Shiver / Private Sessions: Shiver / Private Sessions

Yeah, she definitely wanted to see how Sam looked when he rolled out of bed.

“We have a terrific masseur who comes up to the hotel. His name is Michael, and he’s studied touch therapy for years. He runs a well-known studio and school in Crider. Even if you don’t win, you should try and make time for one of his massages.”

“Oh,” she said, as she looked at the great pile of pumpkins.

“What’s wrong? You sound disappointed.”

With her heart beating fast, her courage at maximum, she turned to look him straight in the eyes. “I was hoping, if I won, that you’d give me my massage.”

His pupils dilated. She’d wager he was blushing as hard as she was, but she didn’t move her gaze an inch.

“I think that could be arranged.”

“What if I don’t win?” she asked.

He smiled. She could tell by the lines at his eyes. By his eyebrows. “It could still be arranged.”

She let out her held breath, then turned back to pumpkin picking. It wasn’t that she was playing it cool. On the contrary. If she’d kept staring at him like that, and if he’d kept looking back at her with the blatant hunger in his hazel eyes, she’d have kissed him. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him or herself, not so early in the evening, at least. Besides, now there was this between them. Much stronger than before, when it wasn’t a sure thing. Now, it was all tension and subtext and potential. So delicious she shivered with it.

“People,” he said, just above a whisper.

“What about them?”

“They’re coming. I should … do … things.”

She nodded, still not looking at him, smiling at his failure to be the least bit suave. It was tempting to tease him, to discombobulate him as the conference attendees came rushing into the ballroom, eager to snatch the best seat, the best pumpkin. It was quite possible that Erin was among them, and Carrie should have cared about that as she was supposed to have picked out their seats. Not that they’d discussed the contest arrangements, but between them, it was the way things were done. The first one there secured seating or tickets or places in line. But Carrie didn’t care where they sat. Or if they sat. She wanted to think about the sex, think about Sam. Think about sex with Sam.

“Have you decided?” he asked, startling her with his volume.

“What?”

“Which pumpkin you’d like.”

“Oh. Okay, sure. That one.” She pointed down and to the right, which turned out to be not the most perfect of pumpkins. In fact, it was unusually tall, but as soon as she saw, she knew exactly what she was going to draw.

He picked up her selection and when he stood, he met her gaze once more, only something had changed in the few seconds since his question. Somehow, she guessed through some decision he’d made, he’d become far more confident, relaxed. And damn, sexier than ever. “Let’s get you a seat.”

She followed him, not saying a word as he found a table near the back, on the end. He put the pumpkin on the butcher paper between the markers, then he touched her upper arm. “Do you think Erin has a particular pumpkin type? “

Carrie shook her head. “Oddly, we’ve never discussed the issue.”

“If you had to guess?”

“I’d said asymmetrical. Something interesting.”

“I’ll be back.”

She watched him walk through the burgeoning crowd, and though his hair still rebelled, he was all long legs and easy grace, and Carrie gave herself a quick hug, so proud of herself and her bravery she could just spit. She wasn’t one of those women who could snare a man with a come-hither glance. Her confidence was primarily in her pen, on paper. In sharp retorts and wicked double entendres, all the things she’d promised to keep under wraps for the duration of the conference. And yet, she’d managed to say just the right thing at the right time. What would happen from here was anyone’s guess, but things were definitely looking up.

7

BY THE TIME ERIN sat down on the opposite side of the table, Carrie was already into her first sketch.

People were still settling in, raising their voices with excited chatter as they found their pumpkins and their seats. According to the program, there would be announcements about the nighttime activities, then a talk about the contest itself, explaining the rules and demonstrating how to make a pattern and transfer it to the gourds.

“You look happy,” Erin said, gripping her coffee cup with the strength of one not fully awake. “Did you get laid?”

Carrie darted a glance at the long-haired woman sitting next to Erin, who smiled at her enquiringly. “No,” Carrie said, trying to give Erin the eye, which didn’t work. “I didn’t. But I clearly got more sleep than you. What time did you hit the room?”

“Too late. Or would that be too early? Sorry I missed you for breakfast. I had the best pancakes in the history of pancakes. I think I’m going to put on twenty pounds while I’m here, and I couldn’t care less.”

Carrie ignored the complaint as she decided she wasn’t thrilled with her drawing. She crumpled it, then took another sheet of paper. “So, still no ghosts?”

“Not yet. Some more suspicious temperature readings, though. The honchos are setting up inside the inn for later tonight. I’m going to be in the Old Hotel tonight. I’m so excited. It feels … Something’s going to happen tonight. I feel it. You know?”

“Absolutely not, but good for you. Keep that positive thought. I mean, come on, what ghost wouldn’t want to meet you? They’d have to be insane to pass up the opportunity.”

“Yeah.” Erin’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’m a bundle of delight.”

“Shut up. You are.”

“I need more caffeine.”

“I’ll say. What do you think of your pumpkin?”

Erin gave it a look, but her expression didn’t change a bit. “It’s a pumpkin.”

“You don’t want to change it for another?”

“I don’t care. I’m not gonna do anything with it. You’re going to win, and I want to bask in your reflected glory.”

“I know just what I want, but I’m not quite getting it,” Carrie admitted. “I’m a bit distracted.”

“Oh?” Only her best friend would have made the connection directly from that banal sentence to “something happened with Sam.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Do tell.”

Carrie looked at Erin’s neighbor. Unabashed, the woman, who had a nice heart-shaped face that shouldn’t have been so hidden by her lank dark hair, smiled and waited.

“Later.”

“Spoilsport.” Erin moved the pumpkin and the supplies to one side, then put her head down in the hollow of her crossed arms. “Wake me when something juicy happens.”

Carrie stared at her blank paper, but before she touched it with her pencil, she looked up. Sam was two aisles away, his back to her. Even though she knew it was a little sexist and definitely shallow, she loved the contrast between his broad shoulders and trim hips. With his hair over his collar and the way his black jeans hugged his ass, he was kind of perfect.

There wouldn’t be time to discover the inevitable annoying things, for either of them. He didn’t have to know she liked to eat her cereal with juice instead of milk, or ketchup on her cold spaghetti. Or that sometimes she would get so involved with her comic that whole days would pass without her realizing it.