CHAPTER 11
JC bent his head into the menu, suddenly looking more fascinated by the pancake selection than her. She sighed inwardly. At least the waitress wasn't vomiting on his shoe.
Despite the awkward moment, the next hour passed with a swift and easy grace; he was funny, really funny, once she got him to talk. And he was intelligent, too.
"So what do you do for a living?" he asked through a mouthful of sausage link. All the "airs" she'd read about in the magazines seemed to disappear in the face of a good old-fashioned drunk breakfast.
Sadie shrugged. "I'm a writer, I guess." She popped a strawberry into her mouth.
"You guess?"
"Well, I'm trying, anyway. I have a lame-ass day job that pays my bills while I write at night. I have an agent, which is cool, and I have a few stories in print, but they're mostly stuff I don't care much about. Something else to keep me in shape while I write what I want."
JC was silent for a moment. She looked up from her pancakes and saw him sitting back in his booth, eyes wide, another sausage link speared on his fork.
"Did I say something wrong?"
He blinked. "No, no," he said, and brought the meat to his mouth. "It's just.... I mean, you're really smart, aren't you? Like, really."
"Like, really," she said, laughing. "Why, am I a big geek now or something?"
"No. I mean, yes. But it's cute. In a good way. I mean, I've met a ton of creative people in what I do and everything, but you're really working hard for it, aren't you? And it's not easy to get thigs published if you're not somehow connected, right?"
"I guess not."
"See? You must be really good if you've gotten things published."
Sadie grinned. "I am."
"So what do you write?"
Now it was Sadie's turn to freeze. She'd hoped that part wouldn't occur to him just yet.
"Helll--oooo? Earth to Sadie. What do you write? Why are you blushing?"
Sadie took a gulp of water to wash down the pancake stuck in her throat and give herself a few more seconds.
"Why so quiet all of a sudden? what, do you write porn or something?"
She sat straight up in her chair and kicked him under the table, making him shout in pain. "We prefer the term _erotica_, if you don't mind. Although I guess porn is porn. well, in any case, I write GOOD porn, well-written stuff, so don't go comparing it to Penthouse letters."
Her admission, no matter how uncomfortable for her, felt damn good as she watched the look on his statement change from laughter to shock to his previous oh-my-god-you're-really-that-cool.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"I am," she said, grinning. "And I'm GOOD."
He leaned forward, eyes glittering. "Am I going to get to read any of it?"
Sadie shifted in her seat. The IHOP felt awfully warm. "I don't bring my work on vacation."
"Why is it work? You must enjoy writing it." He set his chin on his hand and cocked his head in a movement that made her dizzy.
"I do enjoy writing it," she said, leaning forward until their foreheads almost touched. "But I like to give myself a little downtime, too, to imagine my next story."
"Do field research," he said. Sadie felt something rub against her calf. She moved her hips forward so their knees touched.
"Field research," she said, nodding. One of her knees slid between his, and when he squeezed his legs around it, Sadie felt her panties grow damp. JC leaned forward.
This is it, she thought.
"Here's your bill," the waitress said, and JC leaped back, pulling his hat down over his eyes. "Anything else?"
"No thanks," Sadie said, and put one hand under the table. She squeezed JC's knee and watched him grin.
The waitress walked away, mumbling something about horny kids.
Outside, in the parking lot, Sadie clapped her hands together. "What now?"
"Well," he said, pressing close to her. "How long are you in town?"
"We leave New Year's Day." She rubbed her hands together. Damn, but it was cold.
"Give me those," he said, and to her utter horror, slid her icy hands under his shirt. He jumped a bit and hissed when her hands touched him, and she gasped. She felt smooth skin, solid muscles, the slightest curls, and heat unlike anything she'd ever imagined. He wasn't just hot, he was hot. The sudden fire made feeling rush into her hands, flooding the blood with tingles and awakening every nerve, every muscle, every capillary. And the sensations radiating from her fingers heated the rest of her body, dampened her underwear and hardened her nipples.
"You're very warm," she whispered, and he nodded.
"So you leave New Year's Day?" he asked, and despite her sudden paralysis--his stomach was so flat, so hot, so smooth--she nodded.
"That give us three days and two nights, Sadie," he said, leaning into her ear, and she shuddered at the feel of his breath on her neck, the sound of her name on his lips. "Unless you have other plans, I mean to take up all of your time. Is that OK with you?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Right now I'm going to drive you back to your hotel, get your phone number so I know where to reach you, and say good night."
"You're going home?" she said, and sudden fear made her dig her fingers into his hot skin. He put his hands over hers, holding them flat against him, and she could feel their heat, too, through his sweater.
"Tonight, yes."
He slipped her hands from under his sweater, took one in his hand, led her back to his car, and, true to his word, drove her back to the hotel. As they stood outside the passenger's door of his car, he cupped her face in his hand.
"What's the phone number here?"
She fumbled in her pocket and recited the numbers to him. "I don't have anything to write on--"
"That's OK. I won't forget. I'll call you soon."
Sadie willed her feet to move, her hands to take out her card key, any muscle to respond to her commands, but she couldn't. Her heart screamed at her to say something, anything, and the fire between her legs begged her to grab him and kiss him, and her brain shrieked at her to get in the fucking car, but she couldn't do or say anything; she wanted this moment to go on forever, her face leaning into the soft, warm-smelling skin of his palm, his nose turning red in the cold, their bodies so close together, the wind blowing her hair around her face.
He smiled a little, leaned forward, and placed a kiss on her forehead. "You're beautiful," he said, and she gasped, cold air rushing into her mouth, the place where his lips touched her forehead burning against the frigid air. "Will you get back to your room OK?"
And suddenly she wanted to cry. Leaving him felt like tearing herself away from something precious, ending all the silly magic of their night--everything from the dance to the shots to the bathroom to the fluorescent chill of the IHOP--and what if they never recaptured it?
"You will," he said, turned her around, and pushed her gently toward the hotel.
He gazed at her a moment longer, but she still couldn't speak.
"I can't, Sadie," he said, answering her silent question. "Not yet. I'll tell you why later. But let me drive you home."
He re-entered his car, and still she couldn't speak, and through the window she saw his lips form the words "I'll call you" and "good night."
Then he drove away.