Where Dreams Reside

by M. L. Buchman

  He opened his mouth and shut it again when Marlys shook her head. He’d leave her to delve into it. In the meantime, he’d start hunting for a new pastry chef, two of them if he was going to open another restaurant. Ye gads but his head hurt. Maybe he’d be better off if Jo went to Alaska, because whether or not Eugene remained, he wasn’t going to have time to breathe, never mind sleep or fall in love.

  That shocked him bolt upright.

  He never fell in love. He fell in lust. Lust was fun, healthy, and made the passage of time exceedingly pleasant.

  That’s all he had with Jo. She was beautiful, enticing, and did really wonderful things to his hormone balance.

  Counselor Jo Thompson was the one, again, causing him trouble. That woman was interesting, intense, brilliant, and had him near-enough hypnotized. He was definitely under her spell.

  He took a bite of the now-tasteless pasta as the others began probing Eugene about what he would be doing in Hawaii, but he couldn’t hear their words.

  What had Counselor Thompson done to him?

  Chapter 20

  “You’re a witch!”

  Jo burst out laughing and completely lost her rhythm on the rowing machine. Her legs stretched at full extension, but her hands lost the handle which retracted with a sharp snap. Without the tension of the rower handle, it was hard to sit back up.

  Angelo leaned over and placed a warm, solid palm on the center of her back and provided the leverage for her to sit easily upright.

  She looked up at him standing beside her, a towel over his shoulder. They’d missed each other for three days in a row. First she hadn’t gone to the gym, then he hadn’t. She’d drifted by the restaurant on her way through the lunchtime Market, but the long lines told her not to risk disturbing him. At night, all she was doing was working crazy hours, then plummeting into bed.

  Now they were together in the Eastlake gym.

  She looked up at him and everything that she’d told herself she wasn’t feeling burst through her body in a flash of animal heat. She hoped the flush of her workout would hide the flush rising to her cheeks.

  “Yes, a proud member of the order of…” she tried to come up with something witty. “The raw need for your body,” came to mind but she discarded it. “The order of legalus witchcraftia.” It was the best she had off the cuff.

  He looked so good standing there. His hands casually holding the ends of the towel looped behind his neck. Sweat shone on his chest above the line of the black tank top. His arms were flexing in a way that told her he’d just finished with the weight machines.

  “How did you discover my secret membership?” She felt goofy around him. He was looking at her as if he’d devour her right there in the middle of the gym floor. She was lousy at flirting with men, much better at staring them down into silence until they slunk away. But somehow she was flirting with Angelo. She tasted the salt of sweat when she licked her upper lip only afterward realizing that too could be a flirtatious gesture.

  “Well,” he dropped down to sit sideways on a recumbent-cycle machine next to her rower. “My first suspicion was Cassidy.”

  “Cassidy?” What did she have to do with the nice flirt they had going?

  “Cassidy. When she bewitched a confirmed bachelor like Russell, I knew something was suspicious about you three.”

  “The three witches of Eastlake?” She reached for her own towel and wiped at her face before draping it around her own shoulders in such a way that it hid most of the exposed skin above her sports bra.

  “Something like that. At the wedding Josh Harper described you three as beauty, truth, and joy.”

  Cassidy was the great beauty of their threesome and Perrin had to be joy. That left her as truth. While accurate, she could wish for a somewhat more alluring label.

  “But I think he missed the mark.”

  “Oh?” What was she besides truth? Hard working lawyer, no social life, no personal activities except her solo pursuit of a triathlon simply to provide focus for the one thing she ever did for herself, working out. She found a peace in wearing her body toward exhaustion, and exhilaration in discovering what she could do, but no more.

  “Yes,” Angelo clearly hadn’t been distracted by her reverie. “I think that my problem with you is that you embody all three elements.”

  Beauty. Truth. Joy. No one had ever called her joyous before. And while she was often labeled beautiful, none of those who did so had been interested by the deep ‘truth’ that was far more a part of who she was.

  “All three?” She could become deeply attached to being seen that way. “Does that make me the head witch?”

  “More the goddess template of which all others are but pale copies.”

  “That does it,” she burst out laughing. “That is so over the top, Angelo. How do you come up with these lines?” She pushed to her feet and he did the same bringing them closer together. But even as he shrugged it off with a laugh, his eyes did not change. If it wasn’t a line… That possibility was not one she’d ever consider.

  She stroked fingertips down his cheek.

  “That’s sweet, but I am a real woman, Angelo. Flesh and blood. Not worthy of any pedestal.”

  “I’d argue the point, but I’d rather see you again.”

  Jo checked her watch. “I have phone conferences to Washington and Alaska this morning and this is Friday and you’re open late.”

  His eyes clouded for a moment with worry, but the look was fleeting.

  “We could ride together again tomorrow? I don’t want to get in the way of your training.”

  Blast the man for being so considerate. Yes, she needed to ride, but what she wanted was to feel even half of what Angelo had made her feel their first night together.

  “Sure, a ride sounds great.” Then the Evil Jo took over, the one with too much lust on her mind. “If you meet me on the other side of the locker rooms, I’ll give you my spare key and the code for the elevator. Maybe you can bring your bike over after work tonight, then we can ride in the morning.” She’d never been so forward in her life and found that she was holding her breath to see his reaction. Consciously ordering herself to breathe didn’t work, so she held on and waited, hoping he’d answer before she passed out.

  He didn’t make her wait too long.

  “And how in the world am I not supposed to put you on a pedestal? You’re glorious.”

  Chapter 21

  Angelo risked the front hall light to help him navigate inside the unfamiliar apartment. Bike, helmet, and shoes he left against the wall and crept through the entryway.

  The kitchen was immaculate, so immaculate that he wondered if she used it much. A quick peek in the refrigerator revealed the answer of, “not much.” Leftover containers roughly equaled number of food products.

  The combined dining and living room was almost Spartan except for one wall which was a solid, tight-packed bookshelf. Half law books and half thrillers. He looked closer, most of them legal thrillers. Clearly she was interested in nothing other than law. So what was she doing with him? A woman like her should be with—

  Angelo cut himself off. Don’t go there. She should be with him, that’s who.

  The room was female, but in an odd way it wasn’t feminine. Or maybe he had that backwards. It was feminine in the perfect taste that had been applied to the selection of furnishings and art. It wasn’t female in its lack of what he would typically expect: brightly colored pillows, knick-knacks, or a knit throw over the couch.

  Of course his own décor was primarily a wall of cookbooks. So he wasn’t one to talk.

  The perfect control of her entire world revealed yet another facet of Jo Thompson. Her car was incredible, her apartment exquisite, her personal conditioning exceptional. As a matter of fact, the only thing that didn’t fit her was that disaster she called a desk in that terrifyingly powerful office. It had looked as if a bomb had gone off there and he’d bet it was far worse by now. He hadn’t seen it in three days but he’d wager it h
ad begun breeding on its own.

  He turned off the hall light and slipped into the master bedroom. She’d left a soft blue nightlight on for him. Without it, the heavy curtains would have left the room pitch black. Again, the perfect feminine. Dusky carpet, white walls, white-stained oak furniture, and floor-to-ceiling white curtains. He wondered what lay beyond those. He’d gotten turned around in the building and certainly hadn’t bothered to consider the view his first time here. A quick peek revealed a sweeping panorama of Seattle, Puget Sound, and moonlight on the Olympic Mountains. He could get to like this. He let the curtain slip shut.

  The room smelled like Jo. Not some strong floral or citrus scent, as far as he knew she didn’t wear perfume. But it smelled of her nonetheless. A scent, a flavor that he hadn’t been able to erase from his mind since their first ice-creamed kiss. She reminded him of sky and sunlight and, with all apologies to his history teacher, the deep richness he’d always imagined surrounding the Greek Fates, the three women who measured and cut the time of a man’s life. Or better yet, Gaia, wasn’t she the mother of the Three Fates, or something like that? She really did remind him of a mother goddess. The incredible beauty, the perfect posture as if she were dancer rather than lawyer, the groundedness in who she was. Didn’t the woman have any doubts about anything?

  In the soft light, he could just make out her hair spread across the white pillow and the deeply embroidered white bed quilt. She lay on her side and the scattered hair hid her face leaving only a dark sheen upon the pillow.

  That’s when he remembered her in her office, the dark hair spilling over her face, right after she’d screamed in frustration.

  No. He had to keep reminding himself. This wasn’t Counselor Jo Thompson, not in this room. Here was his lover. That sounded so good. It sent a shiver and a heat washing the length of his body.

  Strictly human, he reminded himself. No pedestals allowed, no matter how he wished to place her upon one. He undressed and slipped in beside her appreciating the softness of the flannel sheets and the warmth and scent of Jo Thompson that pervaded the bed.

  As gently as he could, he brushed the hair back from her face.

  She sighed as he did so.

  “Angelo.” It was barely a whisper.

  “Right here, Jo.”

  She slid up against him, draping an arm over his ribs and curling to bury her face against his chest. Then, with another sigh, she fell back asleep.

  And what was he supposed to do with that? His body thrummed with need. Her face on his chest placed her hair where he could nuzzle it and inhale even more deeply of sky, sun, and Mother Earth. Her hair, long and thick, was also soft and smelled freshly of a light shampoo.

  He considered waking her, but didn’t have the heart to do so. She must be as exhausted as he felt. Eugene still insisted he was departing at the end of the month. Barely two weeks’ notice. Even in a foodie-town like Seattle, there was no way to find a good patissier so quickly. He would put out notices for several positions, hoping to find his way through the current madness as well as begin staffing the new restaurant.

  No! He had to stop his whirling mind. He wouldn’t bring work into this place. He didn’t care what Jo said or didn’t, he’d declare this a sanctuary, even if it was one without pedestals. He simply wouldn’t tell her that he’d done so. In this place at least, it would only be about the two of them, the overwhelmed Italian and the woman who filled his senses as if she were indeed born of heaven.

  Then he thought of something that calmed his nerves.

  Even mostly asleep, she’d called him by his name as if he filled her thoughts as much as she did his.

  Jo woke slowly to the smell of coffee and bacon. Coffee! Her body woke faster simply for knowing caffeine would be consumed shortly. She opened one eye and saw the empty pillow beside hers. It was dented. But she’d gone to bed alone and woken alone.

  To the smell of coffee her body reminded her. So, she’d apparently been alone at either end, but not in the middle? Had he held her in the night? She thought so, felt as if she had been held, but couldn’t be sure.

  Unravished. Held or not, her body was distinctly unravished. The man tells her she is beautiful like a goddess and then doesn’t touch her. It was enough to make a girl downright irritable.

  Coffee. Right, she was always irritable before coffee.

  She slid from beneath the covers wearing the extra-large gray t-shirt with the arched maroon “Vassar” fading over her chest.

  Angelo stood at the stove cooking, his back mostly toward her. He wore only his jeans riding low enough on his hips to reveal that his underwear probably was still somewhere in her bedroom. His bare back rippled slightly as he tended the bacon. He was beautiful. She was about to slip up behind him when she noticed the cloth-covered cookie sheet on the counter. It had been set with napkins, silverware, and a large stoneware mug that steamed thickly of caffeine and French roast. An impromptu breakfast tray.

  Breakfast in bed! She’d never had that except when she’d made it for herself. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to spoil being spoiled for a morning, and scooted back to the bedroom slipping between the covers. Be awake? Feign sleep? Jump him the moment he got through the door no matter the consequences? No, that was too high a risk to the precious caffeine.

  Jo went for the second option, burying her face in the pillow that smelled of Angelo, how she’d missed that when she woke up was beyond her, and listened to the song of her pulse gaining tempo rapidly.

  She ignored the first whispered, “Jo?”

  At the second, closer call of her name, she made a show of waking slowly. Then she had an idea, but she’d have to be fast if she wanted to hide the smile.

  “Jacob?” She dragged aside a fistful of hair and looked at Angelo confusedly through a curtain of what remained.

  He stood balancing the improvised tray and revealed that breathtaking chest of his on full display.

  “I was expecting Jacob,” she shot for a pout and thought she did pretty well.

  “And why were you expecting Jacob?” Rather than looking put-out, Angelo’s smile was radiant. Oh well, so the tease hadn’t really worked. Or had it?

  “Because Jacob would have ravaged me in the night rather than leaving me to sleep.”

  “Well, I could ravage you right now, but your omelet would be cold. And your coffee.”

  “Coffee!”

  Angelo made a pout in return as he rested the tray at the foot of the bed. “Well, I now know where I rank. Below coffee. And Jacob.”

  “Well, Jacob is pretty special.” Jo patted the bed beside her. “Now get back in here under the covers.” She made a grab for his belt.

  Angelo took a step back. “You’ll spill the coffee.”

  “Well, I’ll behave then…at least until I finish breakfast.” Instead she slipped out of the bed, careful not to jostle the tray, and didn’t behave at all.

  Chapter 22

  Jo lay on Angelo’s chest and hummed. Her entire body hummed, there was no other word for it. If she were a musician, she’d say she felt like a string vibrating ever so softly and perfectly in tune. She’d use the metaphor even if she wasn’t a musician, it certainly fit.

  “Breakfast shouldn’t be that much colder.” His tone was wry. They had certainly sparked their need off each other.

  “That was barely a ravage,” she tried on a pout, but it was difficult with how wonderful she was feeling.

  “Consider it a deposit on a ravage.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to work with that. I should demand a signed and notarized letter of further intent to ravage, but I’ll trust you this one time.” Jo scooted back onto the bed.

  Angelo continued to lie there on the floor looking all handsome and content.

  “Your omelet is congealing, Master Chef Parrano.”

  He smiled but didn’t move. “Too late for that, Counselor Thompson.”

  She took a forkful. Barely warm, but still light and fluffy with the nicest hint of oreg
ano.

  “Still yummy.”

  Then Angelo pushed to his feet. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  She pointed at the nightstand. She kept them in the top drawer in case she thought of a good case argument or line of research and didn’t want to lose the thought in the middle of the night.

  He scrawled on the pad quickly, tore off the page and folded it in half, and handed it to her. Then he bowed formally and joined her cross-legged on the bed.

  She opened the note as he took his coffee.

  I, Angelo Parrano, being of weak mind but sound body, do hereby intend, promise, swear, vow, affirm, and otherwise commit that I shall hereafter happily ravage one Jo Thompson at every opportunity.

  Signed, Angelo Parrano

  Addendum: Ravaging also available by special request.

  “I don’t have a notary handy. I hope that’s okay.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. She’d hugged the note to her chest without realizing it. She held it out and read it again.

  It wasn’t the promise to ravage that had set her heart stuttering. It was that he’d done it in her language. She’d received plenty of mash notes over the years, though most of them had been back in Schoenbar Middle School when she’d been among the first of the girls to develop a chest. But even the couple that she’d received as an adult had never so thoroughly acknowledged who she was. They’d always been about her body, not about her. The fact that he’d used the “sound mind” quote from a standard will, probably without intending to evoke death and estate law, only made it more charming.

  He offered her a forkful of omelet that she dutifully took and chewed, though she barely tasted it. There was another taste on her tongue. One she didn’t know, couldn’t identify. No, not a taste. A taste that made her think of Angelo’s wonderful skin.