Once Upon A Mattress. Kathleen O'Reilly
everything was so easy. Life was just one big piece of chocolate cake. Dr. Tracy knew better.
Their eyes met, hers daring, his amused. “Okay, we’ll play advice counselor. Turn up the volume.”
Hilary adjusted the knob and they both listened to the female caller’s voice.
“Dr. Tracy, I’m eighteen, and I’m in love with a great guy. We’ve only known each other for about six months, but I can tell that he’s the one. We’ve been talking about marriage, but I know my parents won’t approve. What should I do?”
Hilary muted the radio and shot a curious look at Ben. “So, what is your advice, Dr. MacAllister?”
He put down the hammer and leaned on the top step of the ladder. “Elope. Skip the confrontation with the parents and just go for it. Et tu, Dr. Sinclair?”
Just as she had suspected. Fly-by-night. Entirely irresponsible. She took a sip of tea, mulling over her response. “What about college? What about learning what this guy is about? What if he’s a deadbeat?”
Ben lifted another board and she got a little dry in the mouth in the presence of such amazing biceps.
She nearly missed his response. “What about love?” he asked.
At that exact moment in the world, she was sure that some little porker had just sprung wings. “You’re a romantic.”
“No, just practical.”
“How so?”
“If things don’t work out, a divorce, no harm, no foul.”
Trust a man to be so slapdash about marriage. Mark hadn’t been slapdash. “They should wait. Take their time. Eighteen is too young to get married, and divorce is not an option.”
He shot her a curious look. “Catholic, Miss Sinclair?”
Hilary raised her chin. “No, I just have high standards.” Too late. She realized that she might have put her foot in it. “Have you been married before, Mr. MacAllister?”
“Nope.”
“So you have loads of experience to draw on?”
“Have you been married before, Miss Sinclair?”
“No.”
“What about Mark?”
Instantly Hilary was back in Atlanta, back in the condo, eating Thursday-night lasagna and playing poker. Mark couldn’t stand to lose, so she would always let him win. In seven years, he never caught on. He just thought she was a crappy player. She drew up her knees tightly, reluctant to talk to Ben about Mark. She’d already mistaken him for Mark once and look where that got her. “You almost done up there?”
Ben picked up the hammer once more and began pounding. “Yeah. Just a few minutes.”
They were as different as two men could be. Mark had dark hair, cut in a short, practical manner. Ben had light brown hair that never seemed to stay in place. Mark was steady and reliable. But Ben MacAllister was a 24/7 candy store that believed in free samples. The man coasted on a wink and a smile.
Yet there was Mr. Unreliable, stuck on a ladder fixing her ceiling.
How did that work? Hilary shook her head, feeling too tired to contemplate the possibility of being wrong twice in one evening.
She leaned her head back against the soft cushions of her chair and listened as Dr. Tracy dispatched words of wisdom—agreeing with Hilary, of course—and gloried in the amazing power of Mr. Unreliable’s biceps.
IT WAS ALMOST TEN o’clock before her roof was somewhat restored. The boards looked pretty unsightly, unfinished pine over mangled Sheetrock, but it was a small price to pay now that it no longer rained in her house. If it really got to her, she supposed she could paint it a fashionable shade of purple. Ben finished packing up her tools and collapsed on her couch.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” he said, pushing wayward hair out of his eyes. “You look wiped.” Actually, she thought he was being kind. She felt miserable, but she couldn’t quite force herself to stop watching him. It was like staring after a car wreck. You hate yourself for doing it, but you can’t bring yourself to avoid it, either.
“You’re sitting on my bed.”
It was as if she’d told him he was sitting on nitro. He jumped up, and then took a good look around the place. She was too drained to be embarrassed, but her toes curled anyway. She’d never been an incredibly material person, but she did have some pride.
“You don’t own anything, do you?” he asked, now leaning against the back of the couch, his hands jammed in his pockets. She watched her pride flutter out the window.
“I manage,” she said, tossing her head in a very Mae manner.
“Yeah,” he answered, a wealth of disbelief in the word, the Mae gesture completely wasted.
It was an odd moment. She knew he should leave, and he knew he should leave as well. Yet, both of them continued talking, trading barbs, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. An insidious memory crept into her mind, the feel of his mouth at her breast. Suddenly the soft material of her robe became unbearable.
He seemed to feel the tension as well. “Stay at home tomorrow. Get well.” He picked up his overcoat and started to the door.
“I have a conference call scheduled in the morning,” she said, willing him to stay.
“I can get Helga to reschedule it for you,” he answered, shrugging into the coat.
“No. I want to renegotiate the rate we’re getting for cotton batting, and I’ve finally gotten on the calendar with a VP at Masters Bonded Fibers.”
“Then I’ll take the call for you.”
He sounded serious. Even in the drug-induced haze of her brain, she recognized the sincerity in his voice. Curious, she studied him, searching for the punch line. But there didn’t seem to be one. “No offense, but I can handle it.”
His face cleared, all sincerity gone. Instead, he assumed the vacant look that he seemed to have perfected and shook a warning finger at her. “Fine. Take the call, be stubborn, but if the entire company comes down with the flu, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“I don’t have the flu,” she said, mainly because she felt like crap and didn’t like listening to lectures.
Ben stopped in the doorway, then swore softly and turned around. “You do have blankets, don’t you?”
“There are a couple in the back room.”
“Go lie down then,” he said, with a gesture at the couch.
While he retrieved the bed linens, Hilary sank gratefully onto the long, leather couch. Her bones felt as if they were made of water, and as she lay down, she sighed in relief.
A warm blanket covered her, her herbal pillow placed under her head. She closed her eyes, comfortable for the first time in days.
For a moment he stroked her hair with a gentle hand. “Good night, Hilary Sinclair.”
“Good night, Ben MacAllister.”
There was a click as he flipped off the lights, and the room was shrouded in the night, the rain no longer a miserable thing, now it seemed more like a friend.
He walked toward the door, and she lifted her head up, watching his silhouette in the darkness. “Ben?”
At her voice, he stopped, and she stared after him. Another time she might have asked him to stay, but it wouldn’t be this night. He wasn’t the right man, so “Thank you” was what she ended up saying.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied, and left.
Once more Hilary was all alone. After she heard the whir of