Cherry Blossom Girl Ch. 03

It had been a scene straight out of an after-school special with Sascha cast as the sainted martyr and he the nefarious punk who dared to put his hands inside her white panties. She probably wanted to rise out her mouth at the idea that she'd said "fuck". He'd have bought her act if she hadn't said the things she had. But she'd been fully aware of what she was doing when she invited his touch. The virginal neurosis was just a front for her disappointment over waking up in the wrong bed and that it had been so easy for her to get there.

He gave up the pretense of doing research, dropped the highlighter in the book and grabbed the TV remote off the table. There wasn't much on at this hour but anything was better than remembering the brittle sound of Sascha's voice before she'd left his bedroom.

Somehow, her polite words landed harder than any obscenity could. Maybe because she'd robbed him of the chance to take a parting shot without looking like the ass he'd made of himself. There he stood with his blood pressure rising while she walked out like a cool breeze. She didn't even slam the door on her way out.

Of course she'd done it on purpose; women were the ultimate warriors when it came to mental combat. What irked him most about that Saturday morning was how he let his anger slash the tethers off his self-control. He made it easy for her to best him, when she'd been the one in the wrong.

Proximity and his bruised ego had extended the expiration date on a memory that would've faded by now. That's all this was.

He focused on the eleven o' clock news, which doled out its nightly parade of negativity and disaster. Dozens of camera lights ricocheted off a mangled black Aston Martin sitting atop a flatbed truck. Robin Montgomery's accident. The iconic image not only captured the crash's obvious violence but more so the callous manner reporters and photographers had swooped in like vultures to pick over suffering and death for the sake of ratings. The camera cut to Luciana Cortazar.

The woman's South American accent added fire to her determination as she revisited her son's memory. "These people have never once reached out to any of the victims or their families to apologize. They act like it's nothing, like we will forget. It's not right. We have no choice but to ask the court to make them accept responsibility."

A montage retold the story as the reporter narrated the latest installment in the media's favorite tragedy. Another crushed car, relatives and friends crying and clutching each other as the verdict came, Robin Montgomery with her head bowed down.

"...The emergency responders who reported to the scene will be among the first to testify. Attorney's for the Montgomery family have requested a closed court hearing due to the graphic nature of the injuries sustained by Jaime Cortazar and Courtney Benson."

Noah switched the channel. Same story, different storyteller.

"The trial is slated to go on for several weeks due to the number of witnesses, including the occupants of the two other cars that narrowly avoided a collision with Robin Montgomery that night."

He aimed the remote towards the screen again.

"—avis, whose emotional testimony at the criminal trial moved several jurors to tears, is expected to testify."

He turned off the TV, refusing to get sucked into the obsession with all things Montgomery. Frankie's head popped up. The sudden hush in the room felt tight. He needed to move and his guest needed a walk.

* * *

It had to be a cosmic joke. The woman had been a ghost for what, a month now? But there she stood holding that guy's hands to her heart. Was he the one whose name she had whispered? Their intimate body language made Noah decide to head for the pond.

Frankie's nose, on the other hand, found an intriguing patch of grass that warranted thorough investigation. He tugged on her leash and used his best baby talk but she refused to budge; just like a canine version of Aunt Lilly-Beth.

The moment he looked up was the moment Sascha noticed him. He knew it, felt it, despite the distance, trees and shadows between them. She dropped the guy's hands and turned her head so fast it was telling. Maybe not so intimate.

Suddenly he found his patience with his canine charge had been restored. He didn't bother to glance over to the guest parking lot again. He found the calm he sought well before he crossed the street and walked into the night air, content to let Frankie dictate the pace.

* * *

Sascha walked into the deserted lobby, wondering if she'd made a mistake. In the end, it was Ty who called a halt to their evening. But then making out with an iceberg didn't exactly spark romance. He'd been polite enough to stoke her guilt about misleading him and reserved enough to make it obvious she'd screwed up. When she suggested they get together for lunch, he replied with a vague, "I'll call you and let you know how my week looks."

Yeah, she wasn't optimistic that they'd bounce back from this. But shouldn't she have been more excited about sex itself instead of hung up on it being a sign of progress? At least you won't have to listen to him calling you sweetness" if it doesn't work out.

A haggard Annette Alijevic, who lived on the south end of Sascha's floor, walked into the lobby just as she was grinning to herself.

"Jeremy, slow down!" Annette cried in an exasperated mom's tone as her six-year-old son raced ahead leaving her to drag their suitcases behind her. She gave Sascha an embarrassed, please-bear-with-me look then blew out enough air to make her bangs flutter about.

"Long day?"

"That's an understatement," Annette grumped as they filed into the elevator. "We were stuck on the runway for almost two hours in Denver." She smoothed Jeremy's hair, adding, "To him, it felt like four."

"No, ten!"

"Hold the elevator!" a familiar voice called out as the door slid shut.

The night just kept getting better.

Of all the people she would've paid not to see right now, Noah Jameson owned the number one spot outright.

In the last month she learned that once he left his apartment, it took two minutes for his Jeep Wrangler to emerge from the garage. He went to work before she had breakfast, jogged on Tuesday nights and must've slept in on Wednesdays. Granted, staring out the peephole and peeking through windows to keep tabs on a neighbor was a bit...unorthodox. But stalkerish? Nah.

Stalkers didn't use the intel they gathered to actively avoid their target. And she'd done a fine job of it until Annette pressed the door open button. Sascha looked over and silently cursed the woman. At least she had a few seconds to prepare, unlike earlier when she all but jumped out of her skin when she noticed him standing in the shadows. And they weren't alone. Sascha retracted all the un-neighborly thoughts she'd hurled at Annette.

A fluffy, beige dog appeared. Then came a line of red leash. Sascha braced herself. More leash and finally the man who'd taken her masturbation fantasies from gauzy black and white to vivid Technicolor. A slight jerk of his head was the only clue that seeing her came as a surprise. Their eyes collided for a split second; long enough to make her remember those green eyes on her face while he touched her, the way they hazed when she touched him back. Thank goodness for Annette and Jeremy.

"Thanks," he said to Annette who now stood taller. Her face brightened and her body language softened in the subtle way women employed to attract attention.

Annette pressed the button. "I think you're going to four, right?" Man, it must be nice to flash a smile and have the female population fawn all over you.

His mischievous gaze jumped from Annette to Sascha. "Looks like we've got a little reunion going." How crafty of him. Some things never change.

"Is that your dog?" Jeremy asked, his little voice and big blue eyes full of longing.

"No, she belongs to my aunt. I just got roped into babysitting her for the weekend."

The size disparity between human and canine made the lapdog appear dainty at his feet. The image was impossibly cute and Sascha couldn't stop smiling.

Jeremy bent down with his usual high octane speed, his little hands reaching for the dog who ducked behind Noah's leg. Her tail thumped the floor.

"Jeremy!" Annette chided. "Did you ask if it was okay to pet her?"

He looked up at Noah. "Is it okay?" He started to lunge once he got the approval but Annette caught his shoulder.

"Be gentle when you approach her or she'll get scared. Put out your hand and let her come to you. See?"

"She likes you," Sascha remarked as Jeremy knelt down.

Jeremy looked up again. "What's her name?"

"Frankie."

"She's so cute," Sascha said, unable to help herself as the dog rolled over for a belly rub. She chanced a glance to her right and got caught. Nothing new there. Noah's lips curled up as though he relished seeing her unsettled. Yeah, some things never changed.

Annette asked, "Is she a Lhasa?"

"She looks like a terrier," Sascha said just as Noah answered, "She's part terrier and a lot of mutt."

Their eyes met again and she offered him a half smile, testing the waters. When didn't scowl or tense like a snake ready to spew venom the way he had that morning, she took it as an encouraging sign. She'd talk to him—that was the mature thing to do rather than skulking around as if she were avoiding a Jehovah's Witness.

Sascha's determination grew as Noah allowed her and Annette to exit the elevator first. Annette was too preoccupied with getting Jeremy home to notice Sascha's deliberately slow pace which allowed Noah catch up with her before she reached her apartment. Nervousness bubbled up her throat as his earlier friendliness turned into chilly reserve.

"Noah." She hadn't spoken his name aloud since she told Ana about 'that night'. The sound of it made her self-conscious, as if she'd taken a liberty when she had no right to. "Do you have a minute?"

"What's up?" he asked in a tone so relaxed, it mocked her efforts to elude him these past weeks. Of course he'd shrugged off their unfortunate night. He didn't seem like the type who'd pine over a PG-13 encounter. Well, not exactly PG-13...

"I...uh...wanted to talk to you about what happened with us."

They stopped in front of her door. Her brain hurried to find a good script to lead off with.

"Okay, talk."

"About that night...I mean the morning after we..." His gaze cooled. Oh, yeah, he hadn't forgotten. "I wanted to apologize. I said some things that came out wrong. Waking up in a strange place, well it freaked me out. And then when I couldn't remember what had happened right away..." She winced inside as she recalled her immediate conclusion. "I wish I'd handled it better."

His eyes drifted down as if he were contemplating her words but when he looked at her, his expression gave nothing away. "No hard feelings."

"Really?" She tilted her head as she searched for hidden messages to decode, a habit she picked up with Alex when they'd had to go several rounds before he admitted to being upset.

Noah quirked a brow, as if to say, "duh" and nodded. "It happened, it's in the past. Let's leave it there." His tone all but held a nonchalant shrug and though she felt relieved, it bugged her too. Was she that forgettable?

"I'm glad you see it that way," she said, trying to mimic his breezy demeanor meanwhile resenting it.

"Someone's overdue on her treats." Frankie's furry head popped up the instant she heard "treats", causing him to smile. "You have a good weekend."

He turned—dismissing their night together, the weeks of hiding like a criminal and an apology she'd fretted over—and proved just how forgettable she was with his simple salutation.

"So that's it? You're not going to apologize?" Even with his back to her, Sascha knew she'd shocked him. Good.

What the...? Noah couldn't believe she'd taken that do-the-right-thing tone with him, similar to the one Aunt Lilly-Beth still employed from time to time. Little Miss Priss was the last person he expected to remind him of the ballsy flower child who'd raised him longer than his own mother had.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't break out the champagne after you accused me of forcing myself on you."

She shelved the school teacher attitude right away.

"I never said that. Okay," she amended ruefully when he sent her a sarcastic look. "It might have come out that way and I'm sorry. But..." She paused as though debating whether to continue then shook her head. "You said some ugly things too and you were already pissed off before I even said a word." She wouldn't have said that if she remembered everything. He found himself suddenly very grateful for her fuzzy memory.

Her elfin chin came up as if daring him to deny her claim. She seemed to enjoy goading him, yet she retreated and crossed her arms when he took a step towards her. The reaction bothered him.

He recalled his loss of control that morning from her perspective and realized she expected him to attack. Regret for the way he'd handled the situation now came with fierce disappointment in himself. Whether or not his anger had been justified, seeing her shrink away reminded him why he vowed he'd never be like Hugh. That alone, was reason enough to apologize.

Besides, holding onto a grudge meant he cared and he didn't—not beyond the fact that they were neighbors and that he didn't want every time they ran into each other to turn into a tense ordeal. There was no other choice but damn, he hated how easily she'd brought him to heel. Man, just get it over with.

"You're right," he conceded after a calming breath. "I was out of line." Her brown eyes went wide when he offered his hand. "How about we call a truce?"

She hesitated then reached out her hand to his. "Okay...I'd like that." The half smile she offered matched the tinge of skepticism in her voice.

"Then we have a deal."

He shook her hand and for some unknown reason held onto it a second longer than necessary before he let go. "Good neighbors from now on," he promised while he held her gaze. She seemed to be trying not the blush and that took a huge bite out of apologizing.

"Sounds good," she said. "I'm glad we had this talk."

"Me too."

She bent down to scratch Frankie's a chin and presented him with a tempting view down her dress. He averted his eyes, determined to exercise the restraint he'd failed so royally to demonstrate the last time they were together. Truce or not, she'd better get up soon because a saint he wasn't.

"Well, goodnight." Her practiced smile as she disappeared into her apartment was a carbon copy of the ones she'd offered many times before.

In time he'd forget the way her face lit up when she smiled a genuine smile. If only she didn't live next door.

***

Isabel Cortazar's unofficial bachelorette party began with a spa date that spanned an entire Saturday afternoon. They settled on the fourth of July weekend to accommodate her cousin and maid-of-honor, Rafaela Torres, whose baby was due a few weeks before the wedding.

"I can barely keep up with non-pregnant people in a spa, can you picture me when I'm out to here?" she joked as her arms formed an oval the twins inside her tummy seemed intent on reaching.

Since Rafi had become a familiar face over the course of several Christmases and birthday parties at the Cortazar home, Sascha took advantage of the time to get to know Isabel's college friends, Taryn Perrilloux and Sydney D'Alessio, better. In between manicures and outdoor massages, the party of five spent hours talking about current news, Hollywood gossip and inevitably, men. Choosing whether to put Lincoln Park After Dark or Ballet Slippers on their nails had been the biggest decision of the day. By the time they left the quaint bungalow to get ready for dinner, they'd been pampered from head to toe and happy to have been born women.

The group reconvened at Saffron East, a trendy eatery Isabel had chosen because it offered a compromise for a celebration that included a mom-to-be: great food in a sexy nightclub setting—minus the need to shout over booming bass beats. Modern refinement and dramatic gestures were in the weathered, wide-planked floors and high-backed wing chairs that felt like mini sienna cocoons. Silk lanterns hung from the ceiling in various lengths, shapes and fiery shades.

Their server, who could've been a beach-boy-next-door, returned to the table and surveyed the boisterous brunettes all dressed in red, except for Isabel, who wore ivory. "How is everything?"

Sydney brought her napkin to her mouth and whispered to Sascha, "I swear, they must hire based on looks."

"For real," Rafi agreed, her big black-brown eyes full of dismay. "I look like a heifer in an Abercrombie catalogue."

"No, you don't," Sydney said with an exasperated under-look as she surveyed Rafi, whose alabaster skin made her gamine features appear ethereal, "but you sure eat like one."

Rafi wielded her fork like a sword. "Watch it, girl—I'm hormonal."

Sydney slid the dessert plate they shared towards Rafi as a peace offering before addressing the waiter. "I'd like to see the manager."

Taryn and Isabel sent curious gazes from across the table while the curtain came down on his easy going friendliness.

"Certainly. I'll have her come over right away. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Poor guy. The way he maintained his composure made Sascha want to put him out of his misery. From her own experience, she knew that hospitality workers didn't have it easy even on a good day. "Maybe you can answer a question," she said, her voice laced with laughter. "Some of us want to know if you're all hired based on looks,"

Hushed giggles flew around the table. Jason's face lit up even as he pretended to scowl at them. "Are you ladies trying to say I wasn't any good tonight?"

Rafi smirked. "Do you get that a lot?"

Taryn covered her nose and mouth with both hands while her lively hazel eyes widened with disbelief.

Sydney tipped her head to one side and pushed back a mass of sandy brown curls as big as her personality. "I find that hard to believe—" she made a point of reading his nametag—"Jason. I bet you're good—every night."

All eyes locked on Sydney. A stunned quiet blanketed the table and gave way to a calypso of voices and clinking silverware.

"Oh, no you didn't!" Taryn said in her lush, Savannah drawl, announcing the collective thought they all shared.

Embarrassed chuckles erupted and the commotion drew inquiring eyes to their table.

Sascha said, "I guess you just figured out who's the bad one in the bunch."

"We can't take you anywhere," Rafi muttered with mock admonishment as she glanced over to Sydney.

Sydney leaned an elbow on the back of her chair and struck a confident, screen siren pose. "I like to make things interesting. You all had a good laugh," she pointed out then set her dark gaze on Jason's face. "And I saved you from having a typical night at work. A little 'thank you' would be nice."

He winked at her. "Next time you come in, dessert's on me."

"What an interesting proposition," Sascha added in a droll tone.

Sydney's head whipped around. Laughter rang out as she blinked, opened her mouth then closed it again, looking like a cartoon character. It was the funniest thing she'd done all day.

Jason eyed Sascha while he lifted Isabel's goblet and filled it with water. "Let me get this straight, she's the bad one?" He executed his task as though perfection would stop the color from rising to his cheeks. He failed adorably.

"He likes you," Taryn gushed once he left their table. Sydney waved her off, saying that being flirtatious was just part of ensuring a good tip. But that didn't stop Rafi from daring her to leave her number on the bill.