Minute by Minute. Jo Leigh

Cab Calloway. But they’d understood each other, right from the get-go. They had this shared language, which made the conversations flow.

      Then they started chatting about other things. He lived such an interesting life. As a columnist for the Washington Post, he was at the cutting edge of politics, and damn, he wasn’t afraid to say what he felt. That was one of the things she liked most about him. She never had to wonder.

      Her life seemed so mundane in comparison, but he always wanted to hear her stories. Her practice was more like the veterinarians of old, or at least of small towns. She treated everything from hamsters to llamas. On her mountain, an enclave of ex-hippies and old coots, there was every kind of creature, and she was the only vet. The only one they trusted, at least. Because her beloved father had trusted her, and that was sacrosanct.

      She checked Alex’s bathroom door. It was still shut, and she wondered what the hell was taking him so long. All he had to do was put on some trunks. Then she turned back, wondering if she dared open the drawer. It was a pretty nosy thing to do. She wouldn’t care for it one bit if he invaded her space like that. But then, she’d never said she was fair.

      She did it. She opened the drawer really carefully, even knowing the door behind her could open the next second. And she burst out laughing.

      Condoms. The exact same brand that she’d put in the exact same drawer next to her bed.

      She covered her mouth to muffle the sound when the door opened behind her. Spinning around, she shoved the drawer closed with her hip and tried to look innocent.

      “What?” he asked.

      “What?” she asked back.

      “You’re blushing.”

      “I’m just warm.”

      He walked toward her slowly, studying her far too intently. “I think your nose just grew, Pinocchio.”

      “I was snooping. Are you happy now?”

      He nodded, but his scrutiny didn’t end. “And what did you learn?”

      “That you like DeMille. And Tatum.”

      “Art or O’Neil?”

      She laughed, moving away from the drawer. “How about that walk on the beach?”

      He smiled back, and although they’d only met that afternoon, she knew without a doubt that he knew she’d peeked in the drawer. Which was only fair, she supposed.

      “Did you remember your sunscreen?”

      “Yes, in fact, I did,” she said.

      “Good. I wouldn’t want that beautiful nose to burn.”

      Her fingers went to said nose in a moment of adolescent shyness.

      He winked at her, and her hand moved from her nose to her tummy, which had gone all mushy. Then he led her down the stairs, through the bungalow, then onto the incredible white sand.

      She hadn’t bothered with shoes, because, why? And the feel of the sand under her feet was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was used to Southern California beaches, where the water was cold, the sand dirty, and you had to watch every step because you never knew where a pop top was hiding.

      This was pristine and soft. The water was perfect, not as warm as the air, but not too chilly. “Oh, man, this is—”

      “The farthest thing from Washington, D.C., I could think of.”

      “No, I think that would be Antarctica, but hey, this works, too,” she said.

      “You’re cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Alex quipped.

      “And yet, somehow, I can’t hear it enough.”

      His grin was as warm as the sunshine as they wandered down the beach. There were birds in the distance, and although she couldn’t see them, she imagined exotic plumage and long beaks, all courtesy of the Discovery Channel and, in the distant past, her own studies. She should have been used to palm trees, but these were actual natives, not like the ones in L.A., and she had to fight back the urge to touch every one.

      She turned to the other thing she wanted to touch, letting her gaze wander over his chest. Not perfect—no six-pack there—but it was nice. Strong. And so were the thighs beneath his blue trunks. “So why did you really do this?”

      “Birthday present,” he said quickly.

      “No, that was the excuse. What’s going on?” she asked.

      He kicked some sand and increased the distance between them by a hair. “Things have been…interesting with work.”

      “Interesting as in the old Chinese curse?”

      He smiled, nodded. “I used to love waking up in the morning. Seriously. I couldn’t get enough. Nothing mattered except the work. This was even before the column, when I was learning the ropes at the Post. Everything was exciting and challenging, and I was on the side of the White Hats for truth, justice and the American way.”

      “And now?”

      “Haven’t you heard? Gray is the new white. And my hat’s become a bit tarnished.”

      “Oh.” She tried to see his eyes, but he was assiduously studying the sand. “Care to elaborate?”

      “Not really,” he said.

      “Is it just work? Or are things not peachy in your personal life, either?” she asked.

      “What personal life?”

      “Ah, that’s a tune I know by heart,” she said, sighing.

      “Honey, you wrote the music.”

      She stopped. It took him a minute to realize that she wasn’t next to him, but then he came back.

      “We’ve chatted pretty much every night for eons, talked about everything from Nietzsche to your obsession with white panties, and this is the first time I’m hearing you’re unhappy with your work?” she said.

      He shrugged.

      “But your column is doing so well.”

      He looked at her with such troubled eyes that she hardly knew what to do. “Let’s go swimming,” he suggested.

      She reached to pull off her cover-up. “We didn’t bring towels.”

      “Oh. Not good. You go on in. I’ll be right back.”

      “Okay, thanks.”

      He hesitated, and she wasn’t quite sure why. That look was still in his eyes, that combination of hope and despair that made her want to hold him. With a slight shake of his head, he turned back to the bungalow, jogging easily through the sand.

      Just yesterday she’d told herself over and over that she knew this man. That she’d spent a year getting to know him. They’d shared secrets. Big ones. And she didn’t know something as huge as his unhappiness with his work?

      What else didn’t she know?

      She tossed her cover-up to the sand and walked into the surf. The waves brushed her legs and then her thighs. The water was a little chillier than she’d first thought, but nice. She lived an hour from the beach in L.A. and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in the ocean.

      He was right. She had written the book on working too much. It had to stop, or she was going to lose it big time. The only problem was, she didn’t know how to stop it.

      The first step was to stop thinking about it. To stop thinking altogether. And the best way to do that was to have oodles of hot, sweaty sex. Having seen Alex’s super pack o’ condoms, she surmised that he needed the exact same thing.

      Anesthesia by orgasm.

      It worked for her.