How could women be so strong, lugging kids around like sacks of potato chips? Didn't look heavy at all.
Kirby closed the back door and followed them up the steps through the unlocked front door. He closed the door and she carried the kid upstairs.
Their stupid dog ignored Kirby, sniffing at Carolyn’s feet, following them upstairs. “Need any help?”
“See that heavy wooden bar by the door?”
Kirby turned to look. "Sure."
She reached to top of the stair and turned back. “Can you set that in place to bar the door? Let me put him to bed and I’ll come back down.”
“Sure. Got anything to drink?”
“John’s father kept a bottle in the office to your right. I think it’s even your brand.” She disappeared down the upstairs hallway. The dog followed closely.
Kirby lifted the heavy bar and set it in place. He turned and stepped through the open office doorway. He found the light switch where it should be and switched it on. Lantern lenses fixed to a bull horn chandelier gave the room a warm glow.
Nice office.
Kirby found a bottle of Canadian Club and glass tumblers on a buffet cabinet behind the desk. He found a small U-Line refrigerator inside the cabinet, right where it should be. He filled the tumbler with ice, closed the refrigerator, closed the cabinet and filled the glass with whiskey.
He sipped, strolled through another open doorway and found the switch. Rustic lamps on both sides of a king-size bed lit a large bedroom, finely detailed with coffers, wood paneling and high windows. A stone fireplace on the back side of the living room fireplace had been properly loaded with logs and twigs, ready to light. The door to what looked like a large bathroom stood wide open.
“Mr. Kirby?” She was coming downstairs.
“In here.” He turned off the bedroom lights and stepped back into the office, just in time.
She walked into the opposite doorway and stopped, a questioning stare.
“This is a really nice place. You should turn it into a lodge.”
“I see you found the whiskey.”
“Yes. Hope you don’t mind me poking around.”
“No. I was going to give you the tour anyway.”
“Ah, tour. That reminds me.” He took her arm and led her across the entry, down the steps into the living room and left her near the couch. “Sit down, please. I’ve got a surprise.” He turned to the fireplace and found his package on the mantle where she’d left it.
She stood in front of the couch, probably tired of sitting.
He switched on a table lamp, sat and placed his drink on the coffee table, a heavy wood design, highly polished. Nice piece. “Here.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Sit down and open this.”
She obediently sat.
He handed her the package again.
She knew it was a book, the way she felt it.
Kirby grabbed his drink, sipped and waited.
She slowly peeled the ribbon.
Kirby slid closer, pressing his thigh into hers, nice and firm. The warmth of her nearness aroused him, inhaling the always intoxicating aroma of lipstick and clean hair.
She carefully peeled tape and unfolded the Christmas wrapping. Finally, she held the book with both hands then hugged it to her breast. "Annie’s Anxious Arrival?" Her book about a little boy’s anticipation of the coming birth of his little sister. It was actually pretty good for a first book but it was always risky to publish debut authors, the only reason his father hadn’t published it.
“Oh, Mr. Kirby.” She pressed the book against her breasts and looked into him. Tears welled in her dark blue eyes.
His heart thumped in his ears, numbing his other senses.
She’s so fine.
He knew he had to be cool, take it easy. “I thought you’d be happy.” A lump formed in his throat. He slurped whiskey.
She kept the book pressed to her breast with one hand, grabbed the hem of her dress with the other and bent down to dab her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Kirby, thank you.” She looked at him now, misty, smiling. “I can’t think of a better present.”
He slid his hand onto her thigh. “Well, Merry Christmas. And, please, call me Tom.”
“Thank you, Tom.” She softly pushed his hand away and looked at the book. “I just love the cover design.”
“Some of the new people I hired. Yours is the first book in a new series. I’m submitting the cover design to Boston Bookbuilder’s and AIGA for awards consideration and we’re submitting it to the Benjamin Franklin Awards for children’s books. Since we’re a small company, I’m submitting it to the American Booksellers’ Book of the Year competition. I’m also submitting you for the Newberry Medal.” He pressed his leg against hers and gulped the last of his whiskey. “Mind if I get a refill?”
“Here, I can get it.” She stood and reached for the tumbler.
“I know where it is.”
I won’t get drunk.
He stood and stepped in front of her. His stomach brushed across her breasts.
Innocent enough.
She sat back down.
“You look at your book.” Feeling the moment, he nearly skipped across the wood plank floor and up the stone steps into the entry, eager to get back to her. He switched on the light, rounded the desk, opened the refrigerator and added more ice. He refilled the glass with whiskey, took a long drink and filled it again. He recapped the bottle, closed the refrigerator and stood in the doorway to her bedroom.
That’s a big bed.
He imagined her being sprawled out on it, inviting him to join her. If he could get her in here, she'd be his.
With her money . . . Imagine that.
He left the office light on and hurried back into the living room.
She still sat on the couch, slowly turning pages.
He sat close to her, pressing thighs, pretending to read over her shoulder, breathing deeply of her intoxicating fragrance. His brain swam in a dizzy, boozy pool. Print with colorful illustrations blurred.
God.
He liked looking at her breasts, just a little cleavage showing, her skin so smooth and tight, slowly moving up and
