*
“Babe.”
I was in the danger zone.
“Hey.” A hand was on my hip.
Highway straight to the danger zone.
That hand gently shook me. “Amy.”
My eyes fluttered open and I saw dark purple twill.
I knew exactly where I was.
I was in a home with a family that liked me.
A home where we sat in the sun on the deck and ate three different salads (all excellent), superbly grilled brats and chicken breasts slathered in barbeque sauce. This being followed by a heavenly chocolate cake that made my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes seem like sawdust topped with pillow foam.
A home where I told a fourteen-year-old girl I felt that way about her cake, and she handed the world to me when her blue eyes started shining.
A home where we chatted and laughed and ended our meal playing Frisbee.
A home where I could run around the backyard with kids who enjoyed my company, demonstrating my Frisbee prowess because I was an awesome Frisbee player, seeing as my brother and I would go to the beach as often as possible (it was what you did, we grew up in La Jolla, we had a beach, we used it) and we’d play Frisbee. And being good at Frisbee was apparently a skill you didn’t lose.
A home where, during Frisbee, an eleven-year-old boy told me I was “da bomb” because I was an awesome Frisbee player.
A home where, after Frisbee, we camped out on a big cozy sectional to watch Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer play volleyball (amongst other things) and with beer, a full belly and wonderful company, relaxed and at ease, I’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of that big, cozy, purple couch.
Right then, still half-asleep, I turned my head and looked into Mickey Donovan’s amazing blue eyes.
This didn’t make me shake the dream.
No, the dream took hold of me and I stayed in the danger zone because I liked it.
And I liked it because I was in a home with a handsome man who protected me, fed me, laughed with me, was open, honest, loved his kids, didn’t hide his admiration of my Frisbee abilities, and who looked after me.
“Kids are in bed,” this handsome man in his comfortable home murmured to me words a handsome father, a handsome husband, a handsome lover would say to his woman. “You needed to crash, so I let you sleep. Now we both need to hit our beds, Amy.”
We did. We needed to hit our beds.
But half-asleep, staring at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, having the only really good day I’d had in three years, spending time with him, being a part of his life, a part of his family, I decided first that I needed to hit him.
So I did, blinking at the dream that still had hold of me, unwilling and maybe unable to let it go, I leaned up and in, doing it deep. At the same time, I lifted a hand to curl around the side of his strong neck, feeling the muscle there and also feeling the thrill of knowing that hardness was probably everywhere.
And without delay, I pressed my lips to his, wanting nothing more, nothing else, nothing in my whole life, caring about nothing but living that dream.
Mickey jerked away.
I jerked fully awake.
“Amy,” he whispered.
Oh God, had I just kissed Mickey?
I stared at him, immobile, no, frozen, completely mortified, taking in the look in his eyes.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God.
I’d just kissed him.
I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”
“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.
“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”
Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.
But my feet had a mind of their own.
They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.
I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.
I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!
I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.
The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.
I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.