Kiss Me, Stupid Page 6

I didn’t not want to say it out loud. It sounded bad enough in my head.

  “Why, Deb?” he prodded.

  “You’re too young,” I blurted.

  His expression turned first to one of confusion, then astonishment. “Excuse me?”

  “You do realize I’m forty years old, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “So? I’m old enough to be your...”

  “Aunt?” There was the merest quirk to his lips.

  “Something like that,” I said lamely.

  “Listen, I don’t care about that. So there are a few years between us. Who cares? If I was the older one, nobody would give a toss. We get on. We have a lot in common. We enjoy each other’s company. And we like each other. So who cares if there’s an age gap? Age is just a number anyway.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, it is easy. Because this is just a rubbish excuse.”

  I got mad all of a sudden. Why wasn’t he listening? Why wasn’t he understanding and agreeing with me? Not that I wanted him to, but why couldn’t he make this easy on me? “It’s not going to work, Tom. You know that. I know that. It’s obvious.”

  “No, I don’t know that. And neither do you. The only reason this won’t work is because you’re too blasted stubborn to let it.”

  “The age thing—”

  “Is a rubbish excuse, and you know it. Bye, Deb. Look me up when you get your head out of your backside.”

  And with that stellar remark, he stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

  Chapter 13

  “I’M AFRAID I’M WITH Tom on this one,” Sarah slurred over her third glass of Southern Comfort and lemonade. “Your head really is up your ash.” She giggled and slurped down half her drink in one go.

  “Oh, be quiet,” I slurred back. At this point I had no recollection of how much I’d drunk, but it clearly wasn’t enough to drown my sorrows. Not yet.

  “No, sheriously.” Sarah leaned into my space until her nose was about two inches from mine. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. “I don’t get wha’s wrong here. He’s hot. He’s single. He’s gainly...gayfully...he’s employed. What more do you want?”

  “He’s too young.”

  “Or you’re too old.” She giggled.

  “Hey.” I frowned at her. Both of her. I grabbed for my glass and nearly knocked it over. I guessed I was super drunk after all.

  “Sheriously. This is silly. So, so, so...what was I saying?”

  “Silly.”

  “Right. Silly. So, he’s what? A couple years younger than you.”

  “Ten.”

  “What?” She squinted at me.

  “He’s ten years younger. That makes me a cougar.”

  She snorted. “Who said that?”

  “Owen.”

  “Owen is a prat. Listen, if that old lady up in Dorchester can marry a man young enough to be her grandson, I think you can manage a guy who’s only ten years younger. Please. You, lady, are being ridiculous.” She tossed back the last of her drink and stood up. “And if you can’t see that, I wash my hands of you.” It would have been much more dramatic if she hadn’t tripped and nearly fallen over backward.

  “I just don’t see how it could ever work.”

  “Because you, my dear, love to look for obstacles instead of possibilities. Now let’s get you home.” She practically dragged me off my stool and through the crowded pub.

  That wasn’t right, was it? I didn’t look for obstacles, did I?

  But I had a sinking feeling she was right. I’d stayed in a crap job far longer than I should have because I was afraid I’d never succeed at what I really wanted to do. I’d stayed in that rambling old house in Guildford because I was afraid of giving up the security of what I knew. And I was ignoring one of the best possibilities I’d ever met because I was afraid he’d one day think I wasn’t good enough.

  Once situated in the cab, I gave the driver my address and sat back with my eyes closed, considering the serious business of Thomas Rutledge. What on earth was I going to do about him?

  Thing was, I could walk away now. I’d get over him. Probably. He would surely get over me. And every once in a while, if I felt the pang of missed opportunity, well, that was just part of life. I could manage.

  But did I want to? Did I really want those regrets waking me up at 3:00 a.m., chewing a hole in my brain? Did I really want a life with no Tom in it? No possibility of Tom?

  The answer was a big, fat, resounding “no.” I wanted him in my life. Maybe it wouldn’t work, but I wanted to give it a shot, dammit. I wanted to know for myself that if it didn’t work, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

  “Driver?” I said, leaning forward until I smacked my head against the Plexiglas window separating us. He slid the window open.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  I scowled at him. I was not a ma’am. Then I sighed. “Listen, I want to go somewhere else.” I gave him Tom’s address.

  “Sure thing.” He slid the window closed, and I sat back. Maybe I was making a huge mistake. That was definitely a risk, but I had to try.

  The cab pulled up in front of Tom’s building, and I tossed random bills at the driver before staggering out onto the sidewalk. Smoothing my dress I marched toward the door like I was marching to the guillotine. I could do this. I could.

  I squinted at the buttons listing the names of everyone in the building. There were six flats, but the names kept swimming in front of my eyes. Yeah, I’d definitely had one drink too many. I started punching numbers.

  A voice snarled over the intercom, but I ignored it, waiting instead for the telltale buzz of the door unlatching. Sure enough it came, and I yanked open the heavy door and staggered inside. There was no lift, so I wobbled up the stairs, using the bannister to pull myself along. I finally reached Tom’s door and gave it a good hard bang.

  There was no answer, so I banged it again. And again. Dammit. He was either ignoring me, or he wasn’t home. I tried to think of what to do next. Wait. I would wait.

  I slid to the floor, leaning my back against the door. Yes. Waiting was an excellent idea.

  Chapter 14

  “DEB?” SOMEBODY SHOOK my shoulder as they shouted in my ear. “Deb, wake up.”

  I squinted at the man looming over me in the darkness. I opened my mouth, but it was so dry only a squeak came out. I tried again. “Tom. You’re home.”

  “Yes, I am.” He hoisted me to my feet.

  “Oh,” I giggled. “You’re strong.”

  “And you’re plastered.” He held me up with one arm as he unlocked his door.

  “What time is it?”

  “Two in the morning. What are you doing here, Deb?”

  I frowned as he steered me into his flat, trying to remember why I was here. A lightbulb went on. “Oh! I know!”

  He flipped on the light and shut the door behind us. “Care to share it with me?” he asked dryly.

  “Yes. Yes. I came to share it with you.”

  “Okay.” He led me to the couch, where I pretty much collapsed. “What did you come to tell me, Deb?”

  I sighed and grabbed his hand, tugging him to sit beside me. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” He seemed wary.

  “For being an idiot.”

  He almost laughed at that. I could see it lurking in his eyes, but he covered it with a cough.

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “You are a nice, nice man,” I said, petting his arm like he was a cat. I knew I was making a fool of myself, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

  This time he didn’t hide his smile. “Yes, I am.”

  “Very nice,” I cooed. “And sooooo handsome.” This time I stroked his face. That lovely, lovely jaw line. Those gorgeous, gorgeous cheekbones.

  “It’s, ah, been said.” His grin got a little wider.

  “Owen said I was a cougar,” I pouted.

  “Owen is a prat.”

  I giggled. �
��He kind of is. Is that why you were mad at him?”

  “I was mad at him because he didn’t treat you like a gentleman. And because he knew I liked you and was a jackass about it.”

  I sighed dramatically. “But you are.”

  “A jackass?”

  “No, silly. A gemelten.”

  “You mean a gentleman?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “I try.”

  “You’re not too young. I’m just old and crotchety.” I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. Yeah. That felt good.

  “No, you aren’t. You’re beautiful and full of life.”

  “I am,” I said with a sigh. “Just like you.”

  His chuckle vibrated through me. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  I sat bolt upright and stared at him. “I came to tell both of you I’m sorry.”

  “Both of us?”

  I nodded, nearly toppling off the couch. “You and you. But there aren’t two of you, are there? I think I might be drunk.”

  “You are definitely drunk.”

  “That’s okay. Do either of you accept my apology?” I asked sternly.

  His smile widened. “Oh, definitely. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “That I am a ninny, and I wish you would give me a second chance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you,” I said, as if that solved everything.

  “Is that so?”

  I nodded vigorously, this time toppling against him. Snuggling down, I said, “Oh, yes. It’s so. It’s very so...”

  I think he said something, but the rest was a haze. And why was Tom snoring?

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING with about a dozen little men with jackhammers working away in my brain. I groaned and held out my hand to block the trickle of sunlight filtering into my room.

  “I am never drinking again.”

  I groped for my bedside lamp and switched it on and frowned. Wait. This was not my room. This was Tom’s room. And Tom’s bed. What was I doing in Tom’s bed?

  I dredged up fuzzy memories of making a fool of myself the night before and winced. Oh, dear. It was a wonder he hadn’t thrown me out of the house.

  Next to the lamp was a glass of water and two tablets along with a note. I downed the paracetamol before plucking the note from the nightstand. Flipping it open, my heart gave a lurch.

  Deb,

  Gone to get breakfast. Be back soon. Tea is in the kitchen.

  Tom x

  He’d written an X after his name. That was good, right?

  With a sigh, I slid out of bed, noting I was wearing one of his T-shirts and my panties and nothing else. His shirt hit the tops of my thighs, barely covering my nether regions. But since I was the only one home, I figured it was fine.

  While the water boiled, I wandered through Tom’s apartment. In the living room I caught sight of a framed photograph I hadn’t noticed before. I picked it up, astonished. It was me. A black-and-white shot, slightly fuzzy—taken on Tom’s cell phone, no doubt. It had caught me just right so that I looked, well, beautiful. There was a dreamy quality to my expression, a slight curve to my lips that hinted of laughter and mystery. Was this how Tom saw me?

  The kettle whistled. I put the photo down and busied myself making tea, my stomach growling in hunger as I did. I fortunately had never been one to get queasy when hung over. Just headachy.

  I’d just sat down at the dining table with my tea when Tom returned. He entered the kitchen, a white paper sack in one hand. He stopped when he saw me. I wished I could read his expression, but I had no idea what he was thinking, and it made me nervous.

  “Hi,” I said lamely.

  “Hi,” he said back. I still couldn’t tell if he was happy or mad or what.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I showed up like that last night. Not my best moment. But I, ah, wanted to apologize.”

  “So I gathered.” He calmly took plates from the cupboard and set them on the table. Then he removed fresh, warm scones from the bag and placed them on the plates. My nose perked up. The scones smelled like heaven. He pushed one in front of me, made himself a cup of tea, and sat down across from me.

  “This isn’t just a fling,” he said finally.

  I glanced up at him, startled. “What?”

  “Well, you were pretty drunk last night, so maybe you didn’t mean to say it out loud, but you said you were worried all I wanted was a fling. That isn’t what I’m interested in.”

  I swallowed. “Oh? What do you want?”

  “I like you, Deb. I like you a lot.”

  I blushed. “I like you a lot, too.”

  He grinned. “Well, that’s good, because what I want is to see where this goes. To give us a chance to be something more.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “And no more of this ridiculous cougar business. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good.” There was silence as we both munched our scones and finished our tea. But it was a comfortable silence now, even though I was bursting with things I wanted to say.

  As we finished our meal and got up to deal with the dirty dishes, I finally blurted out, “I’ve been pretty stupid about this, haven’t I?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. You have.” And then he snagged me around the waist and pulled me up against him. “I know how you can make it up.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

  “Kiss me, stupid.”

  And so I did.

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  I FELT A PRESENCE BEHIND me but didn’t turn. Instead I waited until I felt warm breath against the back of my neck, followed by the press of soft lips and a hand on my waist.

  “Congratulations, my love,” came the rough whisper of the man I loved with all my heart.

  I turned and offered him a smile and a proper kiss. “Thank you. I can’t believe this is really happening.

  Tom’s smile widened. “It really is. And you deserve this. You’ve worked really hard, and I’m proud of you.”

  I glowed under his praise. I had worked hard over the last few months, growing my business, improving my technique, expanding my networking. And now it was paying off with my first ever gallery showing. And if tonight was anything to go by, there would be a lot more showings in the future. Half the photos in the show had already sold, and there was still an hour to go.

  Granted, I had Kate and Adam to thank for some of it. Their support had gotten me a lot of interest a lot faster than I might have had otherwise, but the hard work was all mine, and I was proud of it.

  Even better, Tom and I were going strong. Once I’d got over myself and my little age prejudice, I was able to enjoy our relationship for what it was. To get to know him and who he really was. Every day he showed me what an amazing person he was and how much he loved me.

  The only dark cloud on the horizon was that the lease on my beloved Notting Hill apartment was up, and the owner wouldn’t renew it. He’d decided to sell it to his niece. He wouldn’t even consider an offer from me. And so far, despite Tom’s help, I’d been unable to find anything I liked half as much.

  I shook off those maudlin thoughts. I was enjoying this night and my success. Worry was not on the program.

  As the show wound down, and the gallery began to empty, I breathed a contented, if exhausted, sigh. The night had gone perfectly. The gallery owner had gushed over me until it was downright embarrassing. He was already talking a second showing in a few months. And, most astonishingly, every photo had sold.

  “Let’s take a walk along the Thames before we head home,” Tom suggested as he helped me into my coat. I was tired but buzzed from the evening, so I nodded in agreement.

  We strolled slowly along Southbank, enjoying the mild chill of the fall evening. Tom’s arm around me was warm and strong, and I reveled in the feel him. I’d never been so happy in all my life.

  We stopped for a moment near the railing overlooking the river. A boat
slipped by, bright lights shining on dark water.

  “Deb, I have a little something for you.”

  I smiled. “You do?” How sweet.

  He handed me a flat, square box, like the kind a gift card comes in. I opened it, and nestled against black velvet was a silver key. I frowned. “What’s this?”

  “The key to my place.”

  “But I already have a key to your place.” He’d given it to me three months ago. He had one for mine, too.

  “But this is a permanent one.”

  “Sorry, I don’t... Are you asking me to move in with you?”

  “More than that.”

  He dropped to one knee and pulled out a different box. A robin’s egg blue box. My eyes widened. Was he?

  “Deb, will you marry me?”

  Holy crap, he was! I opened my mouth, and nothing but a squeak came out, so I nodded vigorously.

  Tom grinned as he stood up and slipped the ring on my finger. It sparkled beneath the street lamp.

  “Yes,” I finally managed. “Oh, definitely yes.” I guessed I’d finally learned to get over being stupid.

  His lips descended on mine, and a thousand stars danced inside my head.

  The End

  Did you enjoy Kiss Me, Stupid? Then check out the rest of the series, starting with The Art of Kissing Frogs, book one in the hilarious romantic comedy series, Notting Hill Diaries, available now on Amazon.

  About Shéa MacLeod

  SHÉA MACLEOD (WHO ALSO writes under Shéa R. MacLeod) is the author of the popular cozy mystery series, Lady Rample Mysteries, as well as the award nominated Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries and the bestselling Sunwalker Saga. She has dreamed of writing novels since before she could hold a crayon. She totally blames her mother.

  She resides in the leafy green hills outside Portland, Oregon where she indulges in her fondness for strong coffee, Ancient Aliens reruns, lemon curd, and dragons. She can usually be found at her desk dreaming of ways to kill people (or vampires). Fictionally speaking, of course.

  Other books by Shéa MacLeod/Shéa R. MacLeod