Toronto Collection Volume 3 (Toronto Series #10-13) Page 3

  Sasha's readers had responded, but to my critical eye they weren't as enthusiastic as mine. Patricia's post had barely any responses. So far, I seemed to be in the lead.

  I let another bite of white chocolate heaven melt in my mouth and wondered how the husbands of Sasha's readers would feel about the order of that list on her site. Sasha talked about her kids all the time, on her site and in person, but she rarely mentioned her husband and I'd never seen her post anything about romance.

  Technically that could come under the 'husband' category, but from what I'd heard from my married friends there was almost never any romance any more. Larissa's friend Candice still seemed to have a romantic relationship with her husband, even now that they had two kids, but Larissa and I agreed they were the exception and Larissa said they worked really hard to keep their marriage in good shape. Most marriages seemed about as dull and flavorless as my lunch-time cheesecake.

  My phone signaled a text.

  You smell like a monkey's butt.

  I smiled and wrote back.

  You're not smelling me. That's your own stink, Wash. Nice try, though.

  I loved Catherine's kids, but I'd never been quite sure about having my own. Still, when six months ago my doctor told me I was in the throes of early menopause I'd been shocked. I didn't know if I wanted kids, but I also didn't want the option taken away.

  I stretched my neck again and pushed the whole issue out of my mind. No point wondering if I'd have kids. With which guy, exactly, was I going to make that happen? I wasn't keen on the whole anonymous sperm donor thing and I couldn't trick some non-anonymous guy into knocking me up. So for now there was nothing I could do.

  I again answered some emails and deleted lots more and responded to readers' comments on my post, then I devoured the last crumbs of my cookie and was about to pack up when one more email arrived.

  Lydia,

  We saw your new project and we'd love to offer you a full day at our spa. This weekend would be perfect, if you have the time. No strings, although of course we'd love it if you felt like discussing your day on your site.

  Hope to see you soon!

  Trinity Spa and Esthetics

  I'd had massages in the past, and I got a pedicure at the start of every summer, but I'd never spent a whole day at a spa. And getting it for free? What could be more 'good to myself' than that?

  Chapter Four

  Felix usually left work early on Mondays because he coached a kids' hockey team, coincidentally the one that boasted Wash as an enthusiastic but unfocused defenseman, so I felt safe going back to the office after Starbucks. Unfortunately, it had slipped my mind that the arena was closed for a week-long maintenance, and I'd barely stepped through the door when Felix came out of his office and said, "Lydia, can I see you for a second?"

  With Sasha and Patricia still there, not to mention the forum moderators in their corner typing away, I couldn't refuse. "Sure. Just let me drop off my stuff."

  I could feel his eyes on me as I slipped out of my coat and my snow-dampened boots then put my heels back on, but I didn't let myself rush. I wouldn't go into his office flustered, and I wouldn't go without the extra four inches of height my shoes gave me. I needed every advantage I could get against Felix.

  He watched me walk toward him, a faint smile on his sexy mouth, then waved me past him and into his office. I went, again not hurrying though my steady pace felt uncomfortably slow, and he closed the door behind us, and his window blinds too, as he said, "Take a seat, my friend Carrie."

  I ignored the nickname and claimed his guest chair, and he ignored his big leather rolling chair in favor of sitting on the edge of his desk, facing me and a little closer than I wanted. "You're avoiding me."

  It wasn't a question, but I pretended it was. "No, of course not. I was working at Starbucks today. Easier to focus there."

  He leaned closer. "Have dinner with me tonight."

  "Don't you have to coach?" I didn't want him knowing I knew he didn't. Better for me if he didn't think I paid that much attention to his life.

  He looked disappointed but said, "No ice in the rink. Remember?"

  "Oh, that's right." As I said the words, with my best "I forgot because I don't care" tone, fatigue as thick and heavy as that lunch-time cheesecake settled over me. Games. Always with the games. The only way to get a guy, apparently.

  "So. Dinner?"

  If I played my cards right, I'd be naked in bed with my boss in a few hours at the most. His tone made that clear. But I didn't feel like playing any cards at the moment. "I'm really tired, Felix. This new project and all. I'm afraid today's no good."

  He leaned even closer. "Tomorrow then."

  I pressed my back against the chair to get some distance from him. "I told you on Friday, I won't date you. You're my boss."

  Maybe he noticed my body language, finally, because he shifted away from me. "You did tell me. But I felt like that kiss was saying something different. Something meaningful." He looked at me, his dark eyes serious and a little sad and a little hungry. "Maybe I just hoped it did."

  I didn't know what to say. I had wanted something with him for ages and now he felt the same way. Maybe I was making the wrong decision. Was refusing being good to myself? Maybe I should just go--

  "Well, I guess I'm having dinner alone," he said. "But I should warn you, I will ask you again." He winked at me. "It'll happen someday, pretty lady."

  His taking away the offer made me want to go even more, but I didn't want him to think he could manipulate me so I didn't change my mind. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

  "I guess so," he said, his eyes intent on mine. "I think it'd be worth the wait."

  The heat between us reawakened my memories of our kiss, and I could barely manage to murmur, "Could be."

  "Have a good evening," he said, his voice caressing. "See you tomorrow."

  "You too," I said and escaped to my desk, where I booked my spa visit for Sunday then deleted everything else in my email inbox before heading for home.

  I walked down the street toward the subway station, picking my path carefully so the thick slushy snow didn't completely ruin the boots I'd bought on Saturday at a thrift store. The boots themselves were in pretty rough shape, with serious scuffs on one and a tear in the other's side seam, but I'd liked their thick furry cuffs. They were only five bucks so I'd jumped at them as something of a substitute for the expensive furry purse I craved.

  Though I didn't want to, I was craving Felix too, and I didn't think thrift shopping would be much of a substitute. I hadn't been kissed for months before him, and now I wanted more.

  And more than just sex. Felix had said he wanted our kiss to say something meaningful. I wanted that too. I'd even posted about it a few weeks back on the site, about how few kisses are truly great and earth-shattering and how nice it would be to get one of those sometime soon.

  He read everything we posted so I knew he'd read that. Did our kiss really matter to him? Or was he just saying what he thought I wanted to hear?

  I'd expected him to contact me on the weekend but he hadn't. Being nice and giving me space or playing the 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' game? From what I knew of Felix, it was almost certainly the latter.

  I was so very tired of games. But I'd never met a sexy guy who didn't make me play them.

  *****

  "So what did you think of the game last night? Pretty good, right?"

  I took a sip of my coffee and smiled. "You know I won't talk hockey until I get my cheesecake."

  Jerry looked around. "Where's the waiter in this dump? Oh, yeah, that's me."

  He left my table, returning in moments with an extra-big slice of his dad's amazing butterscotch-walnut cheesecake which he set before me before again taking the chair opposite mine.

  I'd been working for Felix a few months before discovering the tiny restaurant on my way home, but since then I'd been in at least once a week for a quick dinner and a leisurely cheesecake. The staff,
all relatives of the owner Jack, had been friendly from my first visit, but when I came in during a Toronto Hogs hockey game and watched with the same intensity they did I'd pretty much become part of the family. The rest of their food wasn't particularly special, but the cheesecakes...

  I slipped the first bite into my mouth and closed my eyes so nothing would distract me from the delicious flavor. When it had melted away, I shook my head and opened my eyes. "Your dad is brilliant."

  "He's not bad," Jerry agreed. "So, hockey."

  I ate my cheesecake a tiny bite at a time as we analyzed the previous night's game. I'd grown up watching hockey, since my dad had been a great player in his day who'd just missed making the pros and still loved the sport. Catherine had never cared much for it but I enjoyed how complicated a game of big guys skating around after a piece of frozen rubber really was.

  When we'd finished talking and I'd nearly finished the dessert, Jerry said, "I still can't believe you're a hockey fan. You don't look the type."

  "Why, because I have all my teeth?"

  He laughed and gestured to my eyes, probably because I always wore full-on makeup there to make them stand out, then my crisp silver blouse and navy skirt, then peeked under the table and pointed at my boots which were admittedly still pretty nice if you didn't inspect them too closely. He glanced at my purse, sitting on the table, but didn't gesture at it. Not a surprise: its boring black self didn't deserve a gesture. "No, because you work in fashion."

  I didn't, but Jerry had never been able to understand my job and I'd given up trying to explain it. "So that means I can't like hockey?"

  "Not that you can't, just that it's a little strange."

  I pretended indignation. "Strange? Sir, I am not accustomed to this treatment. I will finish my cheesecake and go."

  "If you're that upset maybe you shouldn't finish the cheesecake. Bad for your digestion."

  I wrapped my hand protectively around the plate's rim. "Bad for your lifespan, getting between me and cheesecake."

  He laughed. "I'll just get your bill then."

  "You do that."

  I ate the last of the deliciousness then sat sipping coffee until Jerry returned. "Dad says it's on the house."

  I shook my head. "I keep telling you guys not to do that."

  "Sorry, but that's the way it is. I can't go against the old man."

  I'd fought this in the past and I'd always lost, so I said, "Well, tell him thanks. Have a good night."

  "You too."

  I waited until he was busy clearing another table then left a healthy tip and slipped out before he could stop me. I did think Jack had comped my meal once or twice, but I was pretty sure Jerry did it on his own more often and I didn't want him to be out all that money.

  He was a sweet guy, and I had a feeling he was interested in me for more than just hockey discussions. I felt nothing like that for him, though. When we'd started to get to know each other I'd realized he was sweet and gentle and nonthreatening and that had put him solidly in the 'nice guy' box in my head.

  The sexy guys had their own box, where they rattled around in a cloud of testosterone and cologne waiting to turn me on and drive me crazy, and in my twenty-plus years of dating no guy had found a way to be in both boxes at once. I didn't believe it was possible and neither did Larissa.

  We'd spent many hours refining our 'guy box' theory and testing it in the field, and we could now tell within moments of meeting a guy which box would be his home. Jerry? Nice guy. Felix? Sexy guy. Damien? Sexiest guy, the reason for the theory in the first place because I'd been lamenting how he was such a jerk at times but so sexy and Larissa had said maybe no sexy guy was a nice guy too.

  Not that the sexy guys were evil, necessarily, but they toyed with us. The nice guys were kind and up-front and didn't play games, and as a result neither of us had any interest in them. We'd both tried, since obviously a nice guy would be, well, nicer to date than a sexy one, but somehow the niceness made them about as attractive as a pile of wet dirty snow.

  The worst guys, of course, were the sexy ones who tried to pretend to be nice. Neither of us were fooled by that any more. Into the sexy box with you, buddy.

  Since it was a nice night, cold but clear and moonlit, I walked the kilometer or so to my house instead of waiting for the bus. Partway there, I realized I probably should have left the last few bites of cheesecake. Though I knew it couldn't be, I felt like some of the dessert still sat in my throat because my stomach couldn't hold it.

  This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling: every time I left Jack's place I remembered twenty minutes later that his dinner portions were a little bigger than I needed and his cheesecake slices were easily double anywhere else's. But I was always hungry when I got there so I never thought to leave any dinner on my plate, and it was probably illegal not to finish a cheesecake that delicious, so I endured the icky feelings afterward.

  Worth it for such good cheesecake.

  Chapter Five

  I unlocked my front door to the sound of dog claws dancing against the hardwood floor behind it, then eased the door open and caught hold of Paddington's thick furry neck before he could take off. "Let me get your stuff, buddy."

  The over-excited dog let me push him back inside long enough to clip on his leash and grab a plastic bag in case he needed to do more than lift his leg, then we were away.

  I walked as fast as I could to help Paddington burn off some energy, glad my neighbors had shoveled their sidewalks and especially glad the service I'd hired to do mine had come through, and Paddington trotted along at the very end of his leash, sniffing the ground and trees and telephone poles and anything else within reach with great enthusiasm.

  My mother had questioned whether I should get a dog since I lived alone in the city, but I'd briefly dated a guy with a golden retriever and I'd fallen far harder for the dog than for the guy. After we split, I began looking into getting one of my own, and eventually found myself an hour out of Toronto at the house of a long-time breeder.

  Watching Paddington now, his eighty-pound body solid and maybe even a little overweight, I could hardly believe he'd been the little puppy I was handed almost two years ago.

  "He's so small," I remembered saying. "I won't hurt him holding him, will I?"

  The breeder smiled. "When my daughter was little she used to carry them around by the ears no matter how hard I tried to stop her. They all survived so I'm sure he'll be okay with you."

  I held the adorable little beast facing me, and the puppy watched me with a solemn expression in his sweet and slightly unfocused brown eyes.

  "He's giving you a hard stare," the breeder said, slipping into a fake English accent on the last words.

  I looked up. "Paddington Bear, right? I remember that show."

  She nodded. "That one seems to like giving stares."

  I lowered my gaze again to meet the puppy's. "Paddington?"

  He gave a little sigh.

  And that was it. I was in love.

  He didn't give me hard stares that often any more, although I did get them when I didn't feed him the second he got hungry, but I still adored him.

  If only he wasn't quite so needy. I gave him at least a little walk morning and night, and my neighbor Gertrude took him out during the day so he wouldn't need to keep his legs crossed until I got home, but he always seemed to want more time and attention, and sometimes showed me his boredom by chewing up anything I forgot to put away. On the bright side, out of necessity I'd become much neater since his arrival.

  We circled the block then headed home, happily with the plastic bag still empty. I dished out his dry food and while he gobbled it down I picked up Gertrude's note. She left me one every day, detailing exactly how long they'd been out and what my furry friend had done, and I saw with pleasure that Paddington had chosen to make her clean up his poop instead of me.

  "Attaboy." I scratched him behind the ears as he licked his bowl. "Feel free to do that all the time."

  I heade
d to my bedroom, leaving the dog to slurp up every last crumb, and changed into jeans and a cashmere sweater I'd found at the consignment store for only twenty-five bucks. Its green was more olive than I liked and one sleeve had a tiny hole at the bottom, but who could turn down cashmere at that price?

  Distracted by the soft feel of the sweater against my skin, I didn't pay enough attention as I hung up my skirt. The closet rod was finicky, barely held up any more because the screws had wobbled around from years of use and widened their holes to dangerous size, but if I was careful everything stayed in place.

  I wasn't careful. Everything fell to the floor.

  I stared at the mess of my clothes and briefly considered leaving them there. I didn't feel like dealing with this, so that meant doing it wouldn't count as being good to myself. But since Paddington would consider my stuff a perfect bed and probably a chew toy to boot, and that wouldn't be good either, I sighed and put the rod back up, making sure the screws were suitably balanced in their holes, then carefully re-hung my clothes.

  I was annoyed at first, understandably, but as I worked certain things caught my attention, making me remember where and when I'd acquired them, and the memories of so many lovely hours spent shopping soothed me.

  Most of that shopping hadn't happened in a mall, since nearly everything I owned, save underwear and socks, had been someone else's first. I didn't mind at all, though, because the history of my purchases was part of what I loved about thrift shopping.

  My cashmere sweater, for example, might have been worn by a Toronto banking executive in her rare time off, and the hole in the sleeve could have come from being caught on her enormous diamond ring. I didn't know where my things had really been before me, of course, but I enjoyed making up stories anyhow.