Liz Talley - His Uptown Girl

She turned, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand.

“Wait up.” He didn’t know why he’d opened the door and called out. Couldn’t think of a good reason to stop her from wherever she was heading other than he wanted to see her...maybe touch her. He definitely wanted to taste her.

Turning, he spied his phone, grabbed it and locked the door before jogging across the street. “Where you headed?”

“For a double martini.”

“That bad of a day?”

“It’s always a bad day when I have to deal with my former mother-in-law.”

“If you’re drinking, I’ll join you,” he said.

She paused as if thinking about it. “Not sure I should be seen consorting with the enemy.”

“Is that what I am?”

She shrugged. “Well, I am the president of the Magazine Merchants Association, and there has been opposition to the nightclub.”

“But the association can’t stop me from opening.”

“True, but we don’t have to like it.”

Did that mean they would cause trouble? He couldn’t see Eleanor clasping a torch and leading villagers armed with pitchforks to the club door. “No, you don’t.”

“Ah, well. I’m heading to the Bulldog.”

“Should I be the designated driver?” He held up his keys.

She shook her head, looking a little trapped. Maybe he shouldn’t press her, but something in him wanted to spend more time with her, wanted to figure out why the attraction was so strong.

Dez put his hand on the passenger door. “It’s smart to know your enemy better, right? So let’s see, I already know you’re divorced and civic-minded.”

She clicked her key fob and the Volvo SUV chirped to life. “Civic-minded? Yes. Divorced? No.”

“Wait, you’re still married?” His hand fell from the door handle.

“No.” She gestured he should climb into the passenger’s seat, waving at the strange dude who owned the stationery shop. “See, I’m already busted.”

He hesitated to open the car door because he drew the line at messing around with married women. Once he’d slept with a barfly he hadn’t known was engaged and it had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

She gazed across the top of the car at him. “You do know I’m widowed?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “My husband was Skeeter Theriot.”

“Skeeter? You don’t look like a Skeeter’s wife.”

“He was a New Orleans Theriot. Actually he was running for the U.S. House of Representatives when his mistress killed him and then herself. You didn’t see it in the papers...for, like, weeks on end?”

For a moment he could only stand and stare. How did one respond to an admission like that? “I don’t pay attention to politics much. Sorry.”

She stood still as a puddle, her face unreadable. “I am, too.”

Then she opened the door and slid inside. Dez stared at the streetlight festooned with a Mardi Gras mask, grappling with that tidbit of information. Eleanor had been married to a man who had cheated on her and then been killed by his mistress. Heavy shit.

So did she still love her husband? Was she grieving? Or maybe mad as hell at the bastard? He couldn’t read her enough to guess.

Leaning over, she peered up at him from inside the car. “Are you coming or not...? ’Cause I really do need a drink.”

He climbed in. “Think I need one, too.”

Pulling away from the curb, Eleanor performed a perfect U-turn and drove down Magazine toward the Business District. Silence reigned as she kept her eyes straight ahead and chewed on her bottom lip. Finally, she pulled into a vacant spot in front of the Bulldog Bar and Grill.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said with a heavy sigh. “This is weird.”

She sat, hands dangling on the steering wheel, lips glistening from the constant attention she’d given them as they drove. Again, it struck him how soft she looked, like a Monet painting, slightly out of focus but begging for contemplation. Pink lips, delicate throat, velvet skin. She made him want to breathe her in, explore the feminine curve of her neck. Relish her essence. “I thought we were going to have a drink. Get to know each other better.”

“Yeah, but why? So you can change my mind?”

“Actually I hadn’t had lunch and I figured any bar in New Orleans worth its salt has a burger on the menu.”

She shook her head. “Don’t play games. I’m too old for you. Too—”

“Too old for me? What? You’re thirty-three, thirty-four tops?”

The groove between her eyes deepened. “No, I’m thirty-nine.”

“Really? Don’t look it.”

“Yeah, really.” Eleanor seemed put out. “This is stupid.”

Dez tried not to laugh. He really did. But she looked so adorable, so flummoxed at the thought of admitting her age.

“What are you laughing at? This is serious. I’m too old for you, and you’re too...too—” she waved a hand at him “—sculpted and hip.”

“Sculpted and hip?” He leaned his head against the seat, a deep belly laugh welling up within. “That’s the strangest word combination ever.”

“Stop,” she said, punching him on the arm. “You know what I mean. We’re from two different worlds. This is a Volvo.”

Dez couldn’t stop laughing. Her reasons were so funny. He was sculpted and she drove a Volvo?

“Dez,” she said, her eyes plaintive.

He stopped, pressing his lips closed. “Huh?”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re funny...and beautiful...and I really want to kiss you.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do?”

He clasped the back of her neck, drawing her to him. Her hair was silk, her neck small. She came to him willingly, breathing notched up. With his right hand, he brushed an errant strand of hair from where it stuck to her lip gloss. Wild horses couldn’t drag him from kissing Eleanor.

With his lips hovering close to hers, he stared her straight in the eye. “I wanna kiss you ’cause I totally dig old ladies.”

Her mouth fell open just as he intended and he took full advantage.

“Mmm,” she said, struggling for only a moment before succumbing. Desire, hot and heavy, raised its head in his belly. She tasted like spring rain, healing and fresh. Cupping her jaw, he drank from her, thrilling when her tongue met his. Pulling her closer, he embraced the essence of Eleanor...and wanted more.

She broke the kiss, pulling back, her breath quick and her eyes clouded with passion.

“I’m not an old lady,” she breathed, her eyes crackling. “And if this is some crazy ‘needing a mother’ thing, climb out, buddy.”

“You think I’d kiss my mother like that?”

“God, I hope not,” she said, swallowing hard and looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a deep breath. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You didn’t. I kissed you.”

Her eyes met his. “But—”

“I kissed you because you’re all I’ve been thinking about since last night, because you’re beautiful, desirable and sexy...even if you are a few years ahead of me. You think age matters that much?”

She searched his gaze. “It should.”

“Age is a number.”

She gave a wry chuckle. “Spoken like a man who brushes convention aside.”

“I brush aside what doesn’t make sense. You’re a woman. I’m a thirty-year-old man. Not a kid.”

“God, this is silly. Let’s go get that drink and slow this down a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m thirsty,” she said, tugging on the door handle. “By the way, I hope you have your fake ID.”

He opened his door. “What?”

Her teasing gaze met his over the top of the car roof and he caught a taste of a mischievous Eleanor. “I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”