Hot to the Touch

Dressed in her favorite nightgown—full-length soft cream flannel trimmed with blue—and its matching blue fleece robe, which she’d generally put away by this time of year, she started the coffee and visited her chocolate stash for three Hershey’s Special Dark miniatures. Less than three wasn’t enough. More than three and she risked inviting a binge like the ones she used to have after a night of excessive partying, when her sugar-craving body would demand a whole bag.

Those days were behind her, stopped by her beloved late boss and mentor, Chef Paul, at the restaurant Gold Bistro where she got her start. He’d casually let drop one evening that if she wanted to stay a dishwasher, coming in to work drunk would be fine, but if she wanted to become a chef, she better cut out that behavior immediately. Since Darcy had only given fantasy time to that dream in her most secret heart of hearts, she’d been shocked into silence. And sobriety. Good thing, because with the alcoholic gene in her family, she could easily have landed herself in serious trouble like her sister, Brit, now nearly a decade into recovery.

Shortly after that conversation, Chef Paul had given her a thrilling tryout on the kitchen line, then followed that test with a promise that if she kept her grades up in high school, he could see about recommending her for a scholarship to the hospitality program at the University of Wisconsin. From then on, her life had direction and meaning, and she’d blossomed so far beyond where she thought she’d end up that she still had to pinch herself sometimes.

Before Chef Paul, no one had ever treated her as if she had the potential to be anything but a pain in the ass, a reputation that she’d done her very best to live up to. When he died, she’d grieved more for him than the loss of anyone or anything else, before or since.

Decaf brewed, she poured herself a cup and took it over to her laptop, set by the kitchen window with a view of her minuscule backyard—fifteen minutes to rake or mow. One by one her friends had paired off and moved farther out to bigger yards and houses that would hold their growing families. That life wasn’t for her. She loved living in the city, loved her private rhythms and space, loved to feel the beat of humanity right outside her walls.

Her email program opened and loaded new messages; she scanned the list. The first was the forwarded profile from Marie, which she deleted unopened as she promised herself, though admittedly she did have a twinge of curiosity. One from Brit, one from a guy she used to work with, one from…who was this? Hunterman? Below that, another. From

Spam? These weren’t from Marie, but had someone hacked Marie’s site and generated crap mail using a stolen address book?

Darcy opened the first email. The picture of a guy leaped out at her, model-handsome, caught by the camera in a ridiculous top-of-the-mountain, look-how-rugged-I-am pose.

Hi there. Thanks for the ‘hello,’ I’m glad you found me. I’m interested right back atcha. You are very good-looking and obviously articulate and intelligent. I’m a wine salesman, and would love to tell you more about what I do over a glass of fine Merlot. Or if you’d rather keep it to email for now, tell me about yourself. I’d love to know more.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Chaz.

Chaz? Chaz as in, Ew, his grandfather probably founded the Milwaukee Yacht Club? The guy Marie was trying to shove down Darcy’s throat? What the hell was he talking about? Thanks for what, “hello”? What made him think she was articulate and/or intelligent?

How did he get her email address?

Marie? No, no way. Marie liked to meddle, but even she wouldn’t stoop to something that invasive and obnoxious.

But then…who was this other person?

She opened the second email from TallGuy; her heart started pounding violently at the same time the rest of her froze solid.

Him. The picture was unmistakable, and even looking into a digital replica of his eyes Darcy felt that crazy burst of energy.

I want to see you again.

Thrills. An amusement park ride of them roller coastering all over her body.

I want to see you again. That was it. Short and sweet. Not asking permission, not begging, not apologizing, not negotiating. Stating a want. Leaving it at that. Hers to do with as she chose.