Lightning Strikes

Blaine sighed deeply. Then coughed. Damn allergies.

Dabbing the tissue at her nose, she stroked her finger in a lazy path along a metallic curve, enjoying the streak of moisture left from her hot skin making contact with the cool metal. So cool. So hot outside. Would anyone notice if I pressed my hot face against this cool metal?

She looked around. Jerome, the store owner, stood by a window, his hair glinting silver in a stream of sunlight, where he fastidiously dusted off an antique cabinet. But no one else was around. Great. She leaned over and pressed her forehead, then her cheek, against the sleek metal.

Ahhhhhh.

This had to be better than sticking her face in front of a fan, which she’d been doing back at her office all morning long. Especially after David called to announce he was engaged to another girl, although the fan didn’t, unfortunately, blow away her disappointment. So she’d reminded herself that four months of Thursday-night dates didn’t necessarily equate to ever-after.

For David, it didn’t equate to exclusivity either, it appeared.

But for Blaine, it had been a close-enough, sorta-boyfriend situation that she’d suggested they take a romantic Alaskan cruise, a dream she’d nursed since grammar school when she’d written a report on the northern lights. When David agreed, Blaine had exuberantly spent her income tax return on a cruise ticket. Which she’d been on her way to get a cash refund for when this beguiling bed had snagged her attention.

She pressed her cheek harder against the metal, loving its sleek, cool texture. If only men were like this. Stable, reassuring, cool when it was hot outside…hot when it was cool inside…

“Blaine, dear, are you all right?”

Blaine, her cheek still pressed to the section of brass bed, shifted her gaze. Jerome stood stiffly next to her, his gray, cookie-duster mustache twitching. His gaze darted to the metal pressed to her cheek, then back to her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, easing ever so casually to a standing position, hoping she didn’t have a cylindrical indent on her cheek. Jerome’s cologne, which always smelled like spicy orchids to her, traced the air.

“Still haven’t fixed your air-conditioning?”

“When my accounts pay up, I might.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Blaine knew that Jerome knew exactly what she was talking about. Several months ago, Jerome had hired Blaine to organize an estate sale, for which he had yet to pay. As owner of the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency, she normally brokered temporary personnel for others—anything from accounting to technical writing—but because Jerome had been an old friend of her mother’s, Blaine had taken on management of the estate sale herself.

Then, the economy took a surprising nosedive. Businesses started cutting back on everything from office supplies to employee head count. The latter hit Blaine’s business hard because before a company reduced its own employee base, it eliminated all workers contracted through outside agencies. Which was, unfortunately exactly what the Blaine Saunders Temporary Agency specialized in—contracting workers, from secretaries to database specialists, to businesses.

Almost overnight, she lost three-fourths of her contracts with local corporations. To make ends meet, Blaine had moved out of her condo and rented a small room in someone’s house. And she applied for a small-business loan, which she’d hear soon if the bank approved or not. She’d also requested her outstanding accounts to please pay up, but when Jerome had pleaded tight finances, she’d told him to pay when convenient.

Which made her feel a tad guilty for her quick retort, but if Jerome wanted to mention her not being able to fix things, well…

He glanced around his shop, then leaned forward slightly. “You’re second on my list,” he said under his breath. “Right after I pay Ralph.”

“Ralph?” She thought she knew everyone in Manitou Springs.

“He delivers the antiques to my customers.” Straightening, Jerome raised his voice. “Heard your father’s working with you.”

When the economy faltered, her dad had volunteered to help Blaine out at the agency. Having let go of her part-time assistant, Blaine had appreciated her dad’s offer. Plus, she knew he welcomed a respite from spending the bulk of his retirement years parked in front of a TV.

“Yes, he’s having a wonderful time playing receptionist,” Blaine said. And a wonderful time playing matchmaker, or trying to. She had yet to tell him about David getting engaged to another woman…Blaine felt bad, yes, but she knew her father would be downright devastated.

A slightly crooked lamp shade caught Jerome’s eye. “Also heard your sister’s getting married.” He reached for the shade and leveled it with a flick of his fingertips.

Sonja, Blaine’s kid sister, had always been one for surprises. Her most recent being her news that she planned to elope in a week with a cadet who’d just graduated from the prestigious Air Force Academy in nearby Colorado Springs. Their dad, after darn near kissing the ground, had convinced Sonja to at least have a small ceremony in town, claiming it’s what her dearly departed mother would have wanted.

“Yes, she’s getting married,” Blaine affirmed, realizing Jerome had successfully steered the conversation away from his debt. “Mom would have been so proud.”

Ever since they had lost her to cancer fifteen years ago, Blaine had been a surrogate mom to Sonja. Which hadn’t been bad because practical, tomboyish Blaine got to live out all the fun girly stuff through her popular sister Sonja.

Jerome’s voice interrupted Blaine’s thoughts. “It’s a beautiful bed, isn’t it?”

Blaine eyed the glistening brass beauty that had lured her into Jerome’s shop. “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, her fingers playing along one of the shiny cylinders that curled seductively in the headboard. She tried to imagine the bed in the cramped room she was renting, but realized there was no way this exquisite object could even begin to fit in the door, much less the room.

Jerome touched a veined hand to the brass knob that topped one of the four posters of the bed. “Just received it yesterday,” he said, the pride evident in his voice. “We’ve already had an offer.”

“An offer?” Blaine’s fingers tightened possessively on a bend of metal.

“Yes.” Jerome lifted the price tag, a square red label that dangled from a section of brass. “They said they’d return today, by noon. I’m hoping they want to at least make a down payment…”

By noon? She jerked her head to her wrist and checked the time. Eleven fifty-five. “They can’t!” she blurted.

Jerome cocked one white eyebrow. “Blaine, I do believe the heat’s gotten to you. You never raise your voice.”

“When it’s important, I do.” And suddenly, this bed was very, very important.

“And what’s so important about this bed?”

Because it symbolizes everything I’m not, and everything I’ve secretly desired—passion, fantasy, forbidden indulgences. “Because…it’d be a perfect wedding gift for Sonja.” That sounded better than to admit she coveted it. But on second thought, she realized it would be perfect for Sonja and her husband-to-be.

“Is Sonja’s betrothed going to buy it?”

Blaine pursed her lips. Hardly. Sonja’s fiancé, Rudy, was on a squeaky-tight budget.

“No,” she answered, tilting her head to see the price on that red tag. She blinked at the string of numbers, and comma. Two-thousand-plus dollars. Hoo-boy. Even though, after cashing in her cruise ticket, she’d have double that much, she didn’t need to splurge half of it on a bed.

The slam of a car door distracted Blaine.

A pleased expression crossed Jerome’s face as he peered out the plate glass window. “Ah, there they are now.”

Blaine glanced out the window. A couple who looked to be in their forties were getting out of one of those ritzy sports cars. They looked supercoiffed, as though they never wrinkled or sweated. As they headed across the street toward the antique shop, Blaine wondered if they always sauntered as though they didn’t have a care in the world. And more, what it felt like to not have any worries or cares.

The couple entered the shop, eyed Jerome, and waved a greeting. “We wanted to look at it one more time,” the woman called out in a singsong voice.

Blaine tightened her grip.

The couple approached the bed, then walked slowly around it, inspecting it.

“It’s a bit high,” the woman murmured.

Thanks to the rose scent from the woman’s perfume, Jerome’s exotic-orchid scent and the world of pollen, it took all of Blaine’s willpower to not explode a sneeze that could move this bed to the next county. She had to be alert, pay attention. The bed was at stake.

“The height has an advantage,” commented Jerome, folding his hands neatly on top of each other. “You can store things underneath, saving room in the bedroom.”

The woman arched one unnaturally blond eyebrow. “And the brass…the color isn’t uniform.”

“It’s an antique,” Jerome explained. “It’s aged with time, like a fine wine.”