1
Reflections in the mirror
[Midge]
How do I get myself into these things?
Oh, right, I can’t seem to say no.
I’d gotten roped into coordinating the fundraising service project for my son’s high school band. Ronin, my middle child, is a freshman, and he’s struggling. Since his older brother is a stud athlete, Ronin suffers from second child syndrome. Add in the fact he’s a band geek and theater nerd—his words, not mine—and guilty mother disorder kicks in for all the times I’ve hosted team dinners, contributed to the booster club, or attended a million football games. This event needed a parent representative, and the Miss-Never-Say-No in me volunteered to make Ronin happy.
One minute, I am standing at the Mystic Music Therapy School, introducing myself to the director, Ivy Everly, and her manager, Edie Carrigan, and a few weeks later, I’m attending a party.
Edie is a pixie blonde beauty, showing only a hint of her age, and we hit it off instantly. Both of us are transplants from the Midwest to California. She’s only been here six months while I’ve been here six years. My ex-husband, Paul, got transferred, and we took the move as a fresh start to our marriage. The Golden State would be an opportunity, and San Gabriel would be the perfect area for us. How wrong I’d been to believe him. Anyway, Edie and I are both in our forties, which is depressing to think about. I thought I’d be so much more accomplished by forty. Forty-one makes un-accomplishment seem so much more unnerving.
Edie is somehow related to Ivy. I can’t remember the connection. I can hardly remember my own family’s names, let alone the relations of others. Either way, they seem close despite their age difference. Although she looks barely nineteen, I’d place Ivy at mid to late twenties. It must suck to be beautiful, I think, chuckling to myself, envisioning the California blonde who eagerly greeted me at her therapy school and walked me through all I needed for the fundraiser. I can’t help admiring her hair. As I’ve grown older, my brunette color has dulled, turning mousy brown with streaks of gray woven through it.
“This is so exciting,” she exclaims after we run through the list of things I need to do with the high school students in preparation for the day. Rhythm Walk is the name of the walkathon to raise money for the therapy school. The high school band volunteered their support to show music is important to people of any ability and age. An event like this reinforces the private high school’s mission of service for others. I also volunteered because band sponsorship reduces the exorbitant tuition my ex and I agree to pay per the joint custody stipulations in our divorce decree. I sigh at the thought, reminding myself band keeps my kid out of trouble.
Prior to the party invitation, most of our interaction has been via email. In our first face-to-face meeting, I find I’ve made a new friend in Ivy and found a kindred one in Edie.
“I’m a bit lonely here,” Edie whispers, not wanting her younger counterpart to hear. “I mean, I love my new family, but I don’t know many other women my age.” It wasn’t an insult. It was a show of solidarity. Sisterhood of the Over Forty. Hurray! Cue dying noisemakers.
“You know,” Ivy interjects. “You should come to a party we’re hosting. We’re introducing Edie to some family friends.”
Edie rolls her eyes at me. “Get this. The party is called Meet the Wife.” A soft chuckle follows the title. “My new husband thought it would be a good way to show everyone he got married.” I’m certain there’s a story there, but I don’t inquire. The knowledge someone in her forties has found love again makes me smile, and Edie beams like a teenager at the mention of her man.
“Anyway, the party is tomorrow night. You should come. Bring a date.”
“Oh, I don’t date,” I blurt, exposing myself before I think. I look up in horror at the admission. A knowing smile curls on Edie’s face, and Ivy’s eyes widen.
“You should definitely come then. This isn’t a party for the young’uns,” Edie teases. “You never know who you might meet.”
Ivy giggles, shaking her sunshine-colored hair, and again, I’m certain there’s a story between them.
“I’ll think about it.” I lie, accepting there’s no way in hell I’m going to a party where I don’t know anyone other than the two women I just met.
“I know that look,” Edie says, narrowing her eyes and pointing a finger in a circular manner at my face. “If I have to drive to your house and chauffeur you to mine, you’re coming.”
I laugh at her persistence.
“It will be fun,” she adds, reaching out to pat my arm. “I think.” Her brows pinch, but then she smiles. “On second thought, come for me. I might need the support.”
“You’ll be fine,” Ivy interjects. It’s a good thing she runs a music school. Her hearing seems impeccable. I didn’t even think she was listening as she sat at her desk, shuffling papers and typing on her computer. “And Edie’s right. It will be fun. Come join us. We’re going to spend a lot of time together over the next month. Let’s hang out.”
The invitation seems strange to me, but why not. I haven’t gone out in a million years unless you count band concerts, high school football games, and travel baseball. On second thought, I don’t count those things as valid getting out.
“Okay.”
+ + +
So here I stand, nursing a glass of wine and watching people mingle. Wait, let me correct myself. Rich, famous, and beautiful people mingle. The big hair, big watches, and big boobs give away that I am out of my league.
“Is that…?” My voice trails off as I observe a young man and the petite brunette beside him, uncertain of the identity of the musical power couple standing before me.
“I think so,” Edie answers. “My music knowledge is pretty pathetic. Just ask my husband.”
“But it’s what I love about her.” A gruff, Southern sounding drawl filters from behind us, and as I turn, Edie is enveloped in thick arms, wrapping around her waist and tugging her back against one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. A true silver fox. Inky hair with streaks of silver and a scruffy beard with more salt than pepper. He’s delicious in a he’s-another-woman’s-husband sort of way.
Edie giggles, and her husband kisses her neck before looking up at me. “I’m Tommy,” he offers. With one arm still around his wife, he extends his other hand forward to shake. “Tommy Carrigan, and I belong to this woman.”
I chuckle at his unabashed announcement. “I thought this was a Meet-the-Wife party.”
“Just clarifying I’m the husband. Oh, I like the sound of that so much, darlin’.” He kisses his wife again and then steps back from her. “Holy shit. Hank?”
Edie and I both look up at a larger man. I’m typically not attracted to tattoos, but I can’t seem to stop staring at his forearms. My eyes roam up to his jaw. Roughly covered with more silver than black, it’s the opposite of his ink-colored hair, which is cropped close to his head with here-and-there gray. He’s the perfect mix of salt-and-pepper. A silver fox, actually, and suddenly I’m thinking of silver glitter for some reason and wanting him to paint my skin with his scruffy chin. The thought makes me tingle in places I thought forgot how to tingle. My face heats at getting caught staring and his responding expression gives away the possibility of a hard life. Crinkles next to his squint announce the lines of age, but his hazel eyes sparkle with mischief. Oh, he’s dangerous.
“Hank. Hank Paige, is it really fucking you, man?” Tommy’s voice carries. He reaches out to man-hug this bear of a man. Watching them clap each other on the back, I turn to Edie, hoping for some clarification.
“I have no idea who he is,” she murmurs, sipping her wine and pasting on a smile to prepare for an introduction.
“Edie, darlin’, this is Hank Paige. The best dru—”
“Just Hank,” he interrupts, holding out a hand for Edie but shifting his eyes back to me. “Hank,” he offers once he releases Edie and reaches toward me.
“Midge. Midge Everette.” I hold my breath a second, waiting for a man of his stature to make a snarky comment. His appearance is one of a former football player. Definitely someone who was a bully. He’d be the first to make fun of my name if we were still kids. Midge. Mudge. Sludge. Midge. Fidge. Fudge. I’ve heard it all.
“Midge? That’s an unusual name. One I don’t think I’ll quickly forget.” Oh, he’s smooth, I think as the warmth of his hand still lingers over mine. His fingers are thick, and thoughts race to things I shouldn’t be thinking like how they would feel rubbing up my thighs. I could get to lost in…Sweet cheese, what’s wrong with me? My mind went straight to the gutter within thirty seconds of meeting a totally tall, strong, and all wrong for me stranger.
“How unfair is that? Not a stitch of gray hair on your head,” Tommy teases his friend. Hank rubs a hand over the cropped hair, and it stands up as he scrubs back to front. His eyes don’t leave mine.
“It’s there, but it seems to like my jaw more.” Oh, I like your jaw more, I decide as my eyes return to his chin and the scruff covering it. My thoughts flitter to how it might feel if he tickled my skin with his stubble. Heat spreads on my cheeks a second time. Something is definitely wrong with me. Maybe it’s the wine? His gaze finally leaves me, and I turn to Edie.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I just need a minute. I don’t know what I’m doing among this collection of born-beautiful and potentially talented people. I’m out of my element and suffocating from the uncomfortable feeling.
“Down the hall. First door on the right,” Edie explains. She twists and waves her arm.
“Last door on the right,” Tommy corrects. Edie laughs.
“We’ve only lived here a month or so. I’m lucky we even got unpacked for this party,” she adds.
“It’s been more than a month, darlin’. We’ve been married for forty-three days.”
What the heck? I chuckle at his knowledge.
“Already counting the days. You have a long-ass future if you start there.” Hank scoffs. He has a nice voice—smoky and smooth.
“A long-ass future is all I plan on having with this woman,” Tommy retorts. “I’m counting the days to make up for the years it took me to find her.”
For some reason, I just want to cry at the sweetness of this man. On that note, I need a break before I make a fool of myself.
+ + +
Suddenly, I really have to pee, and I can’t find the light switch. Thankfully, a candle illuminates the small powder room, and since I know where all my body parts should go, I sit in the dark. After I finish my business, I stand to wash my hands and catch my reflection in the mirror. The candlelight produces an angelic effect highlighting my face, and my hair disappears in the darkness behind me. Shaky hands smooth down my neck and tug at my cheeks. I turn my head side to side. I’m not awful, but compared to the people on the other side of this door, I’m nothing special.
In the midst of my self-examination, the door opens outward, and a large body fills the space.
“Just give me a minute,” he breathes, holding out a hand to someone in the hall, and then slams the door. I step back as he’s blocking the doorway, and he spins. Leaning against the closed door, he breathes deeply, exhaling slowly as he scrubs his hands over his face. He roughs his hair, rubbing back and forth, before looking up.
“Umm…I was just…” It couldn’t be more obvious. I’ve used the bathroom, but he’s obstructing my exit.
“I just need a minute,” he says, making no motion to move out of the way. Should I be frightened I’m in a small enclosed space with a large man I don’t know? It’s dark. There’s candlelight. It could be romantic. I sigh. It’s a freaking powder room, for heaven’s sake.
“I can just leave if you’ll let me…” He straightens from the door, and my words falter.
“Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not,” I say, and I mean it. I realize in the space of the two minutes we’ve been in this room, I feel completely at ease with his presence despite his hulky size. He presses forward, but when I move to step around him, the sink wedges us together. He’s behind me, and I press into the counter, my backside brushing against his jeans. We stop. Our eyes meet in the ripple of candlelight reflected by the mirror.
“Are you drunk?”
“Don’t drink.” His voice is husky like his size.
“Never?” I blink.
“Not in a long time.” He watches me a moment as if gauging my reaction. When it seems he’s decided on something, he says, “You have beautiful eyes.”
His compliment startles me, and I blush, thankful the dimness of the room hides my heated cheeks. My eyes tend to shift color. In this low light, they glow with flecks of gold among the deeper brown tone. I don’t have a chance to thank him before his hands grasp my shoulders, massaging them. Thick thumbs press into the back of my neck. Shit, his fingers feel good.
“Take a breath,” he suggests. “Breathe. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I do as he says and inhale. He continues to stroke the side of my neck, then whispers, “Close your eyes.” A smoker sound resonates from his voice, gravelly and gruff, and I like the robustness of it. Something sounding strangely like a purr rumbles from me. And then I do the unthinkable.
I lean.
“Feel good, little lady?” A tender kiss greets my neck. My eyelids flip open, and I stand straighter, embarrassed for swaying. He still crowds my space. He isn’t fat. He’s broad—solid—and the feel of his chest against my back has me relaxing into him. I nod in response because, honestly, words escape me. He’s touching me as if he cares about me, as if he wants to take my stress. Uncontrollably, I melt into the sensation.
“I could make you feel good in other ways.” The suggestion causes me to stiffen, and he chuckles. “Relax, lady.” His raspy voice right at my ear sends shivers skittering over my skin. With a boldness I’ve never felt before, I speak.
“How?”
“How to relax or how to feel good?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. There’s a mischief to the color I know is gray but sparkles like steel in the reflection.
“Wouldn’t they be one and the same?” His lip crooks in the corner at my question. His eyes twinkle with mirth, and he chuckles, lazy and low, causing my skin to goose bump. With his hands stroking my shoulders, the white peasant blouse I wear stretches, slipping off over the curves.
“Hmm…” He moans as thick fingertips rub my cool skin. “I think I’d start with a nip to this neck.” I watch the roll of his Adam’s apple, and my throat clogs. My mouth waters. “I’d suck right here.” He presses into the apex of my shoulder and neck with the tip of a callused finger. I imagine the deep suction on my sweet spot, and my knees buckle. My lids flutter closed a moment. Another gravelly guffaw sounds by my ear, and I open my eyes to find him watching me in the mirror.
“I think next I’d go for a breast. Lick around your nipple before tugging at the tip.”
Holy. Shit. I’m instantly wet, and my thighs clench. He’s observant, so he doesn’t miss the squeeze of my legs. His hands drift from my shoulders to my hips, and ever so gently, he tugs me back against him. With one slow pump, the unmistakably firm length of him hits my lower back.
“You’re a tiny thing.” He huffs, spreading his fingers and then tightening them on my hips. “But I’d still fit.” The thought brings up my head, my eyes searching for his again in the reflective glass; only he’s looking down, over my shoulder, focusing on the swell of my breasts peeking out of my bra. I didn’t realize my shirt slid down so far.
“I’d definitely need a taste between those thighs.” A rush of liquid leaves me as a flock of seagulls ripple up my abdomen. If words could cause an orgasm, I’m certain he could give me one. The smoky tone. The brash intention. The silver stare reflected in the mirror. “You like the thought.”
It isn’t a question. He’s reading me, and he’s right. If he put his scruff between my thighs, I’d come in an instant. The image makes me rub my legs together once more, and I reach for the countertop, needing stability before I purposely lean into him again.
“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, uncertain what I’m admitting, and what I’m suggesting. He’s a stranger to me, but do I want him to take me against the counter? Hell yes, I do. Do I think I could follow through on the actual act? Actually no, I don’t.
“I’m here for you,” he groans, pressing into me again. Our heights don’t lend to aligning body parts, but I’m well aware of what he packs in those jeans, and he can’t miss the subtle squirm of my thighs.
“Mmm, Hank,” I purr. “Yes.” The word escapes, the hiss lingering as my sex pulses. My hips roll back. My backside hits him. “I think I’m—”
“About to come, baby? Let me get you there.” Can you orgasm from the sound of a voice? Who am I kidding? Just listen to Jamie Dornan or Sam Heughan—an accent does it all the time. I won’t admit I am close, but the tenor of his tone…
A sharp pounding on the door startles me, and I stiffen.
“Hanky, you in there still?” The singsong squeal of a female spins my head back to focus on his face in the mirror. For some reason, tears instantly prickle my eyes.
“Oh, God,” I whimper, horrified at what I was doing, at what I’d almost done, with a perfect stranger. Pushing back on the counter, I press into him, forcing him away from me. His touch lingers as I reach for the doorknob, shoving open the door and rushing past a woman I hardly see. Riled up and embarrassed, I race for an exit and an end to my evening.