Shit. I headed downtown for a couple errands, worked outside in the garden, kept myself busy. But mostly I wondered what the hell was happening? Was I falling for Ian? Surly, drunk Ian? Only lately he wasn’t nearly as surly nor as drunk. Last night, teaching me about Scotch, he’d been charming.
I loved seeing the way his eyes lit up with pride as he told me about his family’s whisky. I could picture him as a little boy with his granddad, marveling at the distillery. He really loved it, I could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. That man, sharing his passion with me, teaching and guiding me, giving me access to a piece of who he really was? That was a man I could fall in love with.
A sharp prick to my thumb brought my attention firmly back to reality. A small bead of blood formed against my skin. I’d pricked myself on the thorn of a rose. I brought the thumb to my mouth, sucking on it, wondering if I’d need to head into the tool shed for a Band-Aid.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. There I was, getting all caught up in the romantic dream of love the way a naïve girl could rush over to a rose in full bloom. The thing was, a whole mess of thorns lay just beneath, waiting to hurt you if you let your guard down.
Ian spelled all kinds of trouble for a woman like me. If you looked up “inexperienced,” you’d see my picture. What I didn’t know about men and sex could fill volumes. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious, it was that I’d never had the time. I’d been too busy parenting. And, I had to admit, my one boyfriend had hurt me. I’d thrown myself into that relationship so whole-heartedly, so eager and trusting. When Geoffrey had walked away never to return, I’d honestly been baffled as well as devastated. Somehow an abrupt and final end had never occurred to me as a possibility.
Ian had such a world-weary way about him, wry and detached, as if he’d seen more than I’d ever know. If I opened my heart to him, it would be a huge, ridiculous mistake. He’d never meet me halfway, sharing himself with me the way I would with him. It would be doomed from day one, and I’d have only myself to blame for being so stupid.
But I still couldn’t stop my thoughts at night. Alone in bed in the darkness, I remembered what I’d seen in the gym. And it wasn’t his burns that kept filtering into my mind. It was when he’d turned around, panting and staring at me with flared nostrils, sweat dripping down his muscles. His shorts had slung down so low on his narrow hips, that V drawing my attention further below.
I’d never seen such raw, masculine power. He’d told me to get out, but in my fantasies, I stayed. I imagined him on me, pinning me against the wall, his anger unleashed as he held me there. I wanted to feel his hot skin against mine, his lips searing into my neck, my breasts. I wanted to trace that bead of sweat I’d seen traveling down his chest with my finger, my tongue. I wanted to feel him, hard and demanding, taking out his frustration, his pent-up fury, and letting it out all over me.
* * *
§
* * *
The next day, Ian found me in the garden. The afternoon was about to turn stormy, with dark clouds gathering in the sky out above the ocean. With such dramatic contrasts between dark and light, the interplay of nature more breathtaking than any Hollywood movie, I sat out on a bench, sketching as fast as I could to capture the ever-changing scenery.
“You’d better come in.” Ian startled me, at my side in his wheelchair. I’d been so focused on my work, I hadn’t heard him arrive. “The rain is about to start.”
“I know. It's so beautiful. I’m trying to capture it.”
“Suit yourself.” As he headed back in, I had to smile. Gruff and grumpy, the fact remained that he was looking out for me, being considerate.
Minutes later, I rushed back into the house. He was right. The first drop had started to fall soon after he left. Then the rest had gushed out in a rush, the dark gray of the ocean blending with the dark gray of the sky, almost seeming as if the ocean had risen to sweep over the shore in a stormy blast.
“How did it come out?” he met me in the entryway.
“What?” I brushed rain off my jacket, unzipping to take out the bag I’d stowed my sketchpad in, keeping it dry.
“Your sketch.” He reached out and took it from me just as I was removing it from the bag. He flipped through, glancing at my sketches. I’d drawn quite a few of him, some when he didn't know I was looking, some from memory which was becoming all too clear, thoughts of him keeping me company whether I was with him or not. Those I'd started keeping in a separate notebook. If he saw them, he’d have to know there was only one reason I drew him so often. I obviously couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I felt vulnerable while he looked through my sketches. Each one represented a thought or a feeling I'd had, a bird looking stubborn and resolute in a tree bare of leaves. A ray of sunshine illuminating a chipped bowl, seeming to suggest how much it still had to offer no matter how battered. But I let him look. The truth of it was, though my head told me to batten down the hatches, my body and my heart wanted to hurl headfirst into the storm that was Ian.
As he looked at my work, he shook his head as if disappointed. “You're too talented to be locked up here with me.”
“You make it sound like I'm in prison.”
“I prefer exile, self-imposed. But call it prison if you like. You're only here because you're getting paid.”
I didn't know what to say to that. It seemed to strip away so much between us. He continued, “What I'm trying to say is, you have talent. The world is filled with twenty-somethings doing graphic design. Don't you want to join in the throng, work in some sort of bustling ad agency? Maybe start in Edinburgh, then leap up a rung on the ladder to Silicon Valley?”
I burst out laughing, “Me? Silicon Valley? What, do you think I'm going get a job at Google? Facebook?”
“With your creative eye and talent, your attention to detail, not to mention your bloody annoying work ethic, you'd be some ad agency’s dream.”
I shook my head in disagreement. My little sketches weren't anything special. “You're just trying to be nice.”
“Do I seem like the kind of guy who says things to be nice?”
“No.” I had to admit it, and it brought a smile to my face.
“Damn straight.” He nodded and started off for his wing on the first floor, but then seemed to think of something and pause. “Hey, tonight I was thinking of ordering in dinner. There's a pub in town that makes a great shepherd's pie. I used to live on them before you moved here. Do you want some?”
“Now you tell me.” I threw my hands up in mock exasperation. I actually did enjoy cooking, but I certainly wouldn't mind a night off.
“It's settled then. I'll call and have them bring dinner over.”
“OK, thanks.”
“It’s a date, then.” He arched an eyebrow before he turned and left the room.
* * *
§
* * *
Getting ready for dinner, I primped in the mirror, all fluttery and nervous with anticipation. I blew-dry my hair, arranging it in soft curls falling around my shoulders. Sliding on some lip gloss, hoping he'd notice. Those moments when a spark seemed to go off in his eyes, it felt like the world was coming alive.
I could still feel his lips on mine, hot and devouring. I’d felt so cherished and delicious, as if he couldn't get enough of me, as if my taste had driven him wild. He’d made a deep growl in his throat as he kissed me. I'd replayed that moment over and over in my mind.
Growing up we had a hill near our house perfect for sledding. I still went to it every winter, using Brian as my excuse to share a toboggan. There were few things I loved more than that feeling of rush when a sled took off, gaining momentum, flying you toward your destination. At the top of the hill, poised and ready, knowing I was in for a ride—one I couldn’t necessarily control that well—my palms got sweaty, butterflies danced in my stomach.
That was how I felt now.
Ian wasn’t in the kitchen. I found him in the library, a fire roaring, the room glowing and
toasty. A delicious looking shepherd's pie lay on a square table, plus fresh bread, plates, napkins and silverware.
“That looks really nice.” I approached the table, impressed. He’d set out a wineglass for me, though clearly his preferred drink was Scotch. I lifted up the glass. “What, no Scotch tonight?”
“I generally prefer wine with dinner, and I've noted you do the same. Scotch we can enjoy afterwards.”
We both got settled at the table across from one another, eyes meeting as we toasted. The red wine he poured me was delicious, the shepherd’s pie perhaps the best I'd ever tasted. We chatted easily over dinner, more comfortable with each other that I had ever expected we could become. He asked about my siblings and I told him about each of them in great detail, starting with Jess and moving to Liv. I'd already been talking about Brian for a couple of minutes, his sweet and kind temperament, my worries over his getting bullied at school, when I finally got around to mentioning that he had Down syndrome.
“Down syndrome?” Ian looked surprised. “That must be hard on your mom.”
“Well, it is and it isn't. It might not be hard in the way you're thinking.” I got a bit defensive about Brian. Over the years, I'd had enough people look at him and see only a burden, feeling pity for my mother about the amount of care that he required. But they didn't know Brian. His open heart, the sweet love and joy he shared every day with his family, those weren't burdens.
He nodded, taking in my response. “You're an interesting woman, Annie.”
“Thank you? I think.” He had warmth in his eyes, but there was something else, too. He looked contemplative, as if he were deliberating over something.
“I've been talking a blue streak for the last hour.” I put my napkin down on the table and took my last sip of wine. “I think I've told you most everything about me. But you’re still as much of a closed book as ever.”
“Come, let's sit for a little while.” He walked the few feet over to the couch, hand on the table for support. I sat next to him, instantly feeling the pull of attraction as we sat so close, no table between us. The firelight flickered over his handsome face, illuminating his strong jaw, the depths of his eyes. I wanted to be in his arms again, feel that surge of heat as he held me so close.