Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3) Page 21

  She missed the touch of a man, the oppositional feel of soft skin over hard muscle. She exhaled heavily at the thought. The next guy in her bed would have to be a game-changer, she vowed. No more settling. No more Charlies. In the meantime, unfortunately, taking care of herself would just have to do…for now…

  ***

  After Saturday’s “intruder” experience with Kristen early Tuesday morning, the rest of the week bled together until Friday afternoon, when Saturday did her routine shopping at the farmer’s market.

  She specifically picked Fridays to shop because of the convenience; other people normally wanted to enjoy their summertime Friday afternoons. Unsurprisingly, most people she knew wanted to hang or relax then, not take on “Sunday morning” chores like grocery shopping…which worked out perfectly for her because she had her pick of the fruit without interference.

  Plus, she looked like a classic case of “Who done it and why?” Better to not let a crowded market see her this way. Her wavy hair was piled up haphazardly on her head, her face was completely bare, and her white tank and jean shorts were nothing to write home about.

  She picked, sniffed and sampled her way through countless booths and carts of fresh produce when a silken voice made its way to her side.

  The voice was intriguing: deep and sexy and almost directly behind her.

  He wasn’t speaking to Saturday; he was obviously talking on the phone, but the voice was so sensuous that she stood transfixed to the spot in front of the cart. Pretending to peruse through the peaches in front of her, she surprised herself by actually straining her ears to eavesdrop on the oblivious man’s phone call!

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “In the basement, yes. That’s where I want them. All of the boxes….”

  “Pay attention. Be. Careful. Those items are very valuable to me…”

  Jeez, he’s pretty bossy. Is he talking to movers? He sounds so stern.

  Saturday took another step to the side, grabbing a peach on top of the display, still maintaining her charade.

  Ok, move along, girl. He’s going to know that no one is THAT interested in peaches. Especially sucky and decaying ones like today’s batch.

  Just as Saturday was moving to the grapes, she decided that now was the time to sneak her peek. She glanced over her right shoulder…and she was not disappointed.

  He stood tall and muscular in black gym clothes (shorts and a t-shirt) with a phone at his ear and his mouth set in determination on his face.

  He had a black baseball cap on to match, covering his eyes, and his lips were full and inviting as he spoke.

  Suddenly, he leaned in closer to the phone, his head now bowed and his voice low and heated.

  “You listen to me, carefully. I told you what I wanted, and that’s not what you did. So, from now on, you will do exactly what the fuck I tell you to….and I am not going to tell you twice.”

  His face was like stone: his lightly bearded jaw clenching and unclenching as he spoke.

  Oooh, he’s pissed.

  And yet, she wasn’t put-off by it; in fact, that only made Saturday more interested.

  IN FACT, she was trying to lean in so closely to hear his conversation that she placed too much of her weight on the fruit cart, and citrus went bouncing everywhere off of the cart as it lurched forward.

  SHIT.SHIT.SHIT.SHIT!

  Saturday went scrambling after the runaway fruit, as she felt a figure swoop in to help her. Mr. Bossy in Black, himself, had placed his phone in his pocket and began to help her gather all of the produce.

  Their arms brushed past each other as they worked on returning the fruit to their proper bins. Saturday’s hair stood on end every time. Others walked around them during the whole debacle (this fucking city, I tell ya), but he made quick work of the process, placing things back in her basket and on the stand. She grabbed the last lime from the edge of her foot and placed it on the display mantle.

  Saturday stood from her kneeling position, brushing her hands vigorously on her shorts to free them of any grime. She pulled her back straight, using her shaky hands to swoop wild strands of hair back behind her ears.

  Now, she had to say something to him. Saturday realized that she had wanted to speak to him since the moment she got a glimpse of him. And now, after what he’d done, she couldn’t just leave or ignore him.

  Oh, boy. Here goes.

  Despite her disheveled appearance and nerves, she decided that she would put on her best face to thank the helpful man: Mister Bossy Man, Mr. God-you-smelled-really-good-and-seem-so-cute. She exhaled loudly, put on her biggest smile and turned around, right hand extended to finally greet him, but he was nowhere to be found….

  ***

  Saturday night.

  Bright lights. Cool paints.

  Saturday reached out to the touch the frame of the painting in front of her, caressed it like a lover’s face. Oh, baby. Come to mama.

  Her fingers slid down its length. She enjoyed each of the arts (dance, music, sculpting, all of it), but there was something visceral about her feelings for paintings. Instinctual. Longing…that’s what it was.

  A need to possess such beauty. To be the proprietor or the creator. She had a painter’s heart, and had been spilling that heart on canvases since she picked up a brush in 7th grade Art.

  She stepped back from the painting, making a mental note of the artist. Beaumont. She loved his work. She had been a tour guide at the Clairvoyage gallery for two years, and she had yet to see a work of his that she did not absolutely love.

  Saturday walked to the other side of the room, giving the painting a final glance. Bye, baby. Tonight was going to be a huge exhibit for the gallery, and she was pumped. A quick visit to the ladies room mirror, and she felt pretty good about the sandy-haired brunette staring back at her.

  Honey-colored eyes, long mascara-aided lashes, red lips. Her athletic build was on wonderful display in the dress she wore that matched her lipstick. A deep side part with one side of her long hair pinned back topped the look off and she was back on the floor, showing colorful wonders to a packed house.

  Room to room. Wall to wall. She displayed as much as she could, as she and the other guides performed a dance around each other, taking their respective groups through a choreographed walk of the gallery.

  She joked with the gallery guests, engaging them in light banter about the art and artists. Teaching the history and inspiration behind artistic pieces was fun for her. During these exhibits, she always hoped to pass that enthusiasm on to others.

  Saturday led her group to the next display, and then she saw it.

  A pair of emerald green eyes appeared next to the nearest display case, and then disappeared just as quickly, vanishing behind a white wall. She was pretty sure she glimpsed brown hair and stubble framing the sight, but there was no mistaking the eyes that she saw. Wow.

  Saturday continued roaming the halls of the gallery with her tour group: motioning, gesturing, and explaining. And yet, half of her was focused on the beautiful man with the piercing eyes.

  Every time her gaze was diverted for a second, there were those eyes. Around a corner. In the background. There. Gone. Back again. For over an hour. Then…nothing.

  He disappeared behind a large display and did not reappear. Saturday secretly scanned the crowd for the next 30 minutes, but she didn’t see him again.

  She re-focused on her spiel about the current sculpture in front of her. Forty-five more minutes, and Saturday was navigating her last group through the gallery. Almost there. Her feet were killing her. Whyyy did I decide to wear heels? She had just been relieved of her duties, and was eager to get some well-needed time off of her feet.

  Finally. Saturday plopped down on the nearest bench, gingerly rubbing her now heel-less (Thank Heavens!) feet. Focused on soothing her poor, fatigued soles, Saturday did not notice the tiny moan that escaped her mouth, nor did she notice the shadow that was now descending upon her.

  “That good, huh?” said a familia
r voice from above her.

  Saturday glanced up…and surprisingly into the direct gaze of Green Eyes, AKA Mr. Bossy-in-Black, the produce market guy. Well, not quite into his gaze. Green Eyes was now fitted with another baseball cap that eclipsed half of his face, but it was him, alright…complete with stubble, brown hair and full lips.

  Saturday let out a sheepish laugh.

  “Uhh..yeah. It’s just that…I’ve been on my feet all night…in these heels. And now I have to hike it to my stop before I miss the last bus. It’s been a loooong night.”

  Green Eyes gave a slow side smirk.

  “And it’s going to get even longer…”

  Saturday froze in stunned silence, giving him an inquisitive look that turned into one of horror when she followed his stare to the glass gallery front.

  Coming down outside was a sheet of torrential rain, and she had neither the patience nor the clothing to deal with that sort of weather.

  Her attention was diverted from the window when he started to speak again.

  “I’ll take you. Wherever you need to go.” He stared at her, barely blinking.

  Saturday raised an eyebrow. Is he serious? He looks serious.

  She skimmed her eyes up and down the length of him in careful appraisal. Mmm…

  He was built, that was for sure. He had broad shoulders with a wide chest that lowered into a tapered waist and tight hips. He was pretty tall; at least to her 5’5” frame. Six-two…she wagered. He had long-ish brown hair that swept past his ear and a little down his neck.

  Saturday swallowed hard. His face was just…all types of yes. His strong jaw wore something closer to a 6-6:30-ish o’clock shadow. What he wore was modest: white t-shirt, faded jeans, brown leather jacket.

  Huh. Funny. She didn’t notice before. The gallery’s exhibit was a formal event. She realized that everyone was dressed in sophisticated attire…but him, and somehow, he oozed sophistication.

  He took his hat off. And those eyes…man, those eyes. He was looking intently at her now, fixing her with a steady and questioning gaze.

  Question. Oh…yeah. Didn’t he just ask a question? A suggestion, of some sort. What was it…? OH, right, right. Take me to my bus stop. Or home. Or to bed…Down, girl. He seems innocent enough…but so did Ted Bundy. Yeah, but…Ted Bundy was never THIS cute. Cut it out, Saturday.

  He seemed to sense her internal debate, and spoke up, extending his right hand towards her.

  “I’m Mark Rich…art-lover…and helper of the sore and stranded.” He grinned slowly.

  Saturday chuckled and grasped his hand. “I’m Saturday. I’m a tour guide with Clairvoyage. And yes…(she resolutely decided)…I will take that ride. But ONLY to the bus stop. It’s not far.” She stood up from her seat. “I appreciate this.”

  She looked around the gallery. Almost everyone had cleared out; a few stragglers made their way to the front doors. Her boss, Vicky, was gone and the other guides skedaddled as soon as the exhibit closed. Out of others’ earshot, Vicky’s slimy husband, Cristiano, offered Saturday a “ride,” but she gladly passed on that.

  Fuck you, vanity. You, too, swollen feet. Now, normally, she wouldn’t have accepted this kind of offer, but she was bone-tired and hurting. She already surmised that she’d mace his ass with her little pink pepper spray if he turned out to be crazy.

  Clutching her mace-laden purse, she let Mark guide her out of the gallery with his leather jacket as their overhead protection. Well, not so much “guide”…as hold the jacket over her head as she squealed, slipped and slid her way into the front passenger seat of his car.

  Mark eased Saturday into the seat, wrapping his jacket around her, and entered the driver’s side, turning the heat on high as she rattled off directions to her stop.

  The rain had been freezing, and to get warmer, Saturday let herself sink further into the leather seat of Mark’s Porsche (!?!). She inhaled deeply, taking a sly sniff of his weathered jacket.

  Soap…and coffee beans. Hm. A man after my own heart.

  Her ears perked up when she heard humming and drumming coming from the front seat. Green Eyes, in all of his wet-haired, wet-clothed glory…rocking to the beat of his own radio, clearly enjoying himself as he drove. She smiled into the collar of his jacket. Who is this guy?

  A thought came to Saturday’s mind. She pulled the collar higher over her face, and she let her eyes roam over him. With his white t-shirt wet, she could see every muscle, every line. Watching his full lips mouth the words coming from the speaker, she let her imagination play a little. His lips’ movement combined with his absent-minded fondle of the Porsche’s throttle sent her senses into overdrive as she thought of what each of those would feel like on her.

  She could sense her nipples hardening, despite the car’s warmth, but felt powerless to stop it. She could feel the area between her thighs become damp. With that realization, it dawned on her that Mark was simply one of the sexiest men she had ever laid eyes on. And his demeanor, his smile, the abandonment with which he now jammed to the music warmed her to him. He seemed so easy-going in demeanor today: lighter, looser.

  Before her thoughts could delve any further, they were slowing by her bus stop as her 11:02 bus cruised into its destination.

  The rain had thankfully stopped, giving Saturday a much-needed reprieve as she handed Mark’s jacket back to him. She wanted to believe that the spark she felt as their hands brushed in the exchange was a fluke, perhaps static shock, but she knew it wasn’t. She liked him.

  “Thank you,” Saturday said, facing him under the streetlight’s illumination. “Not many people would have done what you did for a complete stranger.”

  Something unidentifiable passed in Mark’s eyes, but it was over as soon it came.

  “My pleasure, Saturday.”

  She smiled, hopping out and rounding the car in front of the headlights. Before she could step foot on the bus, Mark called to her, stopping her in her tracks.

  He rolled down his window, looking straight into her eyes.

  “Oh… and Saturday… I hope you didn’t get too wet tonight.”

  Saturday froze, shell-shocked, as he flashed her the most bedazzling smile and then faded down the dimly lit street.

  To the Reader

  What did you think?

  Did you like the series? Love it? Hate it?

  What’d you think about the ending?

  Or was that the ending…? Hmmm…

  If you’d like a look at my other books on Amazon or Goodreads, please feel free to stop by! Think about leavinga review while you’re there, too!

  If you’d like to chat me up any time, g’head and e-mail me at nataliewrites@nataliewrye.com OR leave a comment on NatalieWrye.com OR on my Facebook.

  Acknowledgements

  There are FAR too many wonderful people in my life to name.

  Thanks to God, my family, the bloggers, the READERS!

  Just know that if you are someone who has had the opportunity to read a single word of anything that I’ve had the pleasure of writing that I love you… more than any words can ever say.

  More about the Author

  Natalie E. Wrye is a math geek by day, writer by night. She is a quirky, former Yankee living in Northwest Georgia with nothing but her Friends and Gilmore Girls reruns to keep her company.

  Natalie started writing nonsensical stories at the ripe age of 6; she hopes things have changed since then. She loves chocolate, cuddly things, and large libraries. Oh...and she thinks it's pretty cool to talk in 3rd person.

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