Free My Soon-To-Be Sex Life by Judith Tewes Page A

lips twitched. “Eric putting coats aside.” She shook her head. “If that were true, my dear, I would know about it. I know everything that goes on in my restaurant. There are no stray articles of clothing here.” She examined the gold watch on her wrist. “We open at nine am and not a second sooner. There’s much to prepare, excuse me.” She shut the heavy colonial door in my face, not with a slam, but with polite finality.
    Conversation over.
    So much for my inherent charm.
    I stood, unsure of my next step. This wasn’t how my mental run-throughs went last night when I’d storyboarded the idea, plotting it like a romantic comedy. In those, Eric either:
    1. Answered the door himself and dropped to his knees, overcome by me in my glory.
    Or
    2. We encountered each other on the street where he had been tromping through the snow, asking random women to try on my coat. Complete with a bird-singing, mouse-humming Cinderella montage.
    Never once did I imagine he’d be AWOL.
    I moved along the brick exterior to peer through the restaurant’s windows. I pressed my face to the glass, blocking the morning sun with my hands, but the blinds were shut and I couldn’t see inside.
    Another shock of wind blasted me with my own stink.
    Damn. Now I really wanted my own coat back and it had nothing to do with Eric or his tight butt in those hideous polyester pants, or the way his shoulder muscles moved under his chef uniform. Or the way he kept catching me when I fell.
    Or…
    I returned to the door, frustrated, furious and in need of fumigation. “Hey in there.” I banged on the thick wood and kicked at the brass footplate. “I want my coat and I want it now.” Nothing. “Okay, I’m seriously not thrilled. I may have to write the paper about this, a letter to the editor.” Still nothing. “Your spaghetti’s not that good you know. You use canned mushrooms, don’t you? I can tell. I bet you don’t even make your own sauce, you sneak around and buy it from the grocery store.”
    â€œShh…” a quiet voice rumbled from inside, “if she hears your threats, she’ll use her connections and then there will be much trouble.”
    The door re-opened, revealing the busboy from last night’s kitchen adventure. The guy Grace had wanted to pet. Up close, I could tell he was a few years older than me, but still, for Grace, definitely jailbait.
    He joined me outside, carefully adjusting the door to rest on the latch so he could get back in.
    â€œConnections? Like Mafia connections?” I laughed. My breath smoked around my head. “Right. That’s mildly amusing.”
    Busboy crossed his arms against the invading chill. He didn’t look amused. In fact, he seemed grim.
    â€œMafia?” I breathed.
    He gave a sharp nod.
    I let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”
    â€œWhat happened to you?” He grimaced.
    â€œIt’s a long, painful story and I don’t want to get into it. What I need is Eric,” I said. “I mean, I need to see him. He’s got something of mine. Well, mine and my friend’s….”
    â€œYour friend?” Bus Boy looked up and down the avenue. “The blonde nymph? Is she here?”
    Nymph? His word choice and Italian accent lent more romance to the moment than it deserved, but still, I’d have to tell Grace. Nymph. She’d love it.
    â€œDoes she hide from me?” His lips formed a sexy pout. “No woman can resist Tony. I will find her or leave-a-this world.”
    Uh oh, Tony had it bad. Grace had skills. No wonder she struggled with monogamy - power like that would give Mom’s Valium addiction competition.
    â€œYou seem like a nice guy and everything,” I told him, “so I’m going to say this flat out.” My eyes scrunched up in sympathy. “Grace is married.”
    â€œGrace. My amazing Grace is married?” Busboy ran a hand