Karl? I’m slow to register the silliness of my thoughts. My husband has been dead for nearly seven years.
“Who’s Karl?” A rugged, rumbly voice asks, and two things surprise me at once: the depth of his tenor and the unfamiliarity of it. I twist, knocking my shoulder into a solid wall of male chest. I don’t put a dent in his position, but instead bounce off of him, making my head ache more.
“Who are you?” I squeak, wondering however in tarnation did a man get into my hotel bed.
“You answer me first,” he mumbles, his voice still sleep-rough and with his eyes closed.
“He’s my husband.”
I don’t know how fast a big bodied man can typically move but the speed with which this man scrambled from behind me was record-breaking. He stood at the end of the king-size bed staring back at me a long moment, eyes blinking until I came into focus to him and the reality of who he was became clear to me.
“You have a husband?” He chokes, swiping a hand the size of a dinner plate through thick, wild locks of midnight. With several swift wipes, I notice it refuses to go back into place and I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through those waves.
The silence settles between us and I remember he’s waiting on an answer from me.
“Had. My husband is dead.”
He blinks, eyes dark as rich chocolate reaching for mine. “I’m sorry.”
“It was mistaken identity. He was murdered.” I don’t know why I offer this information to a complete stranger, but there it is. My husband Karl Simmons was wrongfully killed.
Is there a rightfully killed?
Shaking my head, I dismiss both my crazy question and my sorrowful memory. Karl and I might not have had the best marriage, but we had an understanding.
The stranger nods, and I take a second to assess him. Broad shoulders under a white tee. Black dress pants minus a belt. A well-trimmed beard that looks as if it would be wild and reckless like his hair within another day.
“You’re Chester Chesterfield,” I blurt.
The corner of his lip tweaks upward, crooked and sarcastic. “That’s right. Thanks for remembering.”
How could I forget? Chester Chesterfield was the esteemed guest and keynote speaker at the Tennessee Entrepreneur Conference yesterday evening in which the honor for outstanding female-led, small business owner of the year was awarded. I was a nominee. I didn’t win.
Chester Chesterfield, however, is a prize in and of himself. Rumored to be a petroleum oil tycoon, and not to be confused with petroleum jelly—the moisturizing kind—he spoke about the benefits and necessity of locally-owned, small businesses to a community and Tennessee as a whole. Easy for him to say, though, as he’s worth millions of dollars from a business I can’t imagine remains small.
“I’m Scotia Simmons,” I tell him, as if he might not know. Then again, he was in my bed. I hope he knows my name at least. My eyes travel to his belt region, noting once again the lack of one.
“Did we?” I clutch the sheet I’d already been clutching higher up my chest, realizing how very naked I am underneath the scratchy material. Minus all clothing but my underwear, I’m almost as bare as the day I was born.
He shakes his head, and relief washes over me. Thank goodness.
Then another thought occurs.
“Why didn’t we?”
I mean, he’s Chester Chesterfield, known rogue lover at this event. The night started as I met up with a few other female entrepreneurs and the first round of drinks included a discussion on the famous one-night lover.
“Who will be his lucky conquest this year?” one woman snickered.
“Oh Sharon, you only wish it could be you,” another snarked.
“If only he was a repeat offender,” the last one sighed, and the other two turned on her wanting details.
I didn’t know if any of their remarks were true, but somehow Chester became my mission for the night.
Get laid. It’d been a long time. Recalling the stiff length pressed into my backside only moments ago, I should have immediately known it was not Karl, not in girth or solidness or enthusiasm. Karl rarely got it up for me. Ironic, considering where he was when his death occurred, but that’s neither here nor there in this moment.
I’m staring at Chester as all these thoughts race through my head and I’m waiting on an answer.
“Your art of seduction needs some polishing.”
“And just what might that mean?” My art is just fine. I work out six days a week. It takes dedication to be this physically fit at almost forty-eight.
“Puking on a man’s boots isn’t sexy.”
“I did not,” I huff, my voice rising in octaves as I admonish the thought. I do not puke. And I did not vomit on his boots. “And where’s my dress?”
Becoming overly aware of my nakedness under the sheet, I glare back at him as his left brow rises higher and a spark comes to those cool brown eyes.
“No,” I whisper.
“It’s hanging over the rod in the shower.”
“You washed out my dress?” That was…kind of sweet, although it is dry-clean only.
He shrugs, looking away from me and I take in his profile once again. Strong. Burly. I remember a tux, though, and slicked back hair which has me gazing at that glorious riot on his head, and I surmise it can only be contained for so long.
“But we didn’t…you know…” I’d whistle what I mean if I could whistle and if I didn’t think it crass, almost vulgar, to whistle in such a manner. However, I imagine three gin and tonics in, and my seduction skills might have lacked a little finesse. Then again, it’s been almost three decades since I’ve tried to seduce anyone. Why can’t it happen naturally? Why can’t a man just look at me and want me? Why don’t men hit on me?
“Doesn’t anyone want to sleep with me?” I fling myself backward, the heaviness in my head thumping as I hit the pillow and stare up at the ceiling.
What’s wrong with me? I’m successful. I’m wealthy. I’m physically fit. I’m perfect.
“Maybe it’s your approach, darlin’,” he states and I’m ready to scold him for calling me such an endearment. Dropping that g makes him sound like a hick and he’d seemed so refined last evening—surely darling is a word he’s used with others.
But forgetting all that, I swirl my hands around my mid-section, talking to myself in my head but acting as if I’m speaking aloud. I don’t want him calling me darlin’ or anything.
I just wanted him to sleep with me.
One night.
It’s been so long.
My head lifts, noting he’s still standing at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, gazing down at his feet. I throw back my head one more time. I hear him rustling around the room and I roll to my side, staring at the window. The sun beams through the sheer curtains. We never closed the room darkening ones, and I can see it’s going to be a glorious Tennessee spring day here in Nashville. Soon, I’ll need to make the trek back to Green Valley, my hometown, but I’d give anything to remain in this bed and curl into myself.
More rustling. The sound of a shoe tapping the floor like he’s struggling to place his foot in it. The clink of a belt. He wore a tuxedo jacket and a bow tie last night. Where were his clothes? I don’t look. I just stare at the window.