Better Than You: part 2

2.

 

Tam had been right: she thought he was a jackass. But Mike, for some reason, had a feeling she thought everyone was a jackass.

 

“I like red,” his eyes went to the bold shade of her lipstick before he plucked at the hem of the red strapless dress hanging on the rack in front of them.

 

The lines of her face were tense; her mouth kept twitching to the side like she was working to hold back whatever it was she wanted to say aside from the monotone responses she delivered to his questions. “Is she a redhead?”

 

“Who?” Mike turned loose of the fabric and the dress fluttered back against the others with a rustling sound.

 

“Your girlfriend.”

 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He flashed her a smile that she didn’t react to.

 

“Whoever you’re shopping for,” she amended, arms folding beneath her breasts. “If she’s a redhead, you’d do better with the blue.”

 

The world was full of easy women. Full. A smile, a suggestive comment or two – pay someone a little attention and Mike Walker didn’t have to spend too many nights alone. Delta, though – with her severe, slicked-back ponytail and black pencil skirt – was having none of it. Harpy, Tam had called her, and Mike was starting to wonder if that was true.

 

He let his smile fall away – it wasn’t working, so what was the point – and met her very critical, very pretty coffee-colored gaze. “She’s brunette.”

 

Her mouth gave another little twitch. “The red will be fine then.” Her shoulders picked up like she meant to sigh, but thought better of it. “Mr. Walker -,”

 

“Mike.”

 

“Michael,” she relented, “this might go quicker if I knew at all what you were looking for.”

 

His little brother Jordan did feigned curiosity with his eyebrows better than anyone Mike had ever met, but his own expression wasn’t too bad in his own estimation. “Quicker?” he felt the smile creeping back. “You like it fast, then?”

 

“Okay.” Both of her manicured hands came up in front of her, palms out, warding him off. Her eyes closed and she forced a long-suffering sigh through her nostrils. “Clearly,” her gaze was razor-edged when it flashed to him, “this is the world’s worst pickup. If you decide to actually buy something, talk to one of my associates.”

 

She made to storm off and Mike sidestepped in front of her, earning a glare that should have turned him to stone. She pulled up short in front of him, head tilting all the way back so she could give him the Medusa stare.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that – it was just old habit, ya know?”

 

A snarling wolf would have looked friendlier.

 

“I’ll behave. I promise.”

 

“If you – ,” her face caught, smoothed, red lips coming together. She started shuffling through the rack of dresses, the hangers making sharp clicking sounds, her movements familiar and efficient. Mike had a feeling that had they been anywhere else, she would have dumped a scathing tirade on him and clipped away on her black pumps. But because she was at work, she was forced to rein in her temper. It was kind of cute and kind of hot and annoying her was more fun than all the innuendo-laced club conversations he’d had in the past six months.

 

She wasn’t having fun, though. “What size?” she asked in a tight voice as she looked through the red dresses.

 

Hoping he sounded casual, Mike said, “She’s about your size.”

 

Her dark brows arched as if to say really?, but she pulled a dress off the rack and held it out to him. Size four.

 

Mike took it and then realized that, prize in hand, he was out of time. All he’d managed was a two hundred dollar dress for no one and Delta still thought he was a jackass. “Thanks.” He was grimacing internally to think he’d dropped more than five hundred bucks in this store in the past two days. He did not want to think it was all for nothing.

 

“You’re welcome.” Delta dipped her head in the smallest display of politeness she could afford and gathered herself to walk away from him. He was losing his window. What he’d said to Tam the day before about possibility hadn’t been a lie; he was always on the lookout for the next best thing. But here he was failing epically to impress such a physically stunning girl, and suddenly it wasn’t just about possibility, but about defending his pride. Eventually, she would give in, or mace him. “I’m sure Linda can ring you up and – ,”

 

“Shoes,” he blurted, and watched her brows climb up her pretty, smooth forehead. “I gotta have shoes to go with this.”

 

She gave him an exasperated non-smile. “She should probably pick out her own shoes. Men are never very good at accessorizing.”

 

Ouch. “Yeah, but look at you,” he gestured to her pencil skirt and fitted poplin shirt. “You’ve got good taste. You could ‘accessorize’ for me.”

 

She regarded him a long moment, red lips pressed together. Then she smiled. It was a patronizing, condescending sort of smile. “You know,” the professionalism fell away from her voice, “I really don’t understand men. You put all this effort into trying to sound charming, fail miserably, degrade women in the process, and never once do any of you ever just say ‘I think you’re terribly attractive. Would you like to have dinner with me?’”

 

Mike blinked stupidly.

 

Delta tilted her head, smile smug as if to say gotcha.

 

“Okay,” he raked a hand back through his short hair and felt it stand up. “So…I think you’re really smokin’ hot, despite this whole attitude problem thing. You wanna have dinner sometime?”

 

“As tempting as that was, I’m seeing someone.”

 

“So?”

 

With a sigh, Delta started walking, moving between the racks and racks of hanging clothes to the wide, reflective tile aisle that ran a loop around the store. She had long legs, but his were longer, and he kept up easily, feeling a bit like a creep for chasing her. He shoved it aside, though, passed her in two strides and pivoted around to block her path.

 

She stamped her foot as she pulled up just short of colliding with him: a quick rap of her heel against the tile. Her slender hands curled to fists at her sides and some of the ice melted off her face, leaving her flushed and angry. “What?” she snapped.

 

“One last thing and then I swear I’ll leave you alone.” Heavily resigned that this was a challenge he couldn’t win, Mike pulled one of his business cards out of his shirt pocket and held it out to her between his index and middle fingers. “My cell number’s on there if you decide you don’t hate me.”

 

She glared at him, mouth drawn up.

 

“It’s not every day I run into smokin’ hot store managers. I had to try.”

 

Her coffee-colored eyes traced over his face one long, truly terrifying moment, lovely as a Renaissance painting even while murderous. A sigh flared her delicate nostrils and she snatched the card out of his hand. “I won’t call you,” she said as she slipped it into the tiny front pocket of her skirt.

 

But Mike beamed. She’d taken it, and that was promising. “Okay,” he said, and left her to stare a hole through his back, his card in her pocket.

 

**

 

“Is your steak overcooked? You’ve hardly touched it.”

 

“No,” Delta offered a smile across the candlelight that danced between them on the table. “It’s fine.”

 

And it was fine…for someone who liked steak. Delta avoided thick slabs of red meat because they always sat heavy and unhappy on her stomach. She always opted for chicken or fish instead, and despite three months of semi-serious dating and countless dinners, Greg had taken it upon himself to order her meal for her. And he’d ordered steak. Bloody steak.

 

Satisfied with her answer, Greg cut into his own filet mignon again, eyes dropping to his plate. “Did I tell you who I ran into in LA? Do you remember Martin Jeffries? We had dinner with him and his wife.”

 

“I remember,” she said and hated the hollow sound to her voice.

 

Greg, of course, didn’t notice, and launched into a story about a conversation he’d had with whoever the hell Martin Jeffries was over scotch in a hotel lounge. Delta pushed her food around on her plate and tried to enjoy the muted light, soft strains of music and general romance of the ambiance around her. It was no use.

 

Greg Peterson was exactly the sort of man she’d always wanted. Thirty-five, worldly, successful and sophisticated, he was brunette and built trim, with the chiseled features and narrow eyes of a romance novel poster boy. A corporate attorney, he had expensive taste in everything, a gay man’s flare for fashion, and a habit of bringing her unexpected gifts. They were perfect complements.

 

Except he was fast, selfish and oblivious in bed.

 

And she would rather watch paint dry than listen to him talk.

 

And the way he ordered food for her made her want to reach across the table and stab her fork through his hand.

 

And she couldn’t remember ever laughing, ever, in his presence.

 

But other than that, yeah, they were destined for the altar.

 

Delta hid bits of steak in her napkin to thwart any further comments. She drank too much wine and fought the urge to grab at Greg’s jacket sleeve while they waited for the valet to bring the car around. She rolled down the passenger window in his Jag and let the cool November air slap her sober, one ear cocked to whatever Greg was prattling on about, murmuring agreements when necessary.

 

She blamed it on the merlot and her empty stomach, but as they flashed through warm puddles thrown down onto the pavement by the streetlamps, her mind went spinning away, leaving her body and going back to that afternoon and Michael Walker telling her she was smokin’ hot.

 

He was younger than Greg. Blonde. He was too tall and his hands were too big and his bomber jacket had been an abomination. He was determined, though – she’d give him that much. And he wasn’t half as cool as he thought he was. She’d pulled his card out of her pocket when she’d changed before dinner. She should have trashed the thing, but had propped it up against her dressing table mirror instead. Because apparently she’d lost her mind.

 

Greg drove her home, walked her to her door; she saw him loosen the knot in his tie as she fitted her key in the lock and let them in. He’d pulled a wrapped package out of the backseat before they left the parking lot and he presented it to her after she’d closed the door and hung up her coat.

 

“I picked it up at the newsstand at the airport,” he said, watching her as she slipped a nail under the paper flap and started unwrapping it. He had a pleased, handsome smile on his face. “It’s not much, but I know how you like to read.”

 

She knew it was a book by the size and shape, but not which book until the paper fell away. “Thank…” you died in her throat and her smile froze. The cover that stared up at her was black, a silhouette of a stylized chain lurking along the bottom. Chains of Seduction. Sydney would have fanned herself and swooned.

 

“Apparently it’s all the rage with women right now. My sisters are reading it.”

 

“Yeah…” Delta scrambled for something sincere to say, and came up empty-handed. “Thanks. But, um, you know.” She dropped the ball of wrapping paper in her right hand and raked her fingers through her hair, making a show of massaging her scalp. “I’ve got a really bad headache all of a sudden.” She winced for effect. “I think I may need to call it a night.”

 

“Oh.” He frowned. “You want me to get you an aspirin? Maybe you need to lie down for a bit.” He tugged at his tie again.

 

“No,” she forced a smile. “That’s fine. I think I’ll just take a shower and go to bed.”

 

Translation: leave.

 

He might have been oblivious, but he understood. He gave her a long look. “You’re sure?”

 

I couldn’t stomach one second of sex with you tonight. “Sure.”

 

She waited until he was gone, until his footfalls had receded down the plush carpet of the hall, then Delta drew back her arm and chucked the book as hard as she could. It collided with one of the French doors that led into the kitchen and fell with a thump and fluttering of pages to the hardwood. A sheaf of torn pages lingered, floating like leaves, before they collapsed.

 

If the world’s definition of love was submissive women letting men brutalize them without reason, if her own romance was bad sex and empty, ineffectual gestures, if it was all for appearances…then where did happiness come into play? When was it okay to laugh? Where did perfection end and real life begin?

 

Delta chewed at her perfect thumbnail, felt her teeth score her perfect three coats of nude polish, and stared at the night sky beyond her living room windows. Then she dug her cell phone out of her purse, crossed to her bedroom, plucked Mike Walker’s business card up off her dressing table, chastised herself, sat down on the edge of her bed, winced…and called him.