Too Good to Be True(41)

You didn’t tell me he was so hot.”

“Yeah, well…” My voice trailed off. Kiki said something, Callahan replied, and Kiki threw her head back, laughing. My eye twitched. “I…I’ll be right back,” I said.

Walking over to the bar, I touched Kiki’s arm. “Kiki, can I talk to you a sec?” I said. I turned to my neighbor. “Hi, Callahan.” I was already blushing. Wondered how my hair was. Dang it. I wanted to look pretty because Callahan O’ Shea was looking at me.

“Hi, Grace,” he said. He smiled…just a little, but enough. The man was just unfairly attractive.

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Kiki asked.

“Yes. We live next door to each other. He just moved in.”

I hesitated, not sure I was doing the right thing. But Kiki had been my friend for years. Wouldn’t I want to know if a guy I was interested in had just left prison? If she knew, she could make her own decision. Right?

Callahan was watching me. Dang it. I’d bet the farm that he knew what I was thinking.

“Kiki, Julian and I have a question,” I finally said.

“Sure,” she said uncertainly. I dragged her off a few paces, not looking at Cal. “Um, Kiki,” I whispered, “that guy just got out of prison. For embezzling over a million dollars.” I bit my lip.

She winced. “Oh, damn!” she said. “Isn’t this typical? Leave it to me to pick the criminal. Crap. Of course he’s gorgeous, too, right?”

“And he seems…well, he’s…I just figured you should know.”

“No, you’re right, Grace. I have a hard enough time as it is, right? Don’t need to date an ex-con.”

With me trailing a step or two behind, Kiki went back to the bar and took her drink from the bartender. Callahan was watching us. His smile was gone. “Cal, nice meeting you,” Kiki said politely.

His eyes flicked to me in a knowing glance, but he simply inclined his head in a courtly manner. “Have a good night,” he said, turning back to the baseball game on the TV above the bar. Kiki and I hightailed it back to our table.

Our artichoke dip had arrived, and Julian was already eating, gazing across the restaurant with his soulful gypsy eyes at a good-looking blond guy who was returning his gaze with equal intensity.

“Go for it,” I said, nodding toward the guy. “You’re the most desirable woman here.”

“He looks like that football player. Tom Brady,” Julian murmured.

“How do you know who Tom Brady is?” I asked.

“Every g*y man in America knows who Tom Brady is,” he said.

“Maybe he is Tom Brady,” Kiki said. “You never know. Go ahead, give it a shot. Make him feel manly and smart.

Use those feminine wiles.”

For a second, Julian seemed to consider it, then his shoulders dropped. “Nah,” he said. “Why do I need a man when I have you two beautiful girls?”

For the rest of the night, I shot little glances at Callahan O’ Shea’s back as he ate a hamburger and watched the baseball game. He did not look back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ON SATURDAY MORNING, I WAS once again wrenched out of bed by Angus’s hysteria and staggered down the stairs to open the door. This time, it was Margaret, a suitcase in tow, a glower on her face.

“I’m here,” she said. “Got any coffee?”

“Sure, sure, let me put it on,” I answered, still squinting. I’d been up late last night watching all two hundred and twenty-nine smarmily glorious minutes of Gods and Generals, weeping copiously as General Jackson barked out his last delirious orders to First Virginia. I think it’s fair to say I had a Confederate hangover, so Margaret in all her grouchy glory, first thing in the morning…ouch. I followed her as she stomped into the kitchen.

“So what happened?” I asked as I measured out coffee grounds.

“Here’s the thing, Grace,” Margaret said in her master and commander voice. “Don’t marry a man you love like a brother, okay?”

“Brothers, bad. Got it.”

“I’m serious, smart-ass.” She bent over and scooped up Angus, who was chewing on her shoe. “I said to Stuart last night, ‘How come we never have sex on the kitchen table?’ And you know what he said?” Margaret glared at me accusingly.

“What?” I asked, sitting down at the table with her.

She lowered her voice to imitate her husband. “‘I’m not sure that’s sanitary.’ Can you f**king believe that? How many men would turn down kitchen-table sex? You want to know when Stuart and I do it?”

“No, I absolutely do not,” I answered.

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday,” she snapped.

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds pretty good to—”

“It’s in his daily planner. He puts a little star in the nine o’clock slot to remind him. Intercourse with Wife. Check.”

“But still, it’s nice that he—”

“And that’s the whole problem, Grace. Not enough passion. So I’m here.”

“At the home of passion,” I murmured.

“Well, I can’t just stay there! Maybe he’ll notice me a little more now! Maybe not! I don’t really care at this point.