Kitabı oku: «Tongue-tied»

1

“YO, HOT STUFF, it’s almost closing time. Grab some java, make the rounds, and pick up the tab at table two.” Al, the short-order cook, barked the orders without looking up as he industriously scraped the metal spatula across the grill. The air smelled of grease and onions, lingering reminders of the dozens of meals Al had fried and grilled that evening at Davey’s Diner.

Robin Lee stopped wiping down the wooden butcher block in the back of the kitchen, a chore that was part of her nightly clean-up ritual, and stared at Al. For the four months she’d known him since starting her tenure as kitchen prep at this Denver eatery, he’d reminded her of a Santa Claus gone bad—rotund, gruff and moody. If words were gifts, he gave out few. And of those few, she never thought she’d hear him call her something sassy like “hot stuff.” Not quiet, industrious Robin who Al had never seen in anything other than one of her four white rayon, wash-and-wear outfits. Add her white sneakers, fine blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a slash of pink lipstick that sufficed for makeup and she was hardly the image of a “hot stuff.”

Al typically said it like it was, and truth was a trait she admired above all others. So she chalked up his endearment as an attempt at charm. And he definitely needed to slather on plenty of charm—even more slathering than he did with the butter he smeared on every-thing—if he wanted her to play waitress.

“Move it, hot stuff,” he repeated. “With Dottie gone, I need you out dere.”

Charm mystery solved. After Al’s fight tonight with Dottie, the fifty-something waitress who’d stomped out of the diner while mumbling a few choice words about control-freak cooks, he was obviously trying to butter up Robin by calling her “hot stuff.” He needed her to finish Dottie’s few tables so they could close. What Al didn’t realize was that no matter how many terms of endearment he concocted, no way was she going “out dere.” In fact, she wished desperately she’d never come “out here” to Denver because she’d never been comfortable in the big city. An uncomfortableness that bordered on unbearable after what had happened today.

Tonight of all nights, she wanted to keep to herself, do her kitchen thing and not get involved in potential conversations with anyone, especially total strangers slugging down the remnants of their coffee at midnight in a diner. No way, no how. Not after the worst day in the life of twenty-six-year-old Robin Lee.

Okay—just in case she was being overly dramatic, which her mom often accused her of—if this hadn’t been the worst day in her life, it ranked in the top five, hands down. As she rinsed the rag she used to clean the butcher block, she mentally calculated, for the umpteenth time, everything that had gone wrong. First, her lifeline to the world—her beloved ten-year-old Jeep she’d nicknamed “Em” for Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet—had been towed because she’d parked on the street-cleaning side of the street. Then she’d spent fifteen precious dollars taking a taxi to DU, Denver University, only to tear into the lecture hall twenty minutes late. But what absolutely skyrocketed today into the top five had been when the professor, who loved to lecture tardy students on the principles of punctuality, decided to make an example out of Robin.

She cringed, reliving the horror of it all. She’d barely sat down before Professor Geller called her to the front of the room and instructed her to tell the class about the key points of last night’s homework assignment. She’d read the homework, a novel by Sherwood Anderson, which had been far more than an “assignment”—it had been a privilege because she loved literature. She wanted desperately to earn a literature degree because her goal was to one day be a book reviewer—a lofty goal, but one that got her through life’s ups and downs. Got her through being older than the rest of the students—something she didn’t regret because she’d wanted to stay home and take care of her mom after the accident—got her through being the painfully quiet girl dressed in funky secondhand clothes.

And, she hoped, it would also get her through this hideous moment, being called upon to speak in front of an auditorium filled with snickering students. She needed this class for her English lit major. After quickly mulling over her options, she decided her best tactic was to approach the professor and whisper her cartowing story, then try to explain that speaking in front of that auditorium would be an extremely painful experience for not only her, but everyone in that room.

But she’d barely whispered the word tow to him when he stepped back and pointed to the podium. Worse, he upped the stakes. In a loud voice, he informed Robin that if she didn’t speak, he’d knock her grade down a notch.

She had no choice—she took the challenge. This will soon be over, she reminded herself. In her mind, she assimilated a few facts about one of Anderson’s characters and how the author used a small-town spinster to poignantly expose the protagonist’s true nature—then Robin would sit down and never, never be late to class again.

She stepped up to the podium, took a deep breath, and leaned toward the microphone. “Sherwood A-A-A…” The vowel stuck, its relentless repetition making a prolonged, strangled sound that reverberated hideously throughout the room. A sea of eyes looked at her with pity and horror while she just kept stuttering, stuttering…hopelessly tongue-tied.

She glanced back at the professor. His bushy white eyebrows were pressed together, as though intellectually analyzing how to handle this situation.Jerk. At that moment, in a jolt of gut-deep understanding, Robin realized professors might have the intellect to influence human thinking, but not the common sense to enforce human civility.

Clamping shut her mouth, she scrambled away from the podium, tripping and catching herself as she ran down the steps off the stage. She speed walked up the aisle—avoiding the sea of pitying eyes—made a beeline for the exit and shoved open the doors, gulping lungfuls of fresh, cool September air.

Then she kept walking.

She pumped her arms and let her feet smash the dry autumn leaves.Let them crack, crush into nothingness. Just like my dreams. Because she might as well face it now than later…in a week she was supposed to give an oral report to her psychology class, then there were those “open questions” in her composition class where the professor randomly called on students to verbally respond, plus she had no doubt Professor Geller would make an example of her again if she were tardy…so why put up with it any longer? Why not just admit she’d never make it through?

Fortified with that brutal awareness, she’d headed straight for the administration office and dropped out of school. Because no way, no how, was she ever going to face the humiliation of speaking—or trying to—in public again.

“Hot stuff, when I said ‘move it,’ I didn’t mean just your little pinkie!” Al jabbed a fat thumb at the coffeepot. “Finish serving the tables.”

Al’s barked command punctured this morning’s painful memories. She’d lost enough today—she couldn’t risk losing this job, too. Robin glanced over the grill into the dining room. There were only two occupied booths, one by a couple and the other by a guy. She squinted. Funny, for a moment he looked like Johnny Dayton, the megahunk from her small Colorado home-town of Buena Vista. Johnny had been her older brother’s pal, the tough kid from the “terrace”—the county-subsidized apartments for the poor. But everything else about Johnny had been rich—from his dark good looks to his smooth-as-velvet charm. Robin had been six years younger and utterly besotted every time Johnny came over to visit.

“Let’s mo-o-ve it!”

Al had missed his calling as a prison guard. Taking a deep breath, Robin yanked off her stained apron, grabbed the slick plastic handle of an almost-full coffeepot off the burner and headed into the dining area with the stoicism of a death-row convict.Soon this will be over. Soon this will be over. Her tennis shoes squeaked as she crossed the cracked linoleum floor. Approaching the booth with the couple, she watched them break a lingering kiss to stare at her feet. Damn these sneakers anyway. When the couple raised their gazes, Robin held up the pot, indicating did they want more coffee? But instead of responding “yes” or “no thanks” the girl squealed, “It’s you! The girl who…”

The girl who stutters. Robin had dealt with people’s curiosity, and sometimes their rudeness, all her life. Once, when she’d been ten, and a kid had teased her about stuttering, Robin had blurted out that stuttering made her unique and what was his specialty? When she got angry, really angry, her words could flow effortlessly. But getting red-faced livid wasn’t Robin’s everyday style. Unfortunately. Because if it was, things would sure be easier.

Robin stared into the heavily made-up eyes of Jill Marcum, the popular student who was in several of Robin’s university classes, including Professor Geller’s class today where Robin had humiliated herself in front of a gazillion peers. Jill, the girl who always spoke up in class. Jill, the girl who flaunted her great grades the way she flaunted her great body in flamboyant, form-fitting clothes.

But tonight Jill had outdone herself. She’d encased her Vogue bod in some sleek leather number that hugged her skin so tight, Robin was amazed the girl could breathe.

Trying not to dwell on her own shapeless white rayon dress, and determined to get this fiasco over with, Robin forced the corners of her lips to curl upward in what she hoped passed for a professional “May I pour your some coffee?” smile. She raised the coffeepot another notch, a silent gesture to back up the “more coffee” smile. Robin was a master at the wordless gestures. Too bad she couldn’t find a job as a mime.

“What?” asked Jill, cocking an overplucked eyebrow.

Darn it all anyway. Jill was forcing Robin to talk. She’d failed in front of Professor Geller’s class, but she refused to now. Refused to end this day feeling like more of a loser than she already did. Robin sucked in a shaky breath.

“Would you like some more cof-cof-cof…” Her mouth kept moving, stumbling and stuttering over the word, as though somebody else were speaking. These moments were sheer hell—there was nothing Robin could do to stop the stuttering momentum except to clamp shut her mouth, which she did, pressing her lips together so hard they hurt.

In the following silence, Robin realized her feet were shuffling, as though desperate to walk, run, escape this situation, but no way she’d let Jill see her run away again from a humiliating situation. As Robin’s feet shuffled, her soul shook loose all the feelings she’d managed to suppress—humiliation, hurt, disappointment.

In her fantasy, she’d eloquently say things to Jill that she’d pass on to the other students. How Robin wasn’t just some shy, awkward stutterer…how she had dreams and goals…that Robin Lee was more than just a quitter. Instinctively, Robin opened her free hand and extended her fingers wide as though reaching for all the dreams just out of her reach, all the things she wanted out of life….

But the look of pity on Jill’s face stopped Robin cold. She’d already faced a sea of such looks today in class, and no way was she going to look at one more.

Closing her free hand into a fist, Robin sloshed some coffee into a cup and turned away in frustration, not wanting Jill to see the pain on Robin’s face that said more than a thousand words.

“Poor thing,” Jill whispered to her male companion.

Robin headed toward the other booth where the guy sat by himself, not wanting to hear anything else Jill had to say. But Robin would’ve had to be deaf to not hear Jill whisper loudly, “No wonder Robin never had a boyfriend—after all, what would they talk about?”

Robin squeaked her way to the other booth, wrestling an onslaught of emotions. Just because Robin didn’t wear body-molding clothes and shellac her face with makeup didn’t mean she didn’t have what it took to grab a guy’s attention. Heading toward the man sitting solo in his booth, intently reading some papers, she decided to show Jill that Robin Lee, the tongue-tied wonder, had more heat, more va-va-voom than a hundred Jills could ever hope to have. Let Jill tell that to the other students!

To help matters along, Robin undid the top two buttons of her rayon dress. Reaching his table, she leaned over—way over—and heaving a sultry sigh, she aimed the pot to pour coffee into his cup.

“Is that decaf?” he asked absently, not raising his gaze from his papers.

Robin looked at him through the steam rising from the angled pot. Funny, he did sort of look like Johnny…but not really. Johnny had always greeted people with a dazzling smile and a glint in his eye—as a kid, she’d thought he’d absorbed more than his share of sunshine. This guy, on the other hand, had a dark, guarded demeanor, although his brooding, angular looks made her tummy do small flip-flops.

He looked up. “Decaf?” he repeated.

She shrugged, unsure what pot she’d grabbed. She leaned over a little farther, determined to get his mind off decaf and on to a debuttoned view of cleavage.

“Because regular makes me jittery,” he continued, his words slowing as his gaze dropped. He puffed out a breath when he caught the glimpse of cleavage. His gaze shot back up, his mouth cocking in a halfway grin that made her jittery.

She held the pot midair. Dottie would’ve probably said, “It’s decaf,” not caring if it was or not, and left it at that. But Robin was a stickler for the truth and she hadn’t the vaguest what she’d just poured. Besides, her hand holding the pot was shaking so hard, if she didn’t set this coffee down soon, she was going to slosh this stuff all over the place, getting the guy really hot, and not in the way she wanted!

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jill staring at her, mouthing something to her boyfriend. Probably stuff like, “That’s the girl who couldn’t talk in front of class today—couldn’t deal with the pressure and stormed out!” The girl who couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t…

Suddenly, Robin wanted to do one thing successfully. One thing to prove to herself—and nosy Jill—that Robin Lee could do something. That she could compete with the best of ’em. Even compete with Jill in the hunky male department! A moment ago, Robin had simply wanted to flash some va-va-voom. Now she wanted to do more…a lot more….

And Robin knew exactly what she’d do to prove herself! When Al had called her “hot stuff,” he’d been teasing her. Well, she’d show him and Jill just how much “hot” there was in this package of “hot stuff.”

She slammed the coffeepot on another table, never taking her eyes off Mr. Decaf. Behind his glasses, his eyes widened. Robin inched one knee onto the red upholstered seat, close to his jean-clad thigh, never breaking eye contact. Pressing her torso forward in the way she’d seen Elizabeth Hurley do in a movie, Robin pulled the rubber band out of her ponytail, then ruffled her fingers through her fine, straight hair. For maximizing boob effect, she took in a lung-bursting breath.

It worked. Those cool blue eyes now flickered with hot flames. The guy looked down, then quickly back up, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his straight-lined, nostril-flared nose.

He frowned. “Uh, do I know you—?”

He was going to blow it for her! If Jill heard him asking Robin who she was, that would ruin everything!

In a rush of movement, Robin leaned down and planted her lips on his to stifle anything else he might blurt. As she held her mouth against his, she fumbled for the table to keep her balance…and slid her fingers into something gooey. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized her fingers had merged with the guy’s half-eaten piece of apple pie. Darn it all anyway. She’d have to spring for the pie, and here she was trying to save enough to get her car out of hock. She was debating what to wipe her fingers on when he groaned.

Groaned?

Or maybe he was yelling for help. She pressed her mouth harder against his and, with her non-apple-dipped hand, gripped his chin to hold him in place. The muscles in his jaw bunched, then loosened under her massaging fingertips. Good, she was taming the wild beast….

The wild beast who was molding his lips to hers and teasing the underside of her top lip with his tongue….

Holy cow, this guy was kissing her back! Robin’s mind started going into overdrive, panicking that she’d ambush kissed some late-night-diner psycho, but a sane corner of her brain reminded her that she couldn’t fail now. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t.Relax, keep kissing, let Jill see you being the wildest beastess this side of the Rockies. She’ll tell everyone at school and the rumors will shift from dropout Robin to hot-stuff Robin.

Better check that Jill is still looking.

Robin slid her mouth off the man’s, replacing her lips with her apple-gooed fingers in case he tried to say anything. She nuzzled his earlobe while sneaking a peek over his shoulder. Jill was sitting ramrod straight, staring at them, openmouthed.

Yes! Robin, the Love Goddess, rules!

“Oooo!” Robin squealed, feeling warm, wet lips suck her fingers. Shocked, she reared back and watched as the stranger damn near consumed her hand. His mouth was wet and hot and about the best sensation she ever experienced in her whole life. Heat skittered down her fingers, flowed down her arm, building in intensity until it flooded to the pit of her stomach where it flamed like liquid fire. And when he raised his head and cocked her a “you like it, don’t you” look, she thought she would combust right there.

She leaned forward and removed her fingers, slowly. She opened her mouth to say something, maybe “Thanks for playing along”—after all, she’d given enough of a hottie show for Jill to fuel rumors for at least a year, maybe a decade—but when Robin parted her lips to talk, words escaped her. In fact, all she was able to do was hunker over him, panting…

“Oh, baby,” he murmured in a rugged, husky voice that turned up her inner temperature about a thousand degrees.

Something exploded between them. Later Robin tried to remember exactly what happened…either he tugged her head closer and she went for it, or she went for it all on her own. Whatever happened, next thing she knew, she was damn near on top of the man, sucking face like a woman who’d just landed from a faraway planet inhabited only by females and had just discovered her first, live, hot male.

Robin pawed at his jacket, making small, needy mewing sounds, while in the background she heard small, squeaky sounds—which, in her heat-drenched moment, she vaguely realized were from her feet trying to get traction on the floor. In the failure to do so, she was nearly moon-walking in place, causing the rubber soles of her sneakers to squeak mercilessly against the linoleum floor.

Must…stop…squeaking. Pulling away for a gulp of air, she shifted her body and hitched one hip onto the table. At this higher position, her breasts were at his eye level, and he clearly enjoyed the view. He raised his hand in a half motion, and in that moment she saw his fingers twitch as though he’d virtually fondled her. Fiery sensations rocketed through Robin’s body and she lowered her head, wanting more…

He angled his lips toward hers, and when his tongue again teased the perimeter of her lips, she opened her mouth a bit wider, inviting him inside. Suddenly she didn’t care if she mewed or squeaked…didn’t care if they were in public…didn’t care if two or two zillion people were nearby. All that mattered was this man, his lips,her needs…

His hand slid up her waist to a spot just below her breasts, causing her to ache for his touch. With a moan that bordered on a growl, she gripped the soft, buttery leather of his jacket with both hands and pressed herself against him, showing him she wanted his fingers to roam, to feel, to tease her as she’d never been before. Hell, maybe she hadn’t spoken up for her car or for her university education, but by damn, Robin Lee, without a single word, was using her body to speak up now!

Her lips found his again and she plunged her tongue into that hot, wet cavern. He tasted delicious. Like sin and heat. Like all those forbidden, lusty bad things a good girl was never supposed to want. Oh, God, she wanted all those things…wanted to experience more, more, more…

“Hold still, honey,” whispered the man. “You’re about to fall off the table.”

“Huh?” Robin fluttered open her eyes and stared into those dangerously blue eyes…had she noticed those thick, black lashes before?

“The table,” he whispered again. “You’re about to fall off.”

She looked down, barely registering that the lower half of her body was nearly lying across one end of the table, her feet dangling. Her rayon dress had scooted up to an indecent place somewhere beneath her thigh. She released her death grip on his jacket with one hand and weakly tugged on the hem of her dress.

Strong arms lifted her and set her onto her feet. She felt woozy, weak. When his arms pulled away, she teetered, then fumbled for the edge of the table. Gripping the hard edge, her only concrete link to reality, she looked at the object of her kiss. In their torrid connection, she hadn’t really seen the entire man she’d been so focused on his parts—his lips, his eyes, his wonderfully errant hand…. He was one sizzling sight to behold. Rumpled hair—had she done that? Thick lashes that fringed lethal blue eyes—hadn’t he been wearing glasses a minute ago? Funny, without them, he almost looked like Johnny again….

She cut a glance to her right—Jill and her boyfriend were gone. Good. Mission accomplished. Releasing her breath in a forced stream, Robin feebly smoothed her dress. Then, she looked back at the handsome stranger with whom she’d become wordlessly intimate.

She licked her lips, wishing she wasn’t shaking so badly. “Coff-coffee?” She aimlessly pointed in the general direction of the steaming pot sitting on the other table.

The man’s smile kicked up a notch. “Is it as hot as you?” He winked.

Hooo boy. Robin gulped, pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and shook her head no.

His grin kicked up a notch. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he murmured.

And I’ve gone with you. Nothing,nothing had ever affected her like the last few moments—which could have been hours, days, a small eternity for all she knew. She’d fallen, body and soul, into a time warp of liquid passion where she felt delicious heat, tasted forbidden pleasures…And if she didn’t leave at this very moment she’d hurl this damn coffeepot across the room, throw any remaining shreds of decorum out the window, and jump this guy’s bones with the fervor of a pent-up, been-without-sex-for-five-years-and-counting woman.

Panting, she stared at him, wondering if he’d read her mind because those sparkling blue eyes of his looked very, very intrigued.

Part of her wanted to suggest they meet again, make a saucy suggestion about getting together for more than a tabletop tryst, be sassy like Dottie or Jill or other hot babes who teased their men with words. But no doubt Robin would start to speak and his look of heated interest would cool before she’d stammered out the first word.

That sobering thought also cooled her overactive libido. Best to leave this situation, now. Leave this guy with the memory of the “mystery waitress” who almost laid more than silverware on his table because he’d never see her again. Even if he came back, she’d be in the back, prepping the kitchen.

With a swivel, she turned, snatched the handle of the pot, and walked stiff-kneed back to the kitchen, the soles of her shoes squeaking relentlessly against the linoleum floor.

As she passed Al, he said with a snort, “I told you to serve coffee, not yourself!” With a shake of his head, mumbling something about having thought he’d seen it all, Al continued getting the grill and utensils ready for tomorrow’s new day of work.

Robin became super busy doing her own nightly routine, which consisted of turning off the coffeemaker, cleaning the pots, stocking tomorrow’s glasses and silverware. Flustered, and still sizzling herself, she fussed and cleaned things she normally left alone—she wiped the outside of the toaster, refolded several kitchen towels, straightened the kitchen rubber mat at least four times. After ten frenetic minutes of hyperactivity, she sneaked a look at the dining room. The stranger’s booth was empty….

She tried not to feel disappointed. After all, it was just a crazy kiss, not a date.

But in her heart, she knew it was more than just a crazy kiss. She’d had crazy kisses in high school. Pecks on the lips. Awkward, fumbling kisses. Prolonged make-out kisses that, at best, fired a spark….

This had been different.

This crazy kiss had been a mind-melding, body-bonding, life-altering kiss. Before Robin had walked out onto that floor, she’d known adolescent passion.

Now, she was a woman aching for all the experiences she’d never had. And if she were back home, she’d confess all this to her mother, then refute her mom’s suggestions that Robin was once again being overly dramatic. Because, for the first time in her life, Robin had tasted sinful heat—so hot, the rest of her experiences seemed lukewarm if not plain cold.

She glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty. Going-home time. Robin donned her sweater, the one with colorful kitties crocheted into the threads, for the walk to her nearby apartment. Al was in the back, calling somebody on the pay phone. He glanced up when she waved bye, and although he said good-night in the same gruff voice he always did, he gave her a funny look. Probably a “Try to behave tomorrow night” look. She smiled. She’d have the reputation as a hottie at DU and Davey’s Diner. Not a bad way to end the worst day of her life.

Walking out the door, the night air had a hint of fall—a teasing cool breeze that traced the late-summer darkness. Above, a full moon hung suspended, like a promise.

“Robin.”

A man’s voice. She looked down. Not just any man, that man. The stranger she’d kissed. Her heart leaped in her throat. How’d he know her name?

“You don’t remember me.”

She looked at him under the streetlight, observed how the light spilled over him in a silver haze. It filtered through his dark, tousled hair, poured over his black leather jacket. Under the light, his face was cast in light and shadows. He looked at her intently, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slouched as he leaned against the lamppost.

Heat shot through her. “Johnny,” she whispered.