Free The Kitchen Shrink by Dee Detarsio Page A

you a ride.”
    At that, Elgin, who had obviously been eavesdropping, began whipping his own ass and prancing around the room like he was riding a hobby horse.
    I looked down. When did I get another mojito? I sucked on my straw noisily and happily and pretended that all was well in my world.
    The crew was in rare form, louder even than the techno music that I would never ever understand. I’d rather hear a crying baby, which is what its repetitive annoyingness reminded me of; high pitched synthesized waah-waah squeals, speeded up. Somebody feed that baby. They wouldn’t let me go until I did a shot with Elgin and let him profess his love for me.
    “Bye, thanks. Love you too, Elgin.” I blew a kiss to him and saw Daria working her eyebrows and signaling me to call her later.
    Phil-O grabbed my hand and guided me through the crowd and out the front door. We had only taken a few steps when I heard him jingle his keys. I looked around, wondering what he drove. I had him pegged as a big truck kind of guy. “Here we go,” he said. I looked again. All I saw was a, no. No. Motorcycle. I was scared to death of motorcycles.
    “I can’t,” I told Phil-O.
    “Sure you can,” he said, sweetly putting a helmet on my head.
    “No, I’m really scared. Do you know the fatality rate of motorcycle crashes?” My voice was shaky.
    “Yes. And I’m very safe. Extra cautious with precious cargo.”
    He really was flirting with me. I swallowed and watched him straddle the beast, start it up, and rev its engine. He looked over his shoulder and at the come-hither tilt of his head I tossed my left leg over the saddle and hauled my hiney aboard. Fortunately I had just enough to drink that I didn’t care that my jeans needed to be hiked up. Besides, I was too busy clutching Phil-O. And away we went.
    He was a safe driver, in terms of obeying the rules of the road. But you didn’t need to be psychic to be able to predict that one hunk of a hard body times vibrating horsepower mixed with a dash of cocktails divided by nobody’s looking equals a pretty dangerous fantasy. If I ever caught my daughter doing this I’d be horrified. I clung tighter to Phil-O as he took a curve and I concentrated on not thinking about my kids. For once, it was easy.
    I survived the disturbingly erotic ride to his loft, more charged up than ever. He led me into a sumptuous entryway, the huge over-sized Verdi-gris coppered door opened on a rotating axis instead of from attached hinges. I stepped inside. “Oh. I’m such a sucker for hardwood floors. These are gorgeous.”
    “Thanks,” Phil-O said, as he flicked on a light that seemed to melt soft warm beams down the walls. “It was a lot of work but they came out pretty nice.”
    What an understatement. The floors were so shiny they looked wet, a pool of dappled honey and maple, yellow and red striations of wood. He led me into the living room as I realized we were on the second level.
    He pointed to an open suspended wooden stair case that headed down. “To my workspace.” He flicked on another light. “This is my living room.”
    “Phil-O, this is so amazing.” It was. It looked like something out of San Diego Magazine. The deep low slung couches were a robin’s egg blue, and made of soft velvet. I sunk down on one end. “Mm, nice.” Dark chocolate brown end tables and built-in shelving around the fireplace were simple but striking. I ran my hand over the smooth wood of the coffee table.
    “I made that.”
    I couldn’t believe it. “This is so great. I love this room.” The end of the room was a giant window and I could see the lights of the Coronado Bay Bridge in between tall buildings. “What a great view. I bet it’s so pretty in the daytime, too.” I leaned back against the tufted buttery gold kidney shaped pillows that were the perfect touch. “You designed this?”
    Phil-O nodded. “Come and see my kitchen.”
    He pulled me up and I followed him to the next room. It had a smaller sized