Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

a hot-water bottle, the longer I was caught by those blue eyes that had X-ray vision into my soul, the more my heart pattered about like a loose pinball.

      I saw one corner of his mouth tilt up in a smile. “Lydia must have had you up bright and early to help with the chickens.”

      He was still holding my hand.

      “No. Yes. I helped with the chickens. Yes.”

      “Julia moved here from back East. Finally came to her senses,” Aunt Lydia said. “She worked in an art gallery.”

      Dean nodded. “That’s interesting. Who are your favorite artists?”

      “My favorite artists?” I made the mistake of looking at his lips. The top one slim, the lower one full. Way full. Way kissable. Sheesh. “Uh. I. Well. I’m sorry. What was the question?”

      He smiled. “Who are your favorite artists?”

      Ah. Okay. I knew what an artist was. “Van Gogh. Vermeer. Faith Ringold.”

      He smiled at me again, then let go of my hand. The warmth was gone. I swallowed hard. If I’d had an Adam’s apple it would undoubtedly be making a fool of me.

      “And yours?”

      “I’ll take Picasso and the photographer Ansel Adams.”

      I nodded. Wise choices. I stared some more. The man reeked of testosterone. Stop, Julia, please stop, I pleaded with myself. You’ve just run from one man—let’s not start looking at another.

      I decided I had to go.

      “If you all will excuse me…I have…well, I have to take a shower.”

      Now why did I say such a naked thing? I couldn’t even look at Dean. “I’ve been with the chickens and…” Brilliant again. It almost sounded amorous. I’ve been with the chickens?

      “Nice to have met you,” I said, my voice quiet to my own ears. And, as if he were deaf, I said louder, “Good to meet you.”

      I should start digging a hole in the floor now so I could crawl into it.

      “Oh, now, honey, don’t you say good-bye yet,” Stash said. “When you’re through, you come right back on down here quick as a wink and have breakfast with us. I’m making your aunt and you and Dean my World Famous Stash’s Omelets. They are the best Oregon has ever eaten, you know. If they had an omelets contest, I would win. Damn sure of it. So you get on in that shower and we’ll see you in a jiffy.”

      I managed a nervous smile as the Dread Disease slammed into me suddenly. My heart rate sped up to 23,897 beats a minute, there was suddenly no air in the house, I was freezing cold, and I felt faint. All at the same time.

      I turned, managed to bump into only one chair and the side of the doorway, then stumbled through the living room. Super. Now Dean would know I was a clutz, too. The stairs now looked mountainous, and I vaguely wondered if I would need crampons to help me climb them, as the air had been completely sucked out of my lungs with an invisible siphon.

      I stumbled up the stairs, then collapsed on my bed, my hands over my head.

      I could feel the Dread Disease get worse, second by second, until I thought I would never breathe again, my forehead breaking out in a sweat, that familiar tremble coursing its way through my weakened limbs.

      What disease was it? Was it the first case of leprosy in hundreds of years? Would I suffer? Would I collapse dead away in the chicken coop, and all the chickens would cover my body with eggs and no one would find me?

      I would be remembered as The Woman Buried By Eggs.

      And Dean Garrett would probably read about me. How humiliating.

      I tried to breathe, but it didn’t work, and my head spun. Tried again. The air this time was gracious, and I felt my collapsed lungs inflate slightly.

      Another breath came puffing on in, then another, and soon the sweet smell of jasmine potpourri wafted in, the curtain at the window fluttered, I heard one of Lydia’s cats meowing, and the clucking of the chickens penetrated the thick fog of frightening yuck in my head.

      Now, I realized I could go to a doctor about the Dread Disease, but I didn’t want to hear that I had contracted a strange, deadly, breathing sickness from a tiny colony of ants that had somehow grown giant teeth and burrowed their way into my skin.

      No, knowledge is not always good.

      I heard Aunt Lydia, Stash, and Dean talking and laughing downstairs and knew I wouldn’t be able to eat at all. Not in the presence of that he-man. Although I felt exhausted, and I knew the exhaustion would take hours to shed, I could think clearly enough to know that I was not going to sit next to a man who was as tall as a tree and had blue eyes that had stripped my insides bare.

      But I would take it upon myself to shower. Dropping Aunt Lydia’s clothes on the floor, I turned the water on, shampooed and rinsed my hair, then scrubbed any possible fleck of chicken poop off my body.

      I toweled dry and put on my jeans and my one nice white blouse, although I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast. That would be too scary with Dean there.

      I slipped on silver hoop earrings and my watch. And a little lipstick.

      Although I certainly wasn’t going down to breakfast. Way too scary.

      Lydia came up, saw me sitting on the bed.

      “I knew I would find you hiding up here.”

      “I’m not hiding.”

      “You are hiding. You must draw up your courage from the bowels of your uterus and come join us at breakfast.”

      “I’m not hiding,” I said, trying to sound rational. “I am enjoying a nervous breakdown. I should be done in a couple of months. But until I’m done I’m not hanging out with any men, especially men related to Paul Bunyan. Does he have his blue ox outside?”

      Aunt Lydia groaned. “Funny. Now that you mention it, he does. Although he calls it a truck. Don’t be scared of him, Julia. He’s a good man. A man who is not afraid of his testosterone. He rules his testosterone and does not let his testosterone rule him. His balls are made of steel, you can tell by the way he moves.”

      Steel balls?

      “Moved here several years ago. He’s a farmer and a rancher. Attorney, too, so he goes into the city for weeks at a time sometimes. Some big hotshot. I don’t know. Stash does.”

      Great. A rancher. Farmer. And an attorney. Oh, yes. I’m sure he would be excited to dine with someone like me. A nervous, paranoid, blushing, clutzy, bruised, muddy, plump, overly endowed ex-fiancée who left her wedding dress hanging from a tree and who sounds like she’s been getting it on with chickens.

      “All I know is that he is a damn good poker player. He beat Stash many times, and he’s almost beat me. He’ll play for quarters, not pennies, like all the other cowardly people in this town.” Lydia snorted, then grabbed my arm. “I’m drying your hair.”

      “No, please, Aunt Lydia. Tell him I’m sick. Tell him I have leprosy. I’m certainly not going down to breakfast.”

      “You do look a little pale, Julia. Which is why you need to pump your womanhood full of eggs and cheese. They will restore the equilibrium in your inner core, which is what you need. And those jeans look good on you.”

      “I’m fat.”

      “You’re not fat. You’re curvy. Men like something to grip in bed, Julia. They like handfuls of warm woman. Mouthfuls, too, now that I think about it. But men are pricks!” she shouted, pointer fingers in the air again, as if she’d just remembered. “Sleeping with one of those skinny models would be like sleeping with a fence post with a head. You attracted to fence posts? Me neither. Now get in there so I can dry those curls of yours or I’m calling Stash in to do it.”

      “You wouldn’t.” But I already