Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice Page 3

  As if Skye read the thoughts racing through her head, her sister said, “At least you were smart enough to keep your financial situation separate from his. Otherwise, you would be in for a battle over the house.”

  “It's my house,” Xandra grumbled. They'd decided six months ago to trade their apartment for a bigger place. They'd wanted to plant roots. To grow a family.

  At least that's what she'd wanted, and she'd assumed that he'd wanted the same because he'd never said anything otherwise.

  Still, she should have known something wasn't right. When it had come time to actually look for a house, he'd always been too busy with his job. Too tired from his job. Too stressed over his job. Too…something. So she'd picked it out all by herself. Applied for the mortgage by herself, and now she was here.

  All by herself.

  “Stop wallowing in self-pity and pick up this phone right now, Xandra Michelle Elizabeth Farrel.”

  “I'm not wallowing.” She'd done that last night and now she was too exhausted to haul herself out of bed and walk the few feet to the cordless phone she'd left on her dresser the night before.

  “Then don't say I didn't try to warn you when the doorbell rings in about five minutes and it's Mom. It'll be your own fault because you didn't have the common courtesy to answer the telephone and talk to your big sis—”

  “Mom's on the way?” Xandra blurted into the phone after throwing off the covers and sprinting to the dresser.

  “I knew you were there.”

  “Why is Mom coming here?” Xandra shook her head and tried to think. “Did she have a layover? Or is she coming on purpose? Please tell me she's not coming on purpose? You didn't tell her about Mark did you? Because then I'll have to pull myself together and act like nothing's wrong and—” Her words stumbled to a halt as she glanced in the mirror. “Yikes, I can't do this now. I look like death and she'll think it's over Mark—a man—and she'll totally freak out because I let him do this to me.” She glanced out the window at the street below before reaching for her warm-ups. “I've got to get out of here.”

  “Slow down.”

  “You don't understand. I can't do Mom right now. I'll have to act like everything's okay and then I'll have to listen to what's wrong in her life—namely you and Eve who constantly monopolize her attention by not being the perfect Farrel children.”

  “Hey, I've got a Holy Commitment Man. I've just got love and marriage to go along with it. It's Eve who totally rejects the idea of any lasting relationship.”

  “You're both driving her nuts, which means she drives me nuts.”

  “Because you're the only one who listens to her.”

  “I don't have a choice. She's my mother. It's listen or live with the consequences.”

  “Namely?”

  “A load of guilt that I don't need since I'm already feeling rotten right now. I can't take Mom in person. I can't even take her on the phone. I need peace and quiet and several aspirin and a big chocolate doughnut and a cigarette. Oh, God. I'm not just craving one or the other now. I want to eat and smoke. Life totally bites—”

  “Mom's not coming.”

  The sweatshirt stalled over Xandra's head. “What do you mean?”

  “I wanted to get you to the phone.”

  She pulled the shirt off and tossed it to the floor. “You're the devil.” She stumbled back and collapsed onto the bed.

  “Don't I wish. Then I could shoot a few flames out of the nearest orifice and I wouldn't be in such a mess.”

  “What are you talking about?” Xandra stretched out, pulled the covers up to her neck and closed her eyes.

  “I'm making dinner.”

  “It's…”—Xandra lifted her head long enough to squint at the clock on her nightstand—“eight o'clock in the morning.”

  “Already? The last time I looked, it was only seven.”

  “Why are you making dinner at eight in the morning?”

  “Because I'm cooking for Clint's entire family. All sixteen of them, plus his great aunt Myrtle who eats like a horse. I'm doing Italian.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “Chicken tortellini and spinach pasta and baked ziti and five-cheese lasagna and chicken Parmesan and stuffed ravioli and sweet pepper bruschetta. Seven dishes, less than eight hours before everyone arrives, and I can only do two dishes at once because my oven is too small. That's why I had to get an early start. I have to bake everything first, then start reheating because while one dish is in the oven, another is cooling off.”

  “Life's a real bitch sometimes.”

  “Exactly. But I really want things to go well for tonight's announcement.”

  “Skye, why are you torturing me the morning after the worst day of my—What announcement?”

  “Well, since you can't make it for dinner, I might as well tell you now.”

  “I'm in Houston and you're in Dallas. Dropping by for dinner isn't exactly an option. Besides, you didn't tell me tonight was that important. I thought you were just nervous to have Clint's entire family at your place for the first time since the wedding.”

  “I am, and I only agreed to do it because I wanted everyone here when Clint and I break the news.”

  “Which is?”

  “We've decided to procreate.”

  “Come again?”

  “We're going to have a baby!”

  Xandra's eyes snapped open and she bolted into a sitting position. “When?”

  “Nine months from the date that his sperm manages to fertilize my egg, I suppose.”

  “So you're not pregnant now?”

  “Not yet. But we've decided to try. My business is going well and Clint just found a driver for the new car he's been working on—it's Linc Adams, who's every bit as good as Clint ever was, even if he is sort of a womanizer. Things are great and the timing couldn't be more perfect for a baby. Isn't that wonderful?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I didn't think so at first. I was actually a little freaked out by the idea. I mean, I've always wanted kids. Some day. But now Clint's nieces and nephews have really made me see what I'm missing.”

  “I thought you hated the little buggers.”

  “I didn't hate them. I just didn't like them. They're loud and obnoxious and they've always got stuff on their hands, and Clint's youngest brother's daughter—Suzee—always beats me at Monopoly.”

  Xandra laughed. “A six-year-old beats you at Monopoly.”

  “She's practically seven, and she cheats. But you're missing the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “When you get past all the sticky hands and runny noses and Monopoly cheating, the kids can be really sweet at times. Even Suzee. She made me a card for my birthday out of painted macaroni.”

  “Not exactly a new pair of Jimmy Choos.” Xandra's oldest sister lived for trendy shoes.

  “No, but I liked it anyway,” Skye said. “Can you believe that? I liked it even better than a pair of new shoes. That's when I knew it was time to give the whole baby thing a try. So Clint and I talked, and here we are: on the verge of making our very own baby boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “Clint really wants a boy. I'd be happy with either, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that a male sperm hits the finish line first.”

  “That's great.” Xandra sniffled and blinked back a wave of unexpected tears. “I'm happy for you.” Another sniffle and several more blinks. “I'm really happy.”

  “You're crying.”

  “Yes, but I'm still happy for you. Mark and I were this close to making our own babies.”

  “You and Mark had decided on children?”

  “Yes. Well, sort of. I decided. He didn't exactly know it. Yet. But we were there. We'd gotten the house. Filling it with babies was the next step.”

  “After eight years of dating and then living together, marriage was the next step.”

  “You sound like Albert.”

  “Albert's a smart guy.”

  “I don't do
marriage.”

  “Don't knock it until you've tried it.”

  “I haven't tried cabbage, but I still know I don't like it.”

  “Marriage isn't like cabbage. It's like a foreign dessert whose name you can't pronounce. It's wonderful once you work up the nerve to take the first bite.”

  “Don't let Mom hear you say that.”

  “I've said it to Mom.”

  “And what does she say?”

  “That I'm still delirious with lust. That, or I've got a bona fide medical condition that's affecting my cognitive abilities. I swear every time I see her, she holds her hand to my forehead to check for a fever. When she doesn't find one, she rolls around to possibility number three—Clint has me brainwashed. She even told Dad she was thinking about hiring one of those deprogrammers to kidnap me and undo the damage. Of course, he killed that idea. At least he understands.”

  “Clint as a cult.” Xandra sniffled and wiped the one traitorous tear that slid down her cheek. “I can definitely see that. He has charisma. Mark had charisma, too.”

  “Mark had a selfish streak. He wanted what he wanted, and to hell with you.”

  “That's not true.”

  “What happened to all of your eighties rock CDs?”

  “I still have them. They're in a box in the back of my closet.” Along with her favorite Madonna pillow and her pink fuzzy bathrobe with Jon Bon Jovi silk-screened across the back and a dozen of her other favorite things she'd saved from her teenage years.

  “That's what I mean. You love eighties music and Mark liked jazz.”

  “And?”

  “And which type of CDs do you keep on the shelf next to your stereo?”

  “The jazz. But I like jazz, too.”

  “Maybe, but you don't love it, and you certainly don't love Mark.”

  “I don't do romantic love. Besides, love isn't the point. We oozed long-term commitment. We liked the same things. We respected each other. We had great sex.” At Skye's silence, Xandra added, “Okay, so it was so-so sex most of the time, but we were comfortable.”

  A sincere note crept into Skye's voice. “There is more to a relationship than the Holy Commitment Trinity, whether you believe it or not. And when you least suspect, it'll jump up and bite you on the butt.”

  “Now that Mark's gone, there'll be no more butt-biting. Not that he ever actually bit my butt, but at least there was hope.” She shook her head. “I'm through with men and relationships.” Despite her words, she felt a small sense of hope steal through her. As if Skye were right. As if there were more to a relationship and Xandra had yet to find it.

  As if.

  She shook away the thought, said good-bye and punched the button on the phone.

  “She was right about one thing,” she told her reflection when she hauled herself back to the mirror to face the horrific-looking woman staring back at her. “You're not solving anything by lazing away in bed with raccoon eyes and hair straight out of a Don King promo. “It's time to get moving. Personally and professionally.”

  Starting with a shower, a good blow-dry, and some waterproof mascara. Then it was on to her most important order of business—the Sextravaganza project. She planned to spend the morning researching various products on the Web and compiling a Hot Prospects list based on what the market already offered, and what it lacked. After that, she would run the ideas by Albert during racquetball.

  First things first…

  Fifteen minutes later, she'd unearthed her favorite Aero-smith CD from the Favorite Things box in the back of her closet. She'd just slid on her Bon Jovi bathrobe and fed a disc into the CD player downstairs when the doorbell rang.

  Aerosmith's “Cryin’” filled the air as she pulled open the front door to find her neighbor standing on the front stoop.

  Leslie Vandergarten lived just across the street to the left. The petite blonde was typical of the thirty-something married set that dominated one of Houston's oldest neighborhoods of restored turn-of-the-century homes. Educated, well-off, with a steaming latte in one hand and a set of Lincoln Navigator keys in the other.

  Today, the latte and keys dominated one hand while a large white bakery bag overwhelmed the other.

  Her gaze swept Xandra from top to bottom and she shook her head. “It looks like I'm just in time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You poor, poor, poor thing,” Leslie rushed on as she shoved the bag at Xandra and pushed her way inside. “Why, it's a travesty, that's what it is.”

  “You said it.” How anyone could bounce around and look so perky at eight on a Saturday morning was a sin against womankind as far as Xandra was concerned.

  She eyed Leslie who wore black spandex biker shorts and an itty-bitty tank top that wouldn't even come close to housing even one of Xandra's sizable D-cup breasts.

  “I couldn't make my Pilates class without stopping by first to see how you were doing. Just so you know, we all thought he was a jerk. A scoundrel. A loser. Even if he did know how to dress.”

  “I take it you're talking about Mark.”

  “Of course I'm talking about Mark. I saw it all myself yesterday morning. I was on my way to my yoga class, when I saw the moving van.” She shook her head. “Why, you must be stunned. Devastated. Destroyed. Imagine, having your man just up and walk out on you.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. Why, it's terrible. Tragic. Horrific.” She gave Xandra a smile. “But the good thing is, you don't have to go through any of it alone. I've already activated the neighborhood phone tree. It's part of the ladies'neighborhood watch association. We use it for emergencies only. Situations that require a multitude of emotional support. The men's neighborhood watch handles the actual physical stuff like patrolling for strange people or suspicious goings on.”

  “I didn't know that.”

  Leslie smiled. “You won't go through any of this alone. We're all here for you. And don't you worry. You'll find someone.”

  “I don't want anyone.”

  “Denial,” Leslie sang out, refusing to comprehend the fact that Xandra truly had given up on men. She had her belief system and it revolved around the old if-you-fall-out-of-the-saddle-you-climb-back-on theme.

  Not Xandra. Who needed to sit in a saddle when she could bypass the horse entirely and get herself a nice, comfy sports car with leather interior and a kick-ass sound system? She was coasting solo from here on out, focusing on her business while she perfected her Perfect Daddy list. Then she would do the procreation thing and bam! she would be adding a car seat to the whole sports car scenario.

  “Once you grieve,” Leslie went on, “you'll graduate to the healing phase. Then you'll be ready to dive back into the dating pool. And I know just the guy.”

  “Thanks, but no—”

  “Why, he's perfect for you.” Leslie waved off her objection. “He's a stock broker, good-looking, and itching to settle down. I know he'll take one look at you and fall hard and fast. Why, you've got so much to offer a man. You're beautiful, successful, and financially independent. You've got your own house—albeit a house in sore need of renovation—in one of the oldest and most well-kept neighborhoods in Houston. Speaking of which, when do you suppose you're going to start the actual renovations? I hate to ask at a time like this, but as well as chairing the ladies'neighborhood weight watch, I'm also chairwoman for the neighborhood renovation committee.” She glanced around before whispering, “I hate to tell you, but people are asking.”

  “The project starts first thing Monday.” At least that's what the message on Xandra's answering machine had said when she'd hauled herself home late last night after finishing the King Kong Ultra Deluxe.

  “You did choose someone from the list I gave you? A bad contractor can be your worst nightmare. The neighborhood is an investment for us all and we wouldn't want a substandard house dragging down everyone's property values, albeit completely unintentionally.” Any more than they wanted a single woman upsetting the coupled status quo that dominated th
e neighborhood.

  Xandra had chosen the third contractor on the coveted list since she'd seen their work firsthand and been very impressed.

  Great work. That's why she'd chosen Hire-a-Hunk. Her choice certainly had nothing to do with the fact that the company was owned by one Beau Hollister. A blast from her high school past and the hottest looking guy to ever ride a motorcycle down the streets of Georgetown, Texas. It wasn't as if she actually expected to see him again.

  Sure, she'd caught a glimpse of him eight months ago when his company had remodeled the apartment directly above her old place, but that had been pure luck. She'd come home to change thanks to a diet soda that had fallen into her lap and a run in her sheer black stockings the size of the Grand Canyon. She'd just let herself into the apartment when she'd heard his voice. She'd turned in time to see him walk toward the staircase to inspect the work his team had just completed.

  She'd seen him, but he hadn't actually seen her. Thankfully. Because then he might have recognized her and she would have had to talk to him with a huge cola stain on the front of her skirt and a run in her panty hose, and then she would have had the worst day of her life months ago rather than just yesterday.

  Besides, she'd had three planning meetings with his company so far, and he'd yet to attend any of them. Instead, she'd met with his assistant, Annabelle Marshall, who dealt with all the residential renovation projects while Beau handled the commercial side. At least that's what Annabelle had told her when she'd asked.

  “The company architect is supposed to drop by the final plans later today for my approval. Then it's full speed ahead on Monday,” Xandra said.

  “Great.” Leslie smiled. “That's just great, and it's perfect timing, too. Why, you just concentrate on whipping this place into shape and you'll forget all about what's-his-name. Anyhow, have a nice bran muffin”—she indicated the white bakery bag—“and don't go near any sharp objects or fat-laden food. Hugs and kisses.” She gave a wave and walked out into the bright morning sunlight.