that they set up construction sometime today out on 32 and traffic was backed up forever. Then I had to take a detour that I thought might take me five minutes out of my way but took me twenty minutes out of the way, and now I’m late and you’ve been waiting for me.”

  I could hear the dogs barking in the house and I’d made it to the foot of the three steps that led up to it but stopped when I stopped talking and also when I noticed Johnny giving me a top to toe.

  “Working girl,” he murmured so low, I almost didn’t hear him.