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Monday, January 4, 2016


Welcome! This week the word prompt is "wired". We have more of Harley Brennan's story. Thank you for coming. Scroll down to go back to Tuesday Tales and read the excellent stories there. 


Sitting next to her on the plane, he was drawn to her, again, like metal to a magnet. Her makeup was perfect, she wore a silk tank top in aqua that showed enough cleavage to tempt him. Her nails were perfect, her blonde hair, just long enough, but not too long, styled, not hanging like a mop. Her appearance screamed success, cool sophistication, movie-star beauty. She could have her choice of men.
Harley had noticed each man they passed couldn't take his eyes off her. Being the envy of every man on the plane felt good. He raised his glass.
“To old friends,” he said.
“To old lovers,” she countered.
“Touché,” he replied. They drank and nibbled on the food. Shyla filled his senses, her beauty, her unique scent, the softness of her skin. Simply sitting next to her had him wired. Harley had no idea what he was putting in his mouth, but he wished it had been a certain part of Shy, instead of a cheese puff.
“So you won the Super Bowl, now you’re looking for a wife?”
He nodded. “That’s about it.”
“I can’t believe you can’t find one on your own.”
“All those groupies in bars aren’t exactly the girls I want to take home to mother.”
“That would be quite a trip, since your mom’s been gone five years now.”
He almost spit out champagne. She laughed and handed him a napkin.
“Nice way to talk about my mother.”
“It’s the truth. None of your teammates can fix you up with the perfect girl?” She arched an eyebrow.
“If they could, would I be sitting here?”
She shrugged. “Guess not. Well, they can’t all be me.”
He grinned. “You got that right.”
The steward brought out caviar on toast, which they gobbled down and pate, which they turned their noses up at. They dined on filet mignon, cooked medium. Harley thought he’d lose it when she pulled out the same book that he had finished the month before.
“Damn it, Shy. Why do you have to be so much like me?”
“A man-whore?”
“You know what I mean. I read Grafton’s latest book last month.”
She laughed. “My male twin. Oops, that would make us incest.”
He smiled before replying, “Is there an ‘us’?”
Color crept up to her cheeks. She looked away, out the window, even though it was dark out.
“I guess not. Not if you’re on the quest for connubial bliss with someone else.”
    “Did you want to get married?” His eyebrows shot up.



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