Free Sleeping With the Enemy by Laurie Breton

No matter how much of a beating they take, they just keep on blooming.”
    “That’s poetic,” he said.
    “That’s just Mary MacKenzie.” She sipped her milk and eyed him over the rim of the glass.  “You’d like her.”
    “I think I already do.  How have you been feeling?”
    “Better.  The morning sickness is almost gone.” She crossed her arms.  “Your son’s handsome.  And very polite.  How old did you say he was?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “He seems older, somehow.”
    “He’s just cocky right now.  He got his driver’s license yesterday.”
    “Ye gods.  You have my sympathy.  I’d be a basket case if I were you.” She waved the glass of milk in a circle to indicate the flowers, the tablecloth, the candles.  “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”
    “It just felt right.” He glanced at his watch.  “Excuse me.  I have to check the roast.”
    It was lean and juicy and pink in the middle, just the way he liked it.  Jesse took it from the oven and transferred it to a platter.  He was draining the potatoes when her voice floated out to him from the living room.  “Hey, you have all of Michael Starbird’s books.  Are you a big fan?”
    He nearly dropped the potatoes into the sink.  Clearing his throat, he said, “I like his work.  Do you?”
    “Are you kidding? I’m his biggest fan.  His stuff is sexy and terrifying.  It keeps you right on the edge of your seat.  He’s always one step ahead of me.  Just when I think I have it figured out, he takes the story in a whole different direction.”
    She came into the kitchen and watched him arranging the potatoes around the edge of the serving platter.  “I thought you stuffy English teacher types only read dead guys,” she said.  “Like Shakespeare and Milton and Chaucer.”
    The corner of his mouth twitched.  “Those dead guys,” he said, “happen to have written some pretty impressive stuff.”
    She walked to the table, plucked an olive from a serving dish, and popped it into her mouth.  “I guess it’s a matter of opinion.  Give me Zane Grey any day.”
    He grinned.  “You like cowboy stories?”
    She folded her arms across her chest.  Instead of concealing her breasts, it brought them into vivid relief.  “I like his cowboy stories.  I read Wildfire when I was eleven.  For a year afterward, I pestered my parents to let me have a horse.  Not much space for horses in the city.”
    “Kind of racy for an eleven-year-old.”
    “I was precocious.”
    They kept their dinner conversation impersonal, discussing books they’d read and movies they’d both seen.  She remarked on how delicious the meal was.  He inquired about her drive up from Boston.  They shared brief anecdotes about the difficulties of parenting teenagers.  While she talked, his eyes followed the clean line of her collar down that milky-white throat to the dark vee of the green shirt, his memory filling in what the fabric hid from view.  She tilted her head, and the dangly earrings rattled like wind chimes.  He’d always thought gaudy jewelry looked trashy until he’d seen it on Rose Kenneally  On her, it looked exotic, and sexy as hell.
    They finished the main course, and she set down her fork.  “Jesse,” she said, “I think we should cut to the chase.”
    He paused, napkin in hand, not certain how to respond.  “Meaning?”
    “Look, you really went out of your way to make this a lovely evening, and I appreciate it.  But all this dancing around each other is getting us nowhere.  I have to work tomorrow, and I have a four-hour drive ahead of me.  Can we just get to the issue at hand and get this over with?”
    Feeling a little foolish, he set down his napkin.  “You’re right,” he said.  “I’ll clear away the dishes, and then we can talk.”
    “Let’s talk now.  I’ll help you with the dishes afterward.” She shoved aside her plate and clasped her hands together on the table so tightly her knuckles went