What She Wants

Jonathan added that attribute to the list he’d started. Forceful, take-charge. He could be forceful. Maybe.

* * *

Adam returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn’t work in the lock. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn’t work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn’t left the porch light on. What the hell?

He rang the doorbell.

No one came.

He rang again.

Still no one.

Chelsea’s car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

Now she was at the door but it didn’t open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

What? “Let me in. My key won’t work.”

“It won’t work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you’ve had your laugh. Now open up.”

Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn’t funny anymore. Open up.”

One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchased the house next door hadn’t moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn’t even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He’d wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

“What?” she answered.

What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren’t smiling.

She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don’t—” he began.

Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

His wife had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

“All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

“Guess.”

“You didn’t want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

He called her again. “I don’t get it.”

“Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he’d forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah, that’s what you’re in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

“I called.” That was feeble. He’d left a message on voice mail telling her what time he’d be in. No mention of their anniversary.

Because he’d forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

“And then I found the package and thought you’d left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother’s birthday present. And her birthday isn’t until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

He wouldn’t have remembered this year, either, except he’d been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she’d dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She’d come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother’s birthday.”

Yeah, and he should’ve been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn’t. He’d stuck his mom’s present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he’d forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He’d planned to remember. Lame.

“This is the last straw. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”

“I do not,” he insisted, both to her and himself.

“Oh, yes, you do. And this isn’t the first time you’ve messed up.”

All right, so he’d accidentally gotten tickets to a Mariners game on the day of their anniversary the year before last. And she’d never have known he’d screwed up if his brother Greg hadn’t called from Seattle asking what time they were meeting at the stadium. He’d done penance and gotten her diamond earrings. A whole carat, for God’s sake. He’d even taken her to the game and they’d ended up having a great evening.

And last year he’d remembered. She hadn’t needed to remind him the week before. Why did women keep score like that? They kept track of every screw-up and then threw it in your face. In the middle of the night.

“Oh, come on, babe. Cut me some slack. Let’s talk about this.” She always wanted to talk.

Not tonight. She ended the call and the bedroom light switched off.

Of course he tried to call her once more, but it immediately went to voice mail.

Great. Just great. Where would he go at eleven-thirty at night? He supposed he could go to one of the town’s B and Bs, but if he did that, everyone would know his wife had kicked him out.

Since this was only temporary, he saw no point in going that route. Tomorrow he’d take her out to dinner. They’d kiss and make up and everything would be fine.

Meanwhile, though, he couldn’t sleep on the porch. He hauled his carry-on back to the car. If that was the way she wanted it, he could sleep there. Except while an SUV would be okay for sleeping, it made for a poor place to shave in the morning.

He started the engine and drove slowly away from his house. His house! He had no idea where he was going. He sure knew where he was, though. In the doghouse.

* * *

Jonathan was having an incredible dream. He’d just killed a man in a sword fight, and now the woman he’d rescued—Lissa, in an old-fashioned pink gown—had thrown herself into his arms.

“How can I thank you?” she breathed.

“Well,” he said, and lowered his head to kiss her.

“Oh, wait. What’s that I hear?” she said, turning her head just before he could reach her lips. “The church bells.”

“That’s the bells, all right,” he agreed, and tried for her lips again.

“They’re summoning you. You must go.”

“Who’s summoning me?”

He never found out. Between the insistent ringing of his doorbell, coupled with pounding on the door and Chica’s barking, he was now hopelessly awake.

He checked the time. Midnight! He swore and threw off the covers, marched out of the bedroom and flicked on the hall light, Chica running ahead of him. Whoever it was, Jonathan was going to kill him.

But then he realized that anyone summoning him at this hour must be in trouble. Juliet! She’d had a fight with Neil?

He picked up his pace. By the time he got to the living room, his visitor was not only ringing the bell and banging on the door, but calling his name, as well. Definitely not Juliet.

Jonathan opened the door and there stood Adam. “I need a place to sleep.”

“Huh?”

“Can I crash on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jonathan said, and stepped aside.

In walked Mr. Success, dragging his carry-on luggage behind him. “Chelsea kicked me out.”

“’Cause you went salmon-fishing?” That seemed a little extreme.

“No, because I forgot our anniversary.”

Jonathan, no expert on women, still knew this was a cardinal sin. “How’d you manage that?” If he was with Lissa he’d never forget their anniversary. Heck, he’d make everything an anniversary—first date, first kiss, first time they slept together. At the rate he was going, that wasn’t even happening in his dreams.

Adam paced into the living room and parked his carry-on next to Jonathan’s couch. He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to forget.” He fell onto the couch. “She says I take her for granted.”

“Do you?”

“No. Well, maybe. Once in a while. I don’t know.”

Like hell he didn’t. “Right.”

“Okay, so I’m not perfect like those men on the covers of her dumb romance novels.”

Jonathan caught sight of his Vanessa Valentine paperback on the kitchen counter and subtly dragged his copy of PC World over it.

Adam never noticed. He was too involved in his own drama. “But cut a man some slack, you know?”

Jonathan didn’t know.

“She changed the locks.”

Whoa. His friend had sailed down the river of no return. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s what I thought,” Adam said. “Anyway, I know we’ll get it all straightened out tomorrow.”

And now who was dreaming?

“Sorry to get you out of bed. You were the first one who came to mind.”

Vance lived right down the road from Adam, but Jonathan understood why Adam hadn’t gone there. Vance would have taken great delight in taunting him. Whereas Jonathan...was a soft touch.

“I just need a place for tonight.”

Jonathan had a suspicion that his poker pal was going to need a place for longer than one night, but this probably wasn’t the time to point that out. Anyway, he was tired and he wanted to get back to bed. Back to Lissa in her pink gown. He pulled a sleeping bag out of the closet and tossed it to Adam.

“Thanks, man,” Adam said. “I’ll get this sorted out in the morning. Right now, I just need a good night’s sleep.”

He needed a lot more than sleep. Jonathan didn’t tell him that, either. Some things a man had to figure out for himself.

Chapter Five

Jonathan never found Lissa again. Every time he drifted off, he was awakened by the sound of a rumbling train. It didn’t take more than the first rude awakening for him to realize that no one had built a train track through his house in the night. No, the horrible noise that dragged him from his dreamland search for Lissa had been Adam’s snoring.

He finally gave up on sleep around seven to find Adam still zonked out on his couch, like a giant caterpillar half out of his sleeping bag cocoon, his hair going every which way and his mouth hanging open. There was a sight a guy didn’t need to wake up to.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

He had a handy-dandy little coffeemaker that delivered one serving at a time, and he made himself a mug. The aroma of brewing java sure would’ve awakened Jonathan, but Adam slept on. How could the guy sleep so well when his wife had kicked him out? And didn’t he have to be at work? Jonathan’s schedule was flexible and depended on what clients he had lined up for the day, but he assumed that on a Monday Adam would have to report in to his office.

Not your problem, he told himself as he filled Chica’s dog bowl. You’re not his mother.

Still, the idea of Adam happily snoozing away after ruining his sleep the night before wasn’t appealing. It was quarter after seven now. Time to wake up. Jonathan yanked the sofa pillow out from under Adam’s head and whacked him with it.

Adam bolted up. “Wha?”

“Thought you might have to get up.”

Adam groaned. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

Right. He’d just been faking. “You snore.”

Adam frowned and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Quarter after seven.”

“I have to get going. Man, I’m shot.” He eyed Jonathan’s mug. “Is that coffee?”

Jonathan nodded at his coffeemaker. “You can make yourself some.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Adam said, and unzipped his sleeping bag. “But first things first.”

Jonathan watched him wander off down the hall to the bathroom, wearing boxers and a T-shirt. Lucky for Adam he had a suitcase of clothes. It was a cinch he wouldn’t be getting into his house for more anytime soon. Poor guy.

From what Adam had said the night before, Jonathan suspected he’d had it coming. Still, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for his poker pal. Locked out of your own house. That had to be humiliating.

He heard the toilet flush and suddenly realized that potential humiliation was lying out in plain sight on the toilet tank. Oh, no.

Maybe Adam hadn’t seen it....

“What the hell?”

Adam had seen.

Jonathan rushed down the hall and arrived at the bathroom to find Adam holding The Undercover Tycoon and staring at it in horror. He looked at Jonathan as if he’d just discovered Jonathan was an ax murderer.

“Give me that.” Jonathan strode over and grabbed the book to snatch it away.

Adam wasn’t ready to let go. “What the hell is this?”

“Never mind.” Jonathan yanked again.

Adam yanked back and Jonathan pulled harder.

“Give me the damned book,” Jonathan growled.

Adam let go at the same time Jonathan gave up the struggle. The book did a swan dive, putting the tycoon in the toilet.

They both stood for a moment, watching the paperback floating in the toilet bowl. Who knew what was going through Adam’s mind, but Jonathan had only one thought. “My sister’s gonna be pissed.”

“That’s your sister’s book?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said grumpily, fishing it out. “Well, it was.” Maybe he could dry it off, set it out in the sun. Once it was dry she’d never know the difference.

“What are you doing reading your sister’s romance novel?”

This wasn’t exactly something he wanted to share. He wished he’d remembered the dumb thing and ditched it while Adam was snoring. “Never mind,” he said, and took the soggy tycoon out to the front porch.

Adam was right behind him. “That’s a chick book.”

“I know,” Jonathan said as he laid it out on the porch railing. Chica, who’d come over to see what was going on, sniffed it. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, picking it up again. Maybe if he put it in the dryer.

“So, why are you reading a chick book?”

Jonathan hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, but looking at Adam regarding him with disgust was enough to make him reconsider. What the heck. “I’m doing research.”

“Research? What, are you going to write one of those?”

This was awkward. “No. I just...” Don’t want to be a loser. He couldn’t bring himself to say that, so instead he clamped his lips shut and went back inside, Adam and Chica following him.

“What? I mean, dude, that’s weird.”

“No, it’s not. I figure I can learn something from these books.” If he could keep them from getting destroyed.

Adam gave a disdainful snort. “Like what, how to get the prince to take you to the ball?”

“No. How to figure out what’s important to a woman.” Jonathan set the tycoon on top of the fridge where Chica couldn’t reach him. Then he took his Vanessa Valentine novel out from its hiding place under his magazine. “They’re written by women, and the women who read them like what the heroes do. I’m thinkin’ reading some of these is a good way to get a handle on what makes a woman tick and what she wants in a man.”

Adam took it from him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Adam turned it over and read the back cover. “Sounds dumb.”

Jonathan could feel his cheeks heating. Yeah, what did he know? He was just the dork who’d given Adam a place to sleep after his wife kicked him out.

“So who’s the woman you want?”

“Never mind.” He went to the kitchen and pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard, keeping his back to Adam, willing the flush of embarrassment from his face.

“No, seriously. Who is she?”

“No one you know.” Adam was a relative newcomer to Icicle Falls. He hadn’t known Lissa.

“So she doesn’t live around here?”

“Not anymore.”

“She used to?”

Jonathan got busy pouring milk on his cereal. “Yeah. We went to school together.”

Understanding dawned and Adam nodded sagely. “Your high school sweetheart. That’s right. You and Kyle have a reunion this summer. I remember you guys talking about it the other night. So, is your old girlfriend coming back for the reunion?”

“We never went out. We were just friends.” Jonathan shrugged like it was no big deal.

“And you want to see if you can start something with her.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan admitted.

Now Adam was looking skeptical. “And reading these books is going to help you?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re nuts.”

Guys like Adam thought they knew it all. He’d probably never had trouble sweeping women off their feet. But it looked like sweeping and keeping were two different things. Old Adam wasn’t doing so well himself right now. He was in no position to scoff.

“You got a better idea?” Jonathan demanded. “How much do you know about women?”

Adam threw up his hands. “Nothing, nada, zip. Nobody does. Women are another species.”

“I’d say they’re a species worth studying,” Jonathan said. “Unless you like sleeping on my couch more than you like sleeping in your bed.”

Adam scowled and rubbed his chin, then dropped the book on the coffee table. “I’ve got to get ready for work.” He pulled some clothes out of his carry-on and disappeared back into the bathroom.

Denial. The guy was in denial. He was probably hoping to run over to his house later, toss out an “I’m sorry” and watch his wife throw the door wide open. For that to happen Jonathan suspected she’d need to be either brain-dead or under a spell.

“May as well dig out the blow-up bed,” he said to Chica. “He’s gonna be here for a while.”

Adam got cleaned up and was out the door in twenty minutes, and Jonathan once again had the house to himself. He and Chica ate breakfast and went for a walk. Then it was time to watch Good Morning, Oregon.

Today Lissa and her cohost, Scott Lawrence, were interviewing, of all people, Vanessa Valentine, who had a new book out. Vanessa, a brunette who looked to be somewhere in her forties, was the picture of success in a black suit and fancy pearl necklace.

But it was Lissa who held Jonathan’s attention. Today she wore a red skirt that showed a modest but alluring amount of leg, and a creamy white blouse that looked as silky and touchable as her hair. As always, she was flashing the sweet smile that must have made viewers feel as if they were her best friend.

And, as always, she was gracious and welcoming. “Vanessa, it’s a real treat to have you with us today.”

“Thank you,” Vanessa said.

“And you have a new book out.”

“Yes, I do. A Fire in Winter just hit the stands last week.”

“So, what can readers expect from this latest Vanessa Valentine novel?” Lissa asked.

“First of all, they can expect a good story. I always try to deliver that to my readers because they deserve it. They pay hard-earned money to be entertained and I want to make sure they get their money’s worth.”

Now Scott broke in. “And your legion of loyal fans keeps growing. But it’s mostly a legion of women, right?”

“My readers are predominantly women, but men read my books, too,” Vanessa replied.

“See?” Jonathan said to Chica, who was parked next to him. “I’m not the only guy reading this stuff.”

Scott’s expression was frankly disbelieving. “So, tell us, Vanessa. Why should men read romance novels?”

Vanessa looked at her host as if he were a fine specimen of stupidity. Then she smiled and said, “I can think of several reasons. For one, romance novels deal with the things that are most important in life—love, relationship, family, working to conquer obstacles. That’s worth reading about. Secondly, a man can learn about maintaining a relationship from reading romance fiction. He can also learn how women think. And I hear a lot of you complaining that you have trouble figuring us out,” she added with a teasing grin.

Scott laughed reluctantly. “You’ve got that right. But what about those sex scenes?”

“Yes. What about them?” she quipped. “Men, if you want to know what turns a woman on, you can get a pretty good idea from reading a romance novel.”

“Now, if that isn’t proof I’m on the right track, I don’t know what is,” Jonathan said, and Chica agreed with an enthusiastic bark.

“You make a pretty good case,” Scott said. “I think I may have to come to your book signing.”

“I think so, too,” Vanessa said, still smiling.

“Vanessa will be signing her new book, A Fire in Winter, tonight at the Lloyd’s Center Barnes & Noble at 7:00 p.m.,” Lissa said. “So, men, here’s your chance to talk to an expert in romance.”

“And I guess we’d better start reading romance novels.” Scott smiled. “Thanks for being with us today, Vanessa.” To the viewers he said, “After this, we have Chi Chi Romero, who’s going to show us how to spice things up in the kitchen.”

And that was the end of the interview with Vanessa. Too bad I didn’t tape it for Adam, Jonathan thought. Maybe it would’ve convinced him he needed to do his homework.

But then again, maybe not. Guys like Adam, who had everything come easy to them, had trouble grasping the concept of homework—that no matter how smart you were, or thought you were, you still needed to do it. Jonathan suspected this time was going to be different, though. Once a guy got kicked out of his house, there was no quick route back.

* * *

Adam found it hard to concentrate at work. No wonder, with the way his life was going.

He’d called Chelsea when he reached the office, tried to make up for his memory lapse by inviting her to dinner and had been told in no uncertain terms what he could do with his offer. It had all been downhill after that.

As a pharmaceutical rep he spent more time waiting in doctors’ offices than he did actually talking to them about the new medicines in his company’s catalog. All that waiting gave him way too much time to think, and when he’d finally get a chance to see a doc, he invariably looked like he needed to be taking one of those new antidepressants he was peddling. One doctor even offered to write him a prescription for a competitor’s product.

Back at the office he made phone calls and then hung up, wondering what exactly he’d promised, and had to read his emails repeatedly before he understood what he’d read. All he could think about was how mad Chelsea had been. All he could see was the hurt and anger on her face when she’d glared at him from the bedroom window.

The idea of spending another night on Jonathan’s couch was anything but appealing. He had to do something. He called Lupine Floral and ordered a huge bouquet to be delivered that day, ASAP.

“What’s her favorite flower?” asked the man who answered the phone.

Favorite flower? His mind was a blank. “She likes yellow.” She’d painted their whole living room yellow one week when he was gone.

“Well, then, we’ll send her a sunshine bouquet—yellow and white daisies and yellow pom-poms and yellow roses in a yellow ceramic pitcher.”

Adam didn’t care what they came in, as long as they got the job done. “Yeah, that sounds great. Give me the biggest one you’ve got.”

“How would you like the card to read?”

The card. He hadn’t thought of that. He didn’t want to announce to the whole world that he was in trouble. “How about ‘I love you’?”

“That says it all.”

He hoped so. He gave the man his credit card information and ended the call. That should do it. Maybe now he could talk about medications without wanting to take a bunch.

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