Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

and was planning a ski trip to Boone, North Carolina “before the snow melts.”

The only thing he hadn’t done by his typical standards was reach for me at night, a circumstance he blamed on his medication.

“Are you sure?” I asked him one night. I knelt beside him in our bed, him on his stomach with me massaging his back. “You promise it’s the meds and not me?”

He craned his neck to look at me. “How could it possibly be you?” he asked with a smile. “You’re beautiful, you’re sexy, and I love you like mad. Always have. Always will.”

I returned the smile as I continued to knead his warm flesh, wishing I could feel his muscles move and stretch above me rather than beneath, the warmth of his breath sighing onto my skin. But he returned his face to the crook of his arm, leaving me unsure as to whether he’d placated me or told me the truth. I leaned over and kissed the line where neck and shoulders meet, slid my tongue upward toward his earlobe. “What about now?” I teased, hopeful.

“Ali,” he mumbled. “Stop.” He rolled onto his back, drew me into his arms and kissed my temple. “You’ll have to trust me on this one, okay? I know the side effects and I’ve talked with the doctor about it. As soon as I can wean off, Mother Nature will take over and I’ll be back in the saddle.”

“Back in the saddle?”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s just,” I whispered around the knot that threatened to choke out the words, “that I love you and I miss … that.”

“Me, too,” he said. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

Cindie

Everything had to be perfect.

Everything. From the meal to the music. From the words to the timing in which she spoke them.

Patterson had been on a Kenny G kick lately, so she went out and purchased the latest. Had it playing loud enough that he’d hear it when he slid his key into the front door lock.

A bottle of his preferred wine was open and breathing on the bar. She’d timed his favorite meal from her kitchen—smothered pork chops with asparagus and seasoned baby red potatoes—to the minute. And, of course, she had taken great pains in choosing what she’d wear. Had gone shopping for the right outfit, settling on a white knit too-short skirt with matching sweater accentuated by a wide red knit belt. More sash than belt, really.

She nearly broke her budget with the purchase of gold mesh earrings that dripped seductively from her earlobes toward her shoulders, then decided to go all the way and purchased the complementary necklace. Then, keeping with what made Patterson happy, she met him at the door barefoot, despite the chill in the air. The fire in the fireplace would take care of that.

And, hopefully, her news.

He smiled as soon as he saw her, and she hurried over to him. Locked her arms around his neck and kissed him. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed, but his grin grew broader. “Do I smell smothered pork chops?” he asked.

Cindie pretended to pout. “Really?” She stepped back. Turned slowly. Seductively. “Is that all you’re interested in?”

“Well,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, “No, but I am hungry, and you know how much I love your smothered pork chops.” He took a step toward the dining room, stopping short at the view of linen and crystal and gleaming china. “You brought out the good stuff,” he said. “Did I forget something? I know it’s not your birthday.”

She wrapped her arm around his and guided him toward the table set for two. “No, silly. Have we been together so long that I can’t treat you to a special dinner? Light the candles, will you?” She released him, picked up the plates, and started toward the kitchen. “I’ll serve the food.”

“Kenny G,” he called out as she spooned a generous helping of potatoes onto his plate.

“You like?” she answered back.

“Yes, I do. When’d you get it?”

Cindie returned to the dining room carrying two plates of steaming hot food, one with noticeably larger portions. “Today,” she answered as he took the plates from her. She looked down; he’d kicked off his shoes, his black socks a stark contrast to the carpet. When Patterson took their plates, she turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the wine.”

She returned less than a minute later to hand him the dark-green bottle. “Do the honors?”

“You’re beginning to make me nervous,” he said with a chuckle that failed him.

“Sit,” she said, then slid onto her chair. “Why’s that?”

Patterson sat across from her. “Muted lights. Kenny G.” He leaned back. “Is that a new outfit?”

“It is,” she answered, picking up her fork. “Eat before it gets cold.”

“And new jewelry?” he asked, reaching for his knife and fork.

“You like? The light, the music, the outfit, the jewelry?”

“Very much so.” He took a bite of pork chop. “Dear Lord in heaven, this is … so … good.” He swallowed then. “Cindie.”

“Yes?”

He pointed the fork at her. “Tell me the truth right now. And no funny business. What is this about? Is your checking account in the red again? Do you need money?”

“I’m doing fine, Patterson.” And she was. More than fine. That was the one and only good deal in her allowing Michelle to continue to live with Westley. No “child expenses” and no “child support.” Her money was hers to make and hers to spend. “When was the last time I asked you for money?”

“It’s been a while.”

“See? A little education and a good job go a long way.”

“Indeed, they do.” He took another bite, swallowed. “But you and I both know this isn’t our typical evening at home.”

That much was true. Then again, they had no typical evenings at home. Nor did they have typical evenings anywhere else. Every “night out” was in secret. Every trip a rendezvous.

Patterson started for his wine, then stopped. “Seriously,” he said. “Is there something you need