Turning Thirty-Twelve by Sandy James Page A

David interrupted.
    “Enough!” I yelled, feeling like I was some bizarre prize in a macho tug-of-war. “I know my own name, so you can both stop shouting it at me.” I tried to salvage what little dignity I had left. “David, I appreciate your concern, but it’s time for you to go home. You know, back to your wife and son.”
    I ignored his threatening expression as he stared at me for a moment then stomped out the front door, shoving past Mark, and getting in his Hummer to drive away.
    “You were married to ...that? ” Mark shook his head. “Nice car, though. Big. Makes up for his tiny little—”
    “Mark!” I tried not to giggle too much.
    He stepped into the house, and I shut the door behind him.
    The awkward quiet ate at me. Whenever I’m this nervous, I tend to ramble. And right now I was in danger of making a total ass of myself if I said even a single word because a million others would spill out in a flood after it.
    “How about we have a seat? Maybe on the couch?” Mark smiled at me with those gorgeous lips. “You do sit, don’t you?”
    I smiled back. “Yeah, I sit. Come on in. Want something to drink?”
    “I need a scotch, but I’ll settle for some tea. If it’s not too much trouble.” He made himself comfortable on my sofa.
    “No trouble. Just give me a minute.”
    He sprang to his feet. “I’ll give you a hand.” He followed me into the kitchen.
    I could have talked to him quite fine if he had stayed on the couch. Now, I was in danger again. He was too close. I could smell him, that wonderful mixture of Mark and Polo Black that made me light-headed. I tried to concentrate on mixing a pitcher of iced tea.
    “What can I do?” he asked as I bent over to grab a glass carafe instead of my dollar-store plastic pitcher. I wanted to at least look semi-classy.
    The stupid thing was wedged behind the iron that I never used. The moment my hand grasped it, I felt a caress on my back. I popped up, hitting my head on the cabinet. “Ow,” I groaned, putting the carafe on the counter and rubbing the top of my head.
    “Sorry.” Mark had that naughty boy twinkle in his eye. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
    I opened one of the upper cupboards and found the instant tea.
    His hand was on me again, rubbing circles from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. He was making it impossible to do something as simple as measure a couple of tablespoons of powder into the carafe. Because of Mark’s touch, I was turning into a dimwit.
    I hadn’t felt this rattled since the junior high school dance when Pete McKinnon had slipped his hand under my arm to brush my boob.
    When Mark’s hand slid up to my neck, I spilled the spoonful of instant mix on the counter. “Shit.”
    I tried to reach past Mark to get the wet dishcloth that was hanging over the faucet. He must have realized my train of thought because he picked it up and handed it to me.
    “Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling clumsy and awkward.
    I actually managed to make the tea without any other significant problems. When his fingers weren’t touching me, his eyes smoldered enough to have the same disconcerting effect. I poured two glasses, added some sweetener to mine, and offered some pink packets to him. He declined, picked up both the glasses, and led me to the sofa. I flopped a couple of coasters on the coffee table, and he set the drinks down. Then I ran out of things to keep my hands busy.
    Mark sat on the sofa and reached up for my hand. I let him tug me down next to him, thigh to thigh. Jeans and all, I could feel the heat of him against me, could feel every inch of where we touched.
    Scooting a little farther away, I turned and put a bent knee between us. “Um... I think we should talk.”
    He sighed before he moved to face me, put his arm over mine where it rested on the back of the couch, and let his fingers stroke mine. “I still owe you an apology.”
    “For?” It probably wasn’t wise to allow his caresses because they were