Breakfast in Bed

chapter 2


"AW SHIT. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? YOU GET DUMPED again?"
Rich looked up from searching for answers at the bottom of his Scotch glass to find a fuzzy Vinny DiNicola staring at him. Vinny was a bear of a man with dark hair and a unibrow that reminded Richie of a prickly black caterpillar, only bigger. He wore a white cook's coat over black and white checkered pants, both splattered with the special of the day. The only thing about Vinny that had changed since Rich was a kid in trouble was his hairline. It was receding, badly.
Rich tossed back the rest of his drink and slid the glass toward Vinny. "This is the second time in my whole life I've been dumped. It's not like it happens every day."
"And every time you do get dumped, you end up at my bar. At least this time you're not underage." Vinny filled Rich's glass and slid it down the bar to him. He poured himself four fingers of Jack Daniels, raised his glass in silent toast, and drank most of it before slamming it down on the bar, punctuating the act with a satisfied "Ahhh…"
Rich just gulped down more Scotch and thought about calling it quits. The drinking, not his life or anything. He was depressed, sure, but more than being depressed about losing Gina, he was depressed about what she'd said. Rich waited until he had Vinny's attention. "Do you think I'm relationship material?"
"Not for me, you ain't."
Rich tried to focus on Vinny. Yes, he was definitely getting drunk. He could tell because he actually had to concentrate to get the glass to his mouth. When you have to aim for your own mouth, chances are, you're well on your way to oblivion. "Shit, Vin. You know what I mean. Gina said I wasn't relationship material."
"Yeah, well, she's got a point."
Rich was looking at Vinny, but if that was Vinny talking, he wasn't moving his lips, and he was throwing his voice. Rich turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw his brother-in-law Nick sitting beside him.
Nick grabbed Rich by the back of his neck and gave it a shake before giving him a shoulder bump. "Mona called, said you needed some male bonding time, whatever the f*ck that means. She said I had to get my ass over here. This had better be good. I was home, curled up with my wife and my dog, watching the Islanders trounce the Cunucks." He shot Rich a look that was somewhere between a smirk and a grimace and reached across the bar, grabbed the remote control, turned on the Islanders game, and muted the volume.
Vinny poured Nick a drink. "Gina dumped Richie and said he wasn't relationship material."
Nick nodded. "Smart girl."
Rich went to smack Nick but forgot he had his elbows on the bar and was resting his head on his hands. He remembered just before his face hit the bar.
Nick grabbed Rich's left arm, and Mike, his other brother-in-law, grabbed the right.
"Hey, Mike. When did you get here?"
"Just now. Nick called me. Said you were in deep shit and needed some medical advice." Mike nodded to Vinny with the same expression Nick wore.
Nick gave Rich a tug. "Yeah, like how to get your head out of your ass."
Rich slid off the barstool. "My ass isn't in my head."
Mike laughed. "Sure, whatever you say."
His brother-in-laws helped turn him around. "Where are we going?"
Nick pushed Rich forward. "Vinny's office. Drunks are bad for business."
"It's a f*ckin' bar. Bars encourage drinking."
"Drinking yes, drunks no." Mike opened the door for them.
The next thing Rich knew he was sitting in a hard chair with a cup of coffee in his hand. He aimed for his mouth again and forgot the content of his cup wasn't Scotch. It was hotter than hell. Shit!

Vinny looked over his boys and laughed. It wasn't long ago that Nick and Mike were both in the same place Rich was. Of course, they did it at different times and over different women, but still, they both came to DiNicola's to get plowed.
Vinny took another sip of his Jack and tried to remember that saying about the course of true love never running smooth or some such crap. But come to think of it, Nick and Mike had both been a whole lot more upset about losing the women they loved than about why they'd been dumped. Maybe Rich didn't really love Gina after all.
Rich moved to stand, but Mike put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair. "I gotta get Gina back. I'm supposed to have a date with my dean to show that I'm a responsible guy and involved in a committed relationship."
Vinny put his feet up on his desk and pulled his office bottle of Jack out of his bottom drawer to refill his glass. "Why do you want Gina back if you're datin' your dean?" He took a sip. "You think that's smart? Ever hear that saying, don't shit where you eat?"
Mike laughed. "I thought your dean was a man."
Nick almost spit out his Jack Daniels. "Oh yeah? This is almost worth missing the game."
"I don't have a date with my dean. I have to bring a date to this charity thing my dean invited me to. I gotta get Gina back in the next two weeks, or I'm screwed. But she says I'm not relationship material. What's a guy got to do to be relationship material?"
Vinny was right. Rich didn't love Gina. He just needed her to look settled so he could keep his job. Hell, Vinny should do this shit for a living. Was he good or what?
Mike sat down. "Well, you have to think of the woman you love before you think of yourself."
Nick leaned against the desk and took a sip of his Jack. "If she's anything like Lee, you have to do her laundry, clean up after her, cook, make sure she eats." He paused. "Oh, and bring her coffee and chocolate in the morning. Believe me, your life will be much more enjoyable if she starts her day with caffeine and chocolate. Sex works too."
Rich looked appalled and squeamish, like the first time a guy has to go to the store to buy tampons.
"Yeah, that's good." Vinny nodded. "Mona likes it when I rub her feet. You know? She's always wearing those spiked heels of hers, and though they make her legs look great, they're hell on her feet."
Rich groaned. "You gotta be kidding."
"Vinny's right." Mike nodded. "Plus, feet are erogenous zones."
Nick smiled. "Everywhere is an erogenous zone if you're talking about Lee."
Rich was incredulous and looking a little sick as he eyed one brother-in-law and then the other. "Hold on, those are my sisters you're talking about. I don't want to hear this shit." He slumped in his seat. "I don't know how to do laundry. Or cooking. Why can't I just feed them Mama's leftovers? I guess I could have her come over and clean the apartment."
Nick shook his head. "You can't have your girlfriend clean your apartment and expect her to think you care about her. That doesn't scream 'marriage material.'"
Rich tried to stand only to fall back into his chair. "Shit, I know that. I was talking about Mama. I'll call her to clean the apartment."
Mike laughed. "Your mother cleans your apartment?"
Nick joined him. "Yeah, she probably does his laundry too."
Rich looked from one to the other. "Yeah, so?"
Vinny tried not to laugh, but really, Rich was a total putz. "Oh shit, he's serious. Boys, he's got a lot of work to do. He has to figure out how to take care of himself before he can take care of somebody else."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, he's got to learn how to cook, clean, and take care of a woman."
Rich sat up a little straighter. "I'll just hit the book store on the way home. They're open late. I'll find a book on cooking and cleaning. Like a Martha Stewart training manual for men. How hard can it be?"
Vinny took a deep breath and tried to break it to the schmuck real gentle-like. "Richie, this stuff you ain't gonna learn out of a book or fancy classroom. This is the kind of thing you can only learn by doin'. You see what I'm sayin'?"
Richie's mind wasn't moving at the usual light speed, but it wasn't moving slowly either. "You can help me then, right Vinny?"
Vinny backed up a little and held up his hands. "Sorry Richie. Between the restaurant and my family, I ain't got time to help you out."
Nick crossed his arms. "Don't look at me. I have my hands full taking care of business, Rosalie, and Dave. I don't have time to whip you into a Domestic God."
Mike took a step back. "Me either. Between setting up the practice, Annabelle's pregnancy, and remodeling the brownstone, the last thing I need is an apprentice. Sorry bud, you're on your own. You'll just have to learn to become a Domestic God the same way we did. Trial and error."
Richie shook his head. "I don't have time to learn by trial and error. I need a coach. Where can I find a Domestic God coach?"

Becca ignored the light shining through her closed eyes and tried to block out the morning. Her nose peeked out over the covers and was cold, but the rest of her felt as if she was sleeping up against a furnace. There was nothing she loved more in life than warmth, and for the first time in ages, she was blissfully warm. Life was good. She smiled as she turned her face into the pillow hoping to block the light so she could sleep longer, but what she found instead was hair. "Oh, God, no."
"Oh, yeah."
Becca was sleeping on someone, a very big someone, a very big, naked someone with… "Oh, God." She was draped over Rich Ronaldi, who had one hand on her ass, and the other on her leg, which was, at the moment, thrown over his… "Oh. God."
Rich rolled over on top of her, his morning erection pressed hard against her thigh. Of course it was the first time in over two years she'd slept with a man and come in close contact with anything that didn't require four AA batteries. Her body knew the difference and was doing its own version of a happy dance. Her heart beat a mile a minute, her breathing was ragged, and her every nerve ending was on red alert.
"Oh baby, you feel so good."
Becca's brain went straight into panic mode. This was a disaster. The man talking in his sleep on top of her had a girlfriend and was the last person in the world she'd sleep with under any circumstances. What she didn't understand was how he got into bed with her in the first place. She knew she'd been exhausted, but she should have felt the bed move or something, right?
She pushed against his shoulder, and he didn't budge. His eyes were closed, and under the five o'clock shadow, or in this case, the six o'clock shadow, his lips formed a satisfied smile, like a little boy who had just found his favorite Hot Wheels car. She tried to pry herself out from under him, but he was two hundred pounds of dead weight.
He nuzzled his nose in her neck, and her traitorous body responded. It didn't seem to matter that her body had no right feeling the way it felt or reacting the way it did. Every time she moved, it made things worse, and harder. Not to mention more difficult.
She was either going to have to wake him, which, under the circumstances, would be unbelievably embarrassing, or wait for him to roll off her.
Rich smiled and thanked the dream gods for giving him such a gift. He took a deep breath and wondered what they called the scent she wore. It was earthy and rich, with a touch of musk and maybe patchouli mixed with hot, wet woman. He kissed her neck, his lips tasting her skin. It all felt so real—the heat of her body surrounding him, the noises she made, the way she whispered, and the bite of her nails on his shoulders…
He shifted his hips and pulled her long legs around him.
"Rich! Wake up."
"Oh baby, I am up."
"Good, then get the hell off me."
"What?" Rich opened his eyes and saw Becca's eyes green with anger and dark with arousal. He may be more than half asleep, but he was awake enough to know he wasn't the only one turned on. Of course, all it took was the thought that he'd almost had sex with someone who hated his guts to deflate him. "What the hell are you doing in my bed?"
That's when she hit him. Hard. "It's my bed, and I locked you out."
Rich didn't remember coming home last night, much less being locked out of his own bedroom. "I told you to stay out of my stuff. My bedroom is my stuff." God, all this yelling was doing nothing for his blaring headache. He'd forgotten she was even in the apartment. Rich rolled off her, taking the covers with him. He didn't do it on purpose, but he wasn't sorry he did. Wow. Who knew that was hiding under the butt-ugly sweatshirt and baggy pants? Damn, with a body like that—
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all." Rich remembered how she gave him a long once-over yesterday when he was bare-ass-naked. He took his time doing the same. So he wasn't much of a gentleman. Shoot him.
Becca scrambled off the bed and grabbed the first piece of clothing she could put her hands on, his blue shirt. What was it about a woman in a man's shirt and nothing else? Hell, she might as well have been wearing a French maid costume for all the good it did. Seeing her standing there naked was less of a turn-on than seeing her naked under his shirt. He groaned and bunched the covers over his lap as he sat trying to cover any evidence of his raging hard-on. Christ, he was going to hell. He wasn't sure what he did wrong, but it looked like she was about to tell him. Loudly.
He held up his hand. "Before you go off and yell at me, let me just say that I had no idea you were in my bed when I passed out in it last night. I didn't even remember you were here in my apartment, and I'm sorry—" The look she shot him said she wasn't buying it. Neither was he. "Okay, maybe not sorry, but I sure as hell didn't know that what I was dreaming wasn't a dream. I mean what were the chances that you, someone who wouldn't give me the time of day, would spend the night cuddled up to me? That wasn't a dream, was it?"
Becca shook her head but didn't say anything. He couldn't believe it. She was left speechless and blushing—everywhere. The longer he looked, the redder that porcelain skin of hers turned. He couldn't help but smile. There were definitely worse ways to wake up. He was just glad she wasn't the violent sort. He rubbed his shoulder that was sore from her punch. Okay, he was glad she wasn't armed.
Becca held his shirt down around her thighs; the movement gave him a great cleavage shot. Christ, was she trying to kill him?
"This was obviously a big mistake, and well, you didn't mean it, and I certainly didn't mean it. So why don't we both forget it ever happened."
Rich let out a bark of laughter that made his head feel as if it were splitting in two. He took his head in his hands to hold it together just in case it wasn't his imagination. "You can do whatever you want, but I have a feeling I'm going to remember this one until the day I die. Sorry, sweet-cheeks."
"You're insufferable." Becca turned an even darker shade of red. The look on her face was priceless.
"And you're quite the morning person, aren't you?" Who knew a pissed off princess could be so hot. And to think he thought she was an ice princess. Maybe that was what she wanted everyone to think. But standing there wearing nothing but his shirt, Rich saw there was nothing cold about her. Damn. She gave Rich a whole new appreciation for his lucky shirt.
Becca stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. He'd never be able to wear that shirt again without picturing her in it. Maybe he should have it bronzed. He stood, grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor, pulled them on, and decided to go shirtless to remind her she was wearing his shirt and to piss her off. He remembered how she'd checked him out the first time they met at Annabelle and Mike's engagement party, claiming she was an artist and checked everyone out the same way. He didn't buy it, just like he didn't buy the size comment yesterday. He'd been around the block enough to know when a woman liked what she saw. It was clear Becca Larsen just didn't like that she liked it, and the thought of making her a little more uncomfortable was too good to pass up. Just for shits, he left the top button of his jeans undone. Rich scoped out the room. Lying on the dresser was a matching panty and bra set. Bingo.
Damn, Becca wasn't a plain white cotton kinda woman either. Rich smiled when he pictured her wearing the little scrap of satin and lace and thanked God for his great imagination because chances were, he'd never get to see her out of her big, baggy, ugly-as-shit clothes again. That was a real shame.
Rich leaned against the dresser holding her under things. He knew he was pressing his luck, but hell, he really enjoyed pissing Becca off. It just became his new favorite hobby.

Becca spent the last ten minutes brushing her teeth, finger combing her hair, and doing her best to calm down. She washed her face and tried to wash the feeling of his body on top of hers from her memory bank. God, why did he have to feel so damn good? Probably because the only male she'd had on top of her in the last two years was Rosalie's dog, Dave. And as sweet as Dave was, and as much he seemed to enjoy sucking on her toes, Rich had it all over him. Hell, a man like Rich had it all over ninety five percent of the male population. That is, if personality wasn't a requirement. Unfortunately for her, it was.
She couldn't believe she slept all wrapped up with him like that. How did that happen? And why couldn't she seem to get her hormones under control?
Maybe she should start dating again. Whatever loser Mike, Annabelle, and Rosalie saw fit to fix her up with couldn't possibly be a worse choice than Rich Ronaldi.
"You had better be dressed because I'm coming out." She opened the bathroom door to find him standing there in a pair of Levis , and nothing else as far as she could see, and she looked, though she really didn't want to think about the reason behind her interest in his apparel. She couldn't help but notice that he'd left the top button of his jeans hanging open, and there was no telltale elastic waistband showing to disprove her initial conclusion that he was going commando. All she saw was a treasure trail of dark hair running over a full six pack of hard abs straight down to the button fly, and from the fit of his pants, it looked as if he was happy about something. She just wasn't sure if it was because he stood there holding her underwear or because she still wore nothing but his shirt.
She stomped up to him and ripped her lingerie out of his hands. "Do you mind?"
"You wearing my shirt?" He crossed his arms. "Not at all."
"You're really pushing your luck, Ronaldi. If you don't get out of here right now, the next time you sing in the shower, you'll be singing soprano. Get my drift?"
"I'm just trying to be of service." He scratched his chest, gave her a nod, and sauntered out of the bedroom as if she hadn't just threatened to unman him.
"Sure you are."
Becca took a long, hot shower and wondered if cold showers only worked for men. Thankfully, there were simpler and more enjoyable ways to solve that problem. God knew she needed to do something to get her mind off Rich Ronaldi and the fact that she was essentially an embarrassingly horny, born-again virgin. Not that the born-again virgin thing was planned. It wasn't. She didn't swear off sex until marriage or anything. She just swore off sex until she found a guy she thought would be an improvement over her Battery Operated Boyfriend. A battery operated boyfriend was reliable, well, as long as you had batteries. Although the reliability was a definite plus, it didn't hold you all night long, and it certainly didn't keep you warm. She got the holding and the warming part of the deal, just not the sex part. Not that she wanted to have sex with Rich. Okay, she was attracted to his body, but the attraction ended there. Unfortunately, her hormones didn't seem to give a flip that he was as far from a dream date as a guy could get when it came to personality. God, how depressing.
Tripod sat on the edge of the tub waiting for Becca to turn off the water, and if she wasn't fast enough for his taste, he'd yowl. Tripod could make a Siamese in heat seem quiet.
"Okay, okay, I'll get out." She turned the water off, and Tripod jumped into the tub with her, chasing the last of the water to the drain before rolling around the wet tub.
Becca closed the shower curtain and peeked out into the bedroom finding it empty. At least Rich hadn't snuck back in. She locked the door before dropping her towel and dressing. She threw on her favorite lie-around-the house clothes. They may have looked like sweats, but they were cashmere. The tank, the drawstring pants, and the sweater wrap felt like a heavenly, decadent secret. She was finishing up her makeup by the time Rich rapped on the door.
"Are you about done in there? I'd like to take my shower sometime today."
Becca opened the door giving a silent thank you to Tripod for hurrying her along. "You didn't mention a time limit."
She strolled past him and headed for the coffee only to find it cold. It was the same coffee she'd made yesterday. "You couldn't make coffee?"
Rich stuck his head out the door. "The only coffee I make is instant. It's safer that way."
"Safer?" Her question never reached its destination. He'd already left. He was taking a shower—oh no. Tripod. She ran for the bedroom and just turned toward the bathroom door when she heard Tripod yowl.
"What the… Ow! You little son of a—"
Becca was through the door before she even realized it. A very naked Rich was wielding the toilet bowl brush like a sword. It was like that movie Groundhog Day, only today, he was the one armed. And a very unhappy, wet Tripod was under the back of the toilet bowl, hissing.
"Don't hurt him."
"Hurt him?" Rich dropped the toilet bowl brush back into its holder and turned on her. "He bit me!"
Becca tried to move toward her cat, but Rich seemed to take up the entire bathroom. He was large. "You sprayed him."
"How was I supposed to know there was an attack cat in the bathtub?"
Well, she had to give him points for that. She really should have told him that Tripod was out and about. But after this morning she had a hard, no, make that a difficult time thinking of anything but waking up draped over Rich. Hell, the way things were going, she spent more time with him naked than dressed. Not that she was complaining. His abs were nicer than that Cuban figure model's back in freshman year. She wondered if she was in over her head here. Just about the same time she noticed that she'd allowed her eyes to linger, she saw Tripod was staring too. Since the cat was known to jump really high, even after the loss of his leg, it would probably be a good idea to cover certain things up. She rolled her eyes. Yeah, from the looks of things, it was already up, so it definitely needed cover.
Becca pulled a towel off the rack and handed it to Rich. "You might want to put something on until I get Tripod out of here. You wouldn't want him to bite more than just your calf."
Rich wrapped the towel around his waist. That did nothing to change the fact that her mouth had become as dry as the Sahara during a hundred-year drought and that a few other places on her body seemed to have the opposite problem.
Rich cleared his throat. "Why don't you get your animal out of the bathroom so that I can shower?"
"I would, but the thing is, Tripod doesn't like to be picked up when he's in attack mode."
"Attack mode, huh? He sounds like he's as much trouble as you are."
So, okay, Rich was up by four in this unfortunate exchange. "He didn't mean to hurt you. You startled him. He likes to play in the water, but not while it's running, unless it's the toilet or the faucet where he can stay relatively dry."
"You might have mentioned that, or that you let some wild cat out in my apartment."
"Tripod isn't wild. He's a Bengal ."
"A what?"
"A Bengal . It's a breed of cat that's a second or third generation cross between an Ocelot and a domestic shorthair.
"Like I said, wild."
Rich looked at the back of his calf, and Becca saw where Tripod had broken the skin. "He's up to date on all his shots."
Rich didn't say anything.
"Tripod's not your everyday house cat. Bengals are usually larger and I think more beautiful than your average cat. They have a pelt instead of an ordinary cat's coat. They love water—"
"No shit."
Becca nodded. "They're great hunters…" Probably not something she should really talk about now. "And they're smart. And since they're sometimes bred with Siamese, they tend to be a little loud, and well, Tripod's more temperamental than your average kitty."
"Is the attack cat persona part of the breed, or is it just him?"
Tripod's crouch got more pronounced; he was all set to pounce. Becca hissed, and Tripod put his butt back down on the tiles. "I don't know. I think it has more to do with him missing a leg than his breed. I found him on the side of the road with a broken ankle—he'd been hit by a car. I took him to a vet, and they couldn't save his leg. I don't know what he was like before the accident."
"And you kept him?"
Becca shrugged. "He grows on you—"
"Like mold."
"Look, I'm sorry. Let me get his toy, and maybe if you step out of the bathroom, I can get him to come out."
Becca went to get the birdie—which was nothing but a bunch of brightly colored feathers tied to a string on the end of a bamboo pole. She always thought of it as fishing for kitties. It worked like a charm. Tripod followed the birdie, his butt bouncing like it was on top of a pogo stick. Once they got out into the bedroom, Becca let Tripod catch and kill the "bird" while Rich kept a wide berth and snuck into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
"Good going, Tripod. If he kicks us out, I don't know what we're going to do. Do you think furnished apartments are rented month-to-month to people with disabled kitties?" Tripod answered her with his meow that sounded more like the word "noooo" than anything else. He used it every time he wanted her to stop something or if he was answering a yes or no question in the negative. Most people would think Becca was crazy, but after spending a few months living with Tripod, she was sure he knew exactly what he was saying.