Page 513 of Summer Heat
Then Alonzo, too, was on his way. Tamara’s stomach gave a little jump when Lance stood up. Maybe he’d go, too, and she could stop feeling so tense.
But he didn’t. He tossed his jean jacket over his shoulder and picked up his beer. Ambling with that set-the-streets-afire loose-limbed grace, he crossed the room. To the bar, where he settled with a faint smile on his lips. “Get me another beer, please?”
Without speaking, Tamara turned and fished one out of the cooler. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she opened it and set it down beside him. She hoped he didn’t notice.
It would all be a hell of a lot easier if he weren’t so wretchedly, exquisitely perfect. The glimmer in his eye, that lean and sexy body, the cut of his face. It wasn’t fair.
And it wasn’t as if she were the only woman in the room to notice, either. A gaggle of woman in a corner booth eyed him, some covertly, one boldly. Tamara lifted her chin toward them. “I think you might be able to wrangle a dance out of one of those young ladies.”
Lance grinned and lifted his beer lazily, taking a long pull before he settled it back on the bar. “I never had to ‘wrangle’ a dance in my life.” His eyes tilted mischievously. “I just go on out and claim one.”
“I’m so impressed.”
“I knew you would be.” He glanced over his shoulder at the table of women. “I have a feeling they’d be a lot more so.”
He left his beer on the bar and strolled over to the table. Tamara crossed her arms against the slightly sick feeling in her stomach, trying to guess which one he’d ask. There were two possibilities. A brunette in a turquoise blouse, with earrings beaded to match the beads on her shirt; and a slim, tiny blonde in a bare nothing of a dress. They both eyed him with avarice, shifting in their seats to display their attributes to best advantage.
Tamara was suddenly transported to a shopping mall in Denver, ten years before. She had been sitting with Valerie in a cafe open to the view of passerbys, and Valerie had preened just like this the entire time they sat there—pouting and leaning and tossing her dark, glossy hair to send it rippling over her snowy white and perfect shoulders.
Tamara had felt then what she felt now. As plain as rice. Even worse, tonight she felt the stickiness of sweet and sour mix on her skin, and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, and the limpness of hair pinned up. She wished she owned a single item of alluring clothing. Just one blouse that might make her look like something other than a hardworking mother with no ready cash.
She didn’t wait to see which of the two pretty women Lance picked, but grabbed a bar towel and vigorously began to wipe down surfaces. It was hours before they closed, but the more work she did now, the less she’d have to do later.
Turning her back to the room, she started wiping down liquor bottles, turning their labels to face front. In the mirror behind the bottles, she had a good view of Lance’s broad back, covered in red plaid flannel. She tried not to look, but traitorously watched as the woman stood up. The brunette. No, must be the blonde. No, it was another girl entirely, the only one at the table she would not have imagined Lance to pick.
Her name was Marissa. Tamara knew her from school. She was pretty enough with thick, perfectly cut dark hair and big blue eyes. In coloring, at least, she was like Valerie.
But Marissa was quite, quite heavy. Not merely plump. Not Rubenesque. She wore flowing, pretty fabrics, and carried herself lightly, but there was no denying the fact that she was at least seventy-five pounds overweight. Maybe even a hundred.
Tamara dropped the pretense of watching in the mirror, and turned around. Marissa’s face was wreathed in an attractive flush and as she followed Lance to the dance floor. He took her hand and gave her a dazzling version of his killer smile.
They danced. And danced and danced and danced. And against her will, Tamara was touched. And they were well matched on the dance floor—moving wildly and cheerfully and exuberantly. Everyone watching had to smile.
When, winded and flushed and perspiring, they finally quit, Lance grabbed her arm as she started to return to her booth, and pointed to the bar. The girl laughed and nodded.
Tamara met them, a tight knot of something in her chest. “What would you like?” she asked, putting a napkin down.
“Hi!” Marissa said. “Weren’t you in my accounting class last semester?”
“Yes. You were the one with the 4.0 average.” Tamara smiled ruefully. “I was the one who flunked the final and had to repeat the class.”
“Oh, no!” Marissa reached over the bar and put her hand on Tamara’s. “You should call me. I’m really good at it. I can help you if you want.”
She really was astonishingly pretty. Skin like porcelain. Tamara wondered how she kept it so flawless. “Thanks.”
Lance winked. “I’ve been telling Tamara she doesn’t strike me as a math person. What do you think?”
“Oh, really?” Marissa smiled. “That’s not something you can tell by looking at a person. Do you like numbers?”
Tamara allowed a reluctant smile. “No. But a person cannot support herself with an English degree.”
“That’s true.”
“You can do anything you want to do,” Lance said, shaking his head. “You just have to believe you can.”
“Right. It’s easy to say that when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” Tamara said. “Money makes everything easy.”
To her surprise, Lance lowered his head, almost wincing. Oddly, Tamara felt a little ashamed of herself.
