Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Marc,” Colleen said, not raising her head. Resigned to her fate, she sprayed glass cleaner and wiped down the immaculate counter top again, giving the nonexistent grime her full and undivided attention.

      Marc Simmons–assistant museum curator, ex-husband and official bane of her existence–sauntered in and up to the counter. At just over six feet tall with an athletic build, Marc still looked exactly like what he used to be twelve years ago–a former student body president and All American collegiate football star until a knee injury ended his budding career. “Listen, I just wanted to stop by and say…I know what yesterday was. I’m sorry things had to work out as they did. Everything going okay with you?” He managed to look almost interested for a moment before something under his fingernail caught his full attention.

      Narcissistic creep. “I’m doing great, thanks,” Colleen lied. She continued to wipe like a woman possessed. June Cleaver would have been proud.

      Marc leaned against the counter, placing one hand squarely on the area she had just cleaned and smoothed back his collar length blond hair. “Wonderful to hear. Are you seeing anyone yet? You really should, you know. Get right back into the dating game. Best thing for getting over the…uh, unpleasantness…of the past.”

      Correction. Narcissistic arrogant creep. “Yes, actually I am,” she lied again. “We’re really happy. Move, please,” she said, wiping his smudged handprints off the glass. Add inconsiderate to that. Oops–news flash, her inner voice muttered, you already knew that. She would have laughed, had she not been so annoyed.

      The smug smile on Marc’s face faded just a little. “That’s wonderful,” he said, his voice lacking a little of his earlier enthusiasm. “Anyone I know?”

      “No, you don’t know him. He’s…not from around here,” she said. “And I’m meeting him for dinner, so I need to finish up here if you don’t mind.” She stepped around him, walked to the front door and held it open.

      He took the hint and walked outside. “I’d like to meet him sometime. Maybe we could all go out to dinner some night, me, Brandi, you and…”

      Colleen ignored the obvious question as she locked the heavy door behind him. “I’ll mention it to him if I remember. Tell Barbie hello,” she called back over her shoulder, making a concerted effort to not stomp her aggravation out for him to witness.

      “It’s Brandi,” Marc corrected, his breath fogging the recently cleaned glass pane. He used his jacket sleeve to wipe it away and gave her the practiced All American Boy grin that used to melt her heart. Now it just left her cold.

      “Whatever,” Colleen muttered. Without looking back again, she gathered up the last of her dignity and the cash envelope to drop in the office on her way out.

      Stupid, stupid, stupid. She fumed all the way home, lecturing herself on the thirty minute commute from downtown Tampa to Brandon in the sports coupe Marc had begrudgingly conceded to her as part of the divorce settlement. She reminded herself to slow down, groaning aloud in mortal vexation. “Just had to go and open your big, fat mouth. We’re really happy,” she mimicked herself, smacking first her forehead then the steering wheel for good measure. “Why the hell did I tell him I have a boyfriend? When he finds out I don’t…”

      She knew what would happen. He’d give her pitying glances whenever she saw him at work, and she’d rather set herself on fire than have him give her one more of those poor thing you just can’t get over me sighs. A single tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped at it angrily with the back of her hand.

      The truth was she wouldn’t have him back no matter how hard he begged. She did find the visual most appealing, though, preferably with him prostrate on the ground in front of her with all of their former friends and acquaintances in attendance. Pay per view would be good, she decided, enjoying an imagined setting somewhere between Gladiator and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. “Thumbs down,” she would snarl to the cheering mob, who naturally would be calling for his head on a platter. As an afterthought, she added pitchforks and torches to the scene and smiled.

      Marc’s callous betrayal after eight years of marriage came out of far left field. It was obvious everyone in the free world knew the up and coming assistant curator was screwing his perky–something she’d never be, even on a good day–colleague. But no one–not even those she considered friends–had the guts to come forward and tell her. Her sham of a marriage was officially pronounced DOA the day she walked in on the two of them bent over the top of the large oak desk in his office, vigorously engaging in what his overpriced lawyer later claimed he was driven to by a cold and unresponsive wife.

      Stomping into the condo in high dudgeon, she kicked off her low heeled pumps and padded in her stocking feet to the kitchen. “Food therapy it is. Mmm…what’s for dinner?” She picked out one of the entrees–some sort of suspicious looking fish she elected not to examine too closely–put it back, picked out another and stuck it in the microwave. While it heated up, she went to change from her slacks and blouse into a long baby blue satin nightgown, tying the matching robe around her. “Saturday night. Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Mel,” she sighed, dropping Braveheart in the DVD player and pressing the start button.

      She ate her turkey and dressing in silence while she watched the historical drama unfold, using her finger to get at the last of the cranberry compote. When she finished, she paused the movie and took her tray to the kitchen, washing her fork before putting it in the dishwasher. She was headed for her bathroom to brush her teeth when the house phone in the kitchen rang. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, seeing the museum office number on the caller ID. Against her better judgment, she answered it anyway. “Hello?”

      “Yo, it’s me.”

      Quadruple damn. “Yes, Marc?” Colleen answered coolly.

      “Thought you were going out to dinner,” he said, his tone smug.

      “We are, just getting a later start than we had planned. What do you want?” Besides checking up on her story.

      “Brandi and I have reservations at Bern’s this evening. Thought maybe we could all meet up for a drink later,” Marc suggested. “You know, just to show there are no hard feelings.”

      He never took her there, Colleen caught herself thinking. “I don’t know…what our…exact plans are. Maybe another time…” She glanced around frantically for an excuse to end the call. “My cell’s ringing in the other room. That’ll be him. Gotta go!” She hung up quickly to end her misery.

      With a heart weary sigh, she went to brush her teeth. Afterward in her bedroom, she splayed both hands on the dresser and leaned against it. “I’m not going to be able to go on like this,” she said to herself in the mirror. “I know how this is going to play out. He’s going to pester me to death unless I come up with the boyfriend to end all boyfriends.” She began searching her brain for all the good looking single men she knew. It was a very short search. She sighed. “I don’t want to go out with one of Bill’s accountant friends just to get Marc off my back,” she said, stamping her foot in exasperation like a five year old. “I want to find my own man who will love me for me, faithful, funny, intelligent, strong, thoughtful, and drop dead gorgeous. And loves movies,” she added as an afterthought. “Seriously. Is that too much to ask for?” She directed that last question at the ceiling. “The movies part is a deal breaker, just so you know.”

       …I suggest you not be wishin’ for anything you don’t СКАЧАТЬ