The Oldest Virgin In Oakdale. Wendy Warren
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felt his lips curve into a smile. Easily—a little too easily—he shifted to the slick charm he used to persuade boards of directors across the continental U.S.
“I coerced it out of your assistant. She was very reluctant,” he assured, then paused, musing. “There are two ways we can handle this. One, I can apologize for barging in here, leave and get something to eat on my own…”
Ducking her head, Eleanor mumbled the response she knew he was waiting for. “What’s the second way?”
Cole felt his muscles relax. “You always did like multiple choice, Teach. The second way involves a bit more participation on your part. I still apologize, of course, but then you take pity on me, pull another plate out and invite me to share your Chinese food.”
“Where’s Sadie?”
“Sadie? I dropped her at home on my way here.”
“Oh.” Eleanor nudged her glasses. “Does she have a soft, clean place to rest? I don’t think I’d leave her unattended so soon.”
Cole grinned.
Eleanor blushed, unsure of whether she was being a responsible vet or simply stalling for time.
“There’s a housekeeper in residence,” Cole informed her. “Jasmine loves dogs. Sadie’s being looked after.”
Jasmine, the housekeeper? Eleanor blinked. Cole had changed in more ways than one over the years.
It had been common knowledge when they were kids that Cole lived in “Butcher’s Row,” a distressed area of company-owned housing for the employees of Orly’s Meat Packing and their families. There’d been terrible stories circulated about Butcher’s Row, the kind kids told to distance themselves from their less fortunate peers. The most enthusiastically whispered rumor was that if you spent a night in Butcher’s Row, you could hear the haunted moo’s of deceased cattle. Or worse, that everyone who lived in the row smelled like raw meat.
No one had ever taunted Cole, though, with such gibes. By tacit agreement, the young people with whom he attended school each day either forgot or overlooked the fact that he returned to The Row each night. And yet to Eleanor even this had seemed somehow discourteous. Ignoring the situation had made it impossible to help when his clothes clearly had suffered one washing too many or when he’d appeared exhausted again after working the graveyard shift at Orly’s on a school night.
It was hard to reconcile the memory of that boy with the man who stood before her today. Cole had clearly become a man of substance, someone who had seen and, no doubt, sampled the world well beyond Oakdale.
Silently she studied his broad frame, clothed beautifully in a suit that must have been tailored especially for him.
It was all too easy to imagine the contemporary Cole Sullivan hiring some gorgeous young woman, some Jasmine, to putter around his kitchen. Jasmine. Right. Eleanor might be naive, but she wasn’t born yesterday. No one had to tell her that women named Jasmine had a lot more on their minds than ridding the world of dust bunnies.
“Okay, stop frowning, Eleanor.” Cole sighed. “If you’re that concerned, I’ll go back and check on her.”
“Why?” Unable to help herself, she scowled. “Doesn’t Jazz-min like to be alone?”
Cole shook his head. “Jasmine? I was talking about Sadie. And you’re the one who’s worried.”
Eleanor grimaced. Sadie! Of course. She shook her head. This was no good, no good at all. Barely two days back in his company and already she was on the fast track toward making a fool of herself.
“Still the most responsible woman in Oakdale,” Cole observed quietly, mistaking her frown for concern. “Some things do stay the same.” His voice was soft, almost inaudible, and the lines on his forehead gave way to fine crinkles around his light eyes.
Eleanor’s scowl deepened. He made her sound like Miss Crumrine, the Oakdale High librarian: tidy, constant, prim.
“I’m not responsible,” she protested in a tight grumble.
Cole quirked a brow. He said nothing, but his lips began to curve. He didn’t believe her.
Eleanor bristled. Did he think she was so predictable? That he could walk away twelve years ago and return to find her unchanged?
“I’m responsible in my professional life, of course,” she restated, raising her chin. “But not in my personal life. Not at all.”
His lips curved a bit more. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “I’m way too impulsive for my own good.”
“Tell me.” Placing his hands on his hips, Cole leaned forward. “What awful, irresponsible things have you done, Eleanor Gertrude?” His voice was silky smooth and baiting.
Oh, how she would love to wipe that smile off his face. She’d love to tell him something really disgusting. “I…”
Cole’s brow raised a notch.
Eleanor dragged the recesses of her memory for one shocking indiscretion, the kind everyone had tucked away somewhere in their closet. She chewed her lower lip.
The best she could do was the time she’d clipped an article about mad cow disease from a library copy of Farm Companion Monthly. But she’d felt so guilty, she’d returned the next week with three dollars and change so the library could purchase a new issue.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he murmured. “Will I have to make a citizen’s arrest?”
Eleanor ground her teeth, an old bad habit. “Never mind!” When deep grooves appeared in his cheeks, she waved her hand like an irascible crossing guard. “Come in, come in!”
Pretending to ignore his amusement, Eleanor retreated to the kitchen to fix another plate of food while Cole took a seat in her living room. Stealing a quick sideways glance as she placed rice, eggplant and egg rolls on serving plates, she saw that he was watching her. Ducking her head, she searched a drawer for cutlery.
Feeding a man take-out Chinese was a simple thing, but suddenly Eleanor felt like she was in competition with every woman who had ever served Cole dinner—and had done it better. And how many women would that be? she wondered.
The thought came suddenly: What if she and Cole had become a couple in school? How many meals might they have shared by now? How many of the small details of his everyday life would be as familiar to her as her own? She’d spent so many hours thinking about him and yet she didn’t even know if he preferred cereal or eggs for breakfast, or how he whiled away a quiet evening at home.
Who are you now, Cole Sullivan? she mused, unable to deny a rush of longing. So many things could have been different if he’d asked her to that prom.
“Mind if I take off this jacket and tie? I’ve been sitting in meetings all day.”
Eleanor shook her head.
And watched him.
It was impossible to disregard his shoulders as the jacket came off. He’d filled out well in the years since high school. Tonight Cole wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, but Eleanor could see clearly that his body was still perfectly conditioned and much, much broader than she remembered. Removing his tie, he unbuttoned his shirt collar, exposing a tanned neck and a grove of dark chest hairs. The sight was hypnotic.
As he sauntered toward the kitchen, Eleanor realized he had a most unnerving way of holding a person in his gaze while he moved.
She released her breath slowly. “So. What kind of business are you in?”
Cole stopped before her, frowning at what she considered a fairly innocuous question.
“You said you were in meetings all day,” she prompted.
Leisurely he nodded. “That’s right. But business is the last thing I want to talk about right now.