Well Matched (Well Met #3)(54)

I knew it would take him at least a half hour to pick up dinner, so I used that time to take a long, hot shower. My mind wandered as I shampooed my hair. Today had gone so much better with Mitch here. Just the primer would have taken me the entire weekend. Of course, thinking about Mitch while I was in the shower brought back memories of when Mitch was in the shower with me. My hands started to wander along with my mind, pretending my hands were his, remembering the way he’d touched me. The way he’d made me feel.

I shouldn’t think like this. That had been a one-weekend thing, brought on by heightened emotion and being in an enclosed space with a man who looked like that. It certainly wasn’t going to happen again. He had a revolving list of women on his calendar and I was too old to give him those kids he liked and would certainly want someday. But even those thoughts didn’t cool me down, so instead I indulged myself, retreating into the memory of his hands, his mouth on my skin while the hot water beat down on my body in time with my fingers between my legs. The orgasm that rushed through me shook me so hard I leaned against the cool shower wall for support, and I turned the shower to cold to calm myself down. Mitch would be back soon. I needed to get a grip.

When Mitch arrived with the food I was significantly more relaxed, wearing my comfiest sweats and with my hair piled on my head in the messiest bun known to man. I was ready to eat takeout and do absolutely nothing else with my evening. When he came inside he had the takeout bag in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. He made a show of moving some of my ciders out of the way to make room for his beer in my fridge.

“Finally.” He handed me a cider and took one of his beers out before closing the door. “Something decent to drink around here.”

I shrugged and cracked open my cider, handing him the bottle opener. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Apple juice, that’s what I’m missing. And believe me, I’m not missing a thing.”

“Your loss.” I took a swig and started unpacking the food. “God, this smells so good.” I opened my container of noodles and my stomach rumbled in response to the scent of the savory brown sauce, obviously agreeing.

We sat together at one end of the dining room table and at first there wasn’t a lot of talking as we both inhaled an obscene amount of noodles. I was starving, since I’d been working most of the day without a break. Mitch had done the same, plus he’d come here straight from rehearsal.

“How is rehearsal going?” I asked. “Did you and Simon end up changing that fight thing you were talking about?”

Mitch lit up, as though he was pleasantly surprised that I remembered. “Oh, yeah! We did. Decided to let a couple of the younger kids throw each other around for a change.”

I laughed, digging in my carton for another bite of noodles and a stray piece of broccoli. “Smart. And it’s going okay? You said the kids are hopeless.”

“Oh, they are,” he said cheerfully. “But it’s a good kind of hopeless. They’ll get it. We’ve still got a few more weeks to practice before Faire starts.”

That reminded me . . . “Is it too late to volunteer for this whole Ren Faire thing?”

Mitch had just taken a bite of his super-spicy pad Thai and he froze, his eyes going wide and his jaw stopping mid-chew. “Are you serious?” The words were muffled by the mouthful of noodles, and he coughed and took a swig of his beer. “I didn’t think volunteering was your thing.”

“It’s not. But . . .” I wasn’t sure how to express it, but Caitlin’s words had stayed with me. Maybe it was too little, too late to get more involved in my daughter’s life, but I had to try.

“No, this is great.” He put down his chopsticks and rubbed his hands together like a gleeful mad scientist. “Let’s call Simon. Do you sing? I bet we can get you in a corset by next weekend, and—”

“Wait. What? No.” I held up a hand. “I didn’t mean like that.” God, no. The thought of being in costume? Playing a character? Spending the day speaking in a questionable accent? I fought against a shudder. “I mean like your mother said she did. Taking tickets or something.”

“Oh.” He deflated slightly but rallied quick. “Okay, that’s less fun, but sure. I think Chris coordinates all that stuff. You know Chris, Emily’s boss at the bookstore?” He didn’t wait for my nod before continuing. “She’s back from Florida for the summer now, so you should drop by the bookstore and talk to her about it.”

“Hmmm.” I crunched into a spring roll. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” The thought of working a ticket booth shouldn’t make me nervous, but it did. Everything made me nervous. Frankly, I was getting tired of being nervous all the damn time.

The best thing about takeout was that there were hardly any dishes to do, so after I washed the chopsticks and recycled the containers, the kitchen was just as clean as it had been this morning. I folded the kitchen towel and hung it up while Mitch leaned in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to go out to Jackson’s tonight, but . . .” He gestured to my hair and my outfit, neither of which telegraphed a going-out vibe.

I shook my head with a smile, ignoring the little flutter that flared up in my chest. “No, thanks. You’ll have to pick up girls all on your own tonight.”