homemade love goop?
My mind flashed a bawdy image of Cooper dripping with honey, making me cringe and blush at the same time. “I’m not honeyfuggling with anyone, you dirty bird.”
Although, I wouldn’t have a problem licking the sticky stuff off Doc.
Harvey’s loud hoot of laughter made me wince. “You’re the one with a gutter mind. Honeyfuggle means you’re gonna sweet-talk Coop while you pull the wool over his eyes.”
“Oh, that kind of honeyfuggling.”
“What did you think I meant, girl?” The twinkle in his eyes told me he knew exactly what I’d thought he meant.
“Never mind. You could have just asked if I were going to deceive Cooper.”
“And miss watching you spit and sputter? Where’s the fun in that?”
“Shut up, old man.” I grabbed my tote and purse, hopped out, and slammed the pickup door behind me.
“Call me as soon as you’re done with Coop,” Harvey hollered through the open window. “I want to know all the details, especially the honeyfuggling ones.”
With another hoot of laughter, he drove off.
I’d taken a couple of steps toward the back door of Calamity Jane Realty when I heard Doc call my name.
I turned around and scanned the parking lot.
He stood next to his car, a sexy 1969 black Camaro SS with rally stripes, parked about ten stalls down from his usual spot.
I had several fantasies involving Doc’s car—some of them even included him.
Crossing the lot, I let my gaze drift down over Doc’s navy blue shirt and khakis. Very professional—creases and all today. His dark hair was combed back, the shallow cleft visible on his smooth-shaven chin. But I preferred his ensemble the last time I’d stood in his bedroom. Even better, skip the towel, finger muss his hair, and add a day or two’s worth of beard. Then I’d bring out the honey jar.
“You coming or going?” I asked, leaning against the back quarter panel of his car, keeping some space between us in case anyone was watching.
While we weren’t going out of our way to hide that I was showing him a lot more these days than just empty houses, my kids were still clueless about his being anything other than a good friend, and I wasn’t in a hurry to change that. Not to mention I wanted to avoid a chance sighting by Natalie, who probably had a voodoo doll of me and was just waiting for another reason to hold it over a gas burner.
“Going,” he answered, his sunglasses hiding his brown eyes and whatever was going on behind them. “I like that black dress.”
“You’ve seen me wear it before.”
I’d come from a funeral then, too, only that one had ended in my hiding in a crate from one of the lurking Mudder brothers.
“I know. I remember removing it with my teeth.”
So did I.
So did my libido, which rolled over and purred at the idea of getting Doc alone and repeating the experience.
“That’s right,” I said, “but I think I was wearing panties that time.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You were. I remember those, too.”
“Black and lacy, weren’t they?”
“Satin, not lace, with a little red bow at the top,” he said, his voice a tad gravelly.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the bow.”
“I didn’t. Twenty bucks says you’re lying about not wearing any now.”
He’d win that bet. I was wearing panties, and a slip, too. Who didn’t wear underwear to a funeral, especially a friend’s service? Well, besides Jane’s sleazy widower’s tramp? Or Harvey, who claimed going commando in polyester kept heat rashes at bay.
But I was willing to gamble and lose on this with Doc. I had a feeling he wouldn’t stop at calling my bluff, and due to life’s most recent curveball, I hadn’t had the chance to be alone with him since before Jane had died. After a week of wallowing in death, I was ready to get back to living and all of the fun that came with it—especially the kind of fun Doc offered.
I took a step toward him and pulled the hem of my dress up an inch or two, pretending I