I’m In No Mood For Love

Five

“We didn’t have sex.”

“Excuse me?” Clare’s eyes stung, as she battled the tears she refused to shed. She was mortified and embarrassed, but she would not cry in public, especially in front of Sebastian. She was made of sterner stuff. “What did you say?”

“We didn’t have sex.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “You were too drunk.”

Clare looked at Sebastian for several long seconds, not quite trusting her ears. “We didn’t? But you said we did.”

“Not at first. You woke up naked and you assumed that we did. I just let you assume it.”

“What?” They hadn’t had sex and she’d just gone through the agony of the past few moments. For nothing? “You did more than let me assume. You said we were really loud and you were afraid someone was going to call security.”

“Yeah, maybe I embellished a little.”

“A little?” The sting in the back of her eyes turned to shooting anger. “You said I couldn’t get enough!”

“Well, you deserved it.” He pointed to the Molson beer on his T-shirt and had the audacity to act offended. “I’ve never taken advantage of a drunk woman. Not even one who strips naked right in front of me, crawls into bed, then spoons me all night.”

“Spoons? Spoons!” Had she done that? She didn’t know. How could she know? He was probably lying about that too. He’d lied about the sex. She took a calming breath and tried to remember that she didn’t yell in public. Scream or pummel lying bastards to death. Be nice, the little voice in her head warned. Don’t lower yourself to his level. She’d been raised to be a nice girl and look where it got her. Nice girls didn’t finish first. They just sat around choking on everything they were too nice to say. Stuffing it down, terrified that someday they would burst, and the world would see that they weren’t nice after all. “I don’t believe you.”

“You were all over me like white on rice.”

“You’re clearly delusional.” He was pushing her like he had when they’d been kids, but she wasn’t going to fall into old childish patterns with him. “But I don’t have to believe your wild fantasies.”

“You wanted freaky, down and dirty sex. But I didn’t think it was right to take advantage of a shit-faced drunk.”

She felt her head get tight. “I’m not a drunk.”

He shrugged. “You were, but I didn’t give you what you were begging me for.”

Her tight head exploded. “You lying dickhead,” she said, and didn’t care if her outburst was immature, or the sign of an ignorant mind, or if she’d responded to his baiting. It felt good to take her anger out on him. He deserved it. Or rather, it did feel good until he gave her that wicked grin of his. The one she recognized. The one that reached his green eyes and robbed her of satisfaction.

He took a few steps forward until only an inch or so of thin air separated his chest from the lapels of her jacket. “You were pressed against me so tight, my button fly left an imprint on your bare butt.”

“Grow up.” She tipped her head back and looked up past his clean-shaven chin and mouth to his eyes. “Why would I believe you? You’ve admitted that you lied. We didn’t have sex and-” She stopped and sucked in a breath. “Thank God.” She felt as if a heavy load had suddenly been lifted from her heart. “Thank God I didn’t actually sleep with you,” she said through a huge gush of relief. She shook her head and began to laugh like a lunatic. She wasn’t a big drunk slut after all. She hadn’t reverted to her old self-destructive pattern. “You don’t know what a relief that is. I didn’t have loud, hot, sweaty sex with you.” She raised a palm to her forehead. Finally, a little good news after the week from hell. “Whew!”

He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her. A lock of his sandy blond hair fell over his tan forehead. “You walk around so uptight, I doubt you’ve ever had loud, hot, sweaty sex. You wouldn’t know loud, hot, sweaty sex if it threw you down and climbed on top.”

She could practically feel his testosterone-infused indignation. He was right, she hadn’t ever had loud, hot, sweaty sex. But she would probably know if it climbed on her. “Sebastian, I write romance novels for a living.” She reached into the pocket of her jacket.

“Yeah?”

She pulled out her keys. There was no way she would ever let him know he was right about her. “Where do you think I get my ideas for all the loud, hot, sweaty sex I put in my books?” It was one of the most frequently asked questions of romance authors, and one of the most absurd. It was called romantic fiction for a reason, but if she were given a dollar for each time she was asked where she got her ideas for the love scenes she wrote, she could supplement her income quite nicely. “It’s all carefully researched. You’re a journalist. You know about research. Right?”

Sebastian didn’t answer, but his wicked smile flat-lined.

Clare opened her car door and Sebastian was forced to take a step back. “You don’t think I just make all that stuff up, do you?” She smiled and climbed into her car. She didn’t wait for an answer as she fired up the Lexus and closed the door. As she drove away, she looked in her rearview mirror at Sebastian standing exactly where she’d left him, looking stunned.

He’d never read a romance novel. Thought they were sappy. For chicks. Sebastian buried his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans and watched Clare’s taillights disappear. How much sex did she put into those books she wrote? And how hot was it?

The back door to the house closed and drew his attention to his father walking toward him. Was that why Mrs. Wingate didn’t like to talk about what Clare wrote for a living? Was it porn, and more importantly, did Clare really research something like that?

“I see Clare left,” his father said as he approached. “Such a nice sweet girl.”

Sebastian looked at his father and wondered if he was talking about the same Clare who’d just called him a lying dickhead. Or the Clare who’d been so relieved that she hadn’t had sex with him, she’d looked like a death row inmate who’d suddenly found God. Like she just might fall to the ground and praise Jesus.

“I know that Joyce put you on the spot in there.” Leo stopped in front of Sebastian and shoved his hat on his head. “I know you weren’t planning to stay the weekend.” He looked across the yard and added, “Don’t feel like you have to stay now. I know you got important things to do.”

None of which he felt compelled to do. “I can stay the weekend, Dad.”

“Good.” Leo nodded. “Good, then.”

Squirrels chatted in the trees overhead, and Sebastian asked, “What are your plans for the day?”

“Well, after I change my clothes, I was thinking of driving to the Lincoln dealership.”

“You need a new car?”

“Yeah, the Lincoln just turned fifty.”

“You have a fifty-year-old Lincoln?”

“No.” Leo shook his head. “No. The speedometer just turned fifty thousand miles. I get a new Town Car every fifty thousand miles.”

Yeah? His Land Cruiser had more than seventy thousand, but he couldn’t see himself turning it in. Fact was, he just wasn’t all that materialistic. Except when it came to wristwatches. He loved a good watch with lots of gadgets on it. “Do you want company?” he heard himself ask. Spending time with the old man away from the carriage house could be just what the two of them needed. Maybe do some father-son bonding over some cars. He could help his father out. It could be good.

The squirrels continued to chatter into the silence. Then Leo answered, “Sure. If you’ve got the time. I heard your cell phone ringin’ earlier and I thought you might be busy.”

The call had concerned a piece for a major news magazine that he and the managing editor had discussed several months ago. Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hop a plane and travel to Rajwara, India, and chase an epidemic of black fever. The conventional methods of treatment in that part of the world had bred drug-resistant parasites and no longer worked. The projected death toll was as high as 200,000 worldwide.