Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

Paul on the other hand was talkative and inclusive and had made me feel welcomed from the moment we met. I breathed in, still aware of the scent of wine and cologne.

“Hey.” Westley’s voice came from the doorway and I jumped, bringing my hand to my chest. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Just tired,” I said.

“We were going to have a glass of wine and play some cards but …”

I didn’t want to miss out. I didn’t. And I wanted to make a good impression on Paul and DiAnn. Be a part of the family. Their family. Because I knew how much Paul meant to Westley. But my body felt heavy and older than its years and I couldn’t … I just couldn’t stay awake another minute. Hoping I had not made some faux pas, I asked, “Tomorrow night?”

“Sure thing.”

“Promise? It’s okay?”

Westley smiled slowly, then winked lazily, the rush of it sending me places I knew better than to go. “Promise.”

I crossed my arms against a new shyness. “Um—where is your room?”

He grinned at me. “There’s a bedroom and bath downstairs.” Westley’s brow cocked. “See? I told your dad you would be safe here.”

“Yes, you did. I’m glad to note you’re a man of your word,” I teased.

Westley didn’t move from the door but crooked his finger, silently telling me to come closer, which I did. He kissed me sweetly, his lips the only part of his body touching mine. “Sleep well, princess. Tomorrow’s a big day and I want you well rested.”

“I will,” I whispered. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Patterson

Patterson reached for the phone on his office desk, the corner one situated at the end of a hallway in the mathematics department of Dekalb College. The room had become a favorite place of his. He kept the furnishings simple—an oversized desk, a mid-century sofa with matching chairs, bookshelves lined perfectly. The paneled walls were devoid of art, despite Mary Helen’s insistence that she bring in a piece by some local artist whose work she’d fallen prey to.

The corner office meant windows and natural light, except on rainy days such as this one. Torrential, almost. Still, no one else had an office quite like his. No one.

“Hey there,” a smoky voice said, and he looked up from the papers he pored over at his desk.

An easy smile crossed his face before he could stop it. “Hey, yourself,” he said to the woman leaning against the doorframe, her curves accentuated by material that clung deliciously to her frame. “What brings you here so late on a Friday night?”

Rita Maledon pushed herself away from the doorway and into the room where she dropped onto the forest-green leather of one of the chairs. “What keeps you here?” She crossed one long leg over the other, the swish of stockings stirring him, the avoidance of his question riling him.

He pointed to the papers with the mechanical pencil dangling between two fingers. “Work. Just trying to finish up some things before the weekend.”

Rita’s lips—glossy and full—pursed and she pushed silky brown curls over her shoulder. “Because Mary Helen may have a million little things for you to do?” Her tiger-like eyes narrowed. “How is she, by the way?”

“Cool as always, Rita. Why?”

She stood then, high-heeled boots clipping to the opposite side of the desk, braced her palms on the wood, and leaned forward enough to bring her sweet scent to his nostrils and her intent into focus. “Look,” she said. “I’m just going to say it. You and I have had a good thing since I started working here …”

Patterson dropped the pencil and leaned back to rest his elbows on the arms of his chair. He pushed as far from the desk as he could, then crossed his legs. “Sure, as long as it suits your timetable.” Outside the window, a flash of lightning brought brief revelation to the room.

She stood straight. “Are we going there again?”

“You know what I want.”

Now she found her way around to his side of the desk where she perched against the edge. A roll of thunder rumbled through the room. “You want me exclusively, which I completely understand, Patterson. I do. But you’re a married man and I’m a single woman. You cannot expect me to be true to you.”

“Why can’t I?”

She crossed her arms. “Be reasonable.”

“I think I am. I’m telling you what I want, Rita. From you. From me. For us.”

Rain slashed against the window now, the storm growing. Rita walked back to the chair. Sat again. Crossed her legs again, the swish stirring him further. “And Mary Helen? What do you want for her?”

“I told you how it is. I’ve never lied to you about that. She’s my wife, but we don’t—jive—in that department.”

She took in a deep breath. Exhaled. “And yet …” she said, her head tilting to the right, “you have three daughters. Somebody’s been doing something at some point.”

He refused to answer. To rise to the bait. Finally, he pulled himself back to the desk, reached for the pencil, and said, “I need to finish this work. It’s been a long day.” But she didn’t move. He looked up without raising his head. “Anything else?”

She smiled, slow and catlike. “All right, Patterson. We’ll play it your way.”

Now his head came up, his chin rose. He looked at the woman who’d been his friend, his mistress, his confidante, and—yes—his nemesis, then to the open doorway, before his eyes slid back to hers. “But how long this time? A week? A month?”

“Patterson,” she breathed out. “Quit making it a math problem and just go with it. Take life by the horns and have a little fun without trying to complicate matters.”

He laughed then; he couldn’t help it. “Tell you what, Rita …”

“What?”

“Why don’t you get up … prance yourself right back to that door over there …”

One brow arched and a half smile crept toward her high cheekbone. “And then?”

“Shut the door.”

She slid to the end of her