Well Suited

by Hart, Staci

Sarah smiled up at Theo. “I like her.”

  He shot me a pleased glance. “Me too.”

  Damn him. Damned hormones. Damned heart, pitter-pattering without my consent.

  “I hope we have a chance to get together before you move in, Katherine,” Sarah said. “And if not, I’m looking forward to more facts and less nerves.”

  “So am I. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  They shuffled past.

  “I’ll be back in a second,” Theo said.

  And so, I sat and waited as he helped Sarah to her room.

  My palms were a swampy mess, my body reacting to the stress and anxiety of meeting the most important person in Theo’s life. The grandmother to my embryo. My future roommate.

  The room swam for a moment, the pressure in my brain dimming my vision. I laid my head back, closed my eyes, tried to breathe while unsuccessfully attempting to avoid hyper-focusing on every symptom of my apparent swoon.

  “Kate?”

  His worried voice forced a crack in my eyelids.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him, my voice watery.

  “You’re gray. When did you eat last?”

  “Mmm, I had some purse crackers on my way here.”

  He knelt at my feet, his face frowning and authoritative. “I mean a real meal.”

  “I had rice and tomatoes for lunch.”

  “That does not constitute lunch. No protein.”

  “Does too. A cup of rice has four-point-three grams of protein.”

  He huffed, rolling his eyes as he stood, extending his hand. “That is not enough protein. Case in point.” He gestured to me when I didn’t accept his palm.

  I sighed. “The thought of meat made my stomach turn. I haven’t thrown up in days, and I don’t want to start now.”

  “Come on, Kate. Let me feed you.” When I didn’t take his hand, a smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll pick you up and carry you in three…two…”

  I grabbed his hand with a huff, and he pulled me to stand.

  For a moment, he kept holding my hand as we walked toward the stairs. But he let me go.

  I sighed, wishing he hadn’t.

  Once we reached the top of the stairs, the delectable scent of dinner and the sweet sounds of music slipped over me. The atmosphere was inviting and warm, settling my nerves. It felt homey, cozy, the rooms lit only by lamps and the soft overhead kitchen lighting.

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said, walking to the oven, snagging an oven mitt on his way. “Have a seat.”

  I did as I’d been told, choosing one of the two places set up at the table. It was lovely really—fresh flowers in a low vase, salad plate on top of the dinner plate. Water in wine glasses. Cloth napkins set with cutlery. The salad and dinner forks were even in the correct order.

  His attention to detail made him infinitely more attractive.

  I watched him from my seat, unfolding my napkin to lay it in my lap. With great care, he transferred food from the casserole dish to a tray and bowl. As he walked over with them, he had a proud, mildly smug smile on his face.

  I peered into the dishes when he set them down and turned for the fridge.

  On the dish sat a row of gently breaded chicken breasts dotted with green herbs and surrounded by steaming cauliflower. The bowl brimmed with hand-cut fries that smelled like garlic and salt and carbs.

  Everything was beige.

  Inexplicably, the realization made me want to cry.

  I glanced down to my lap, pretending to arrange my napkin so I didn’t have to look up at him. Because he’d see my emotion and know exactly how I felt.

  He always did. He saw straight through me.

  With anyone else, I would have been averse to the point of ending a relationship. But with him, I only felt understood.

  It was so rare, to feel understood.

  Theo appeared in my periphery, but I didn’t look up as he set down the salad and took his seat.

  “I hope you like the salad. The soy dressing wouldn’t have gone with this, so I made a spinach and strawberry salad with balsamic.”

  “It’s…it’s perfect,” I said, swallowing hard and forcing a smile as a weak attempt to recover. “You always seem to know just what to do. It’s unnerving.”

  He chuckled, placing his napkin in his lap. “I was going for charming.”

  “Oh, it’s charming. It’s…difficult for me when I’m caught off guard. Especially right now.” I reached for the servingware to dish myself some chicken and cauliflower.

  At that, a hint of a frown passed across his lips. “I’m sorry, Kate. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” I kept my eyes on my hands, dishing myself some fries. “You’ve done everything right. Better than right because you anticipate what I need before I know I need it.”

  “Well, I’ve been doing that for Tommy for years. It’s the first line of my job description,” he joked.

  Our hands moved around each other, anticipating what the other would reach for and systematically making the rounds on the food. It was a dance of efficiency. I wondered if it would be like this when the baby came, imagined us double-teaming a diaper change, moving around each other with such effortless grace.

  We were, without thought or intention, an excellent team.

  “It’s no wonder you’re very good at your job,” I said, picking up my fork to dig into my salad. I speared a strawberry and sliver of parmesan and took a bite, moaning when it hit my tongue.

  He was so handsome when he smiled. It honestly wasn’t fathomable how a man like him could be interested in a woman like me. I wasn’t the kind of girl who handsome, successful, charming men wooed. But beyond all logic and reason, here I sat, across the table from one of said men, with a curated beige dinner, complete with folic acid, for the girl he’d gotten pregnant on a one-night stand.

  Maybe it was only the baby. He’d made this food not to make me happy, but to provide sustenance for his child. He’d fed me folic acid for fetal brain development, not to impress me.

  But then I thought back to that night, that first night. And the remembrance of the connection we’d made long before a baby was in the picture had me turned around again.

  And that was the most difficult thing of all to parse—logic and reason did not apply here. And without those two systems to count on, I was hobbled.

  I took another bite of my salad, unable to redirect my thoughts. And for a moment, we ate in silence but for the music playing from an unseen source. And Theo didn’t press. He just ate, occasionally catching my eye or smiling at me. The lack of conversation was companionable, comfortable, terribly natural. And I took the moment to collect myself.

  We were halfway through our main course when my blood sugar had normalized along with my heart rate and emotions. For the moment at least. I drew upon my reserves of collectiveness and set down my fork.

  He looked up, saw my expression, and sobered, setting down his fork too. “You okay, Kate?”

  “I’m much better than okay, Theodore.” My hands, which were damp, clutched my napkin in my lap. “I’m nervous and unsure, but you have taken care of me in ways I couldn’t have known you would and for reasons I can’t quite understand.”

  “Well, I like taking care of people. Especially you.”

  I sighed. “When you say things like that, I don’t know what to do.”

  His eyes cast down, and he nodded guiltily. “I’m sorry. I know you asked me not to come on to you, but it’s not intentional. It’s just honest. I tend to say how I feel, when I feel it.”

  “I do, too,” I said. “And that’s what makes it so disarming—your honesty. I asked you to help me last week. Because I’m unable to untangle my feelings and look at things objectively. Especially when it comes to you.”

  Flint struck behind his eyes, sparking a flame of hope that reached nothing but his irises.

  “It’s become abundantly clear that the chemistry and compatibility between us isn’t something
we can avoid. And so, I’d like to propose we discuss alternatives.”

  “And what kind of alternatives do you have in mind?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, which is why I’d like to discuss them. As decided, I would like to defer to you.”

  Silence, noisy with his unspoken thoughts. “All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s start with more information. How exactly do you feel about me?”

  I considered the question. There were too many answers. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “With the good. For my ego.”

  With a long pause and a healthy helping of discomfort, I took a breath and let loose. “I don’t know how it’s possible that you continually do everything right. You do exactly what I would do but with more…panache. You have respected my wishes. You’ve done everything I asked. You’ve stayed away, and I’m starting to hate it.”

  He stilled.

  “I don’t understand my feelings, and I don’t understand why I can’t keep them in check. I don’t know why I want you to touch me or kiss me. I don’t understand how you make me want things I’ve decided I didn’t want. I don’t like feeling like I can’t control myself, and it’s why I avoided you in the first place. And I should have known I couldn’t fight biology, but when coupled with your behavior, I can’t imagine how I’m supposed to stop it. I don’t think I want you to stay away anymore, Theo.”

  For a moment, he said nothing. His face, which I scanned for answers, was locked down but for those smoldering eyes of his.

  “Okay. Now tell me the bad.”

  I took a shaky breath. “I’m not prepared to enter into a relationship. I don’t know how, and things between us are too complicated. There’s no way to determine what’s a real connection and what is circumstantial. Or hormone-fueled.”

  “What are you afraid will happen?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. Or that I’ll get hurt. That we’ll ruin our positive relationship by confusing things. Because I’m growing more and more convinced that we’ll need each other. And can we successfully raise our child together if we part ways damaging each other? If things end badly because we made poor choices or weren’t as compatible as we’d thought, is it possible to remain amicable for the sake of our child? If we live together and are together and separate, how can we still be peaceful and productive?” I shook my head, tried to soothe the ache in my chest with a breath. “Like I said—it’s just too complicated.”

  When he didn’t say anything, I kept explaining, overcome by nerves regarding his reaction once he did speak.

  “I can’t sort it out on my own. I need your input. I trust you. Because I know you want what’s best for us and our embryo.”

  “Baby.”

  My head tilted. “Baby?”

  “Baby. It has arms and fingers and toes now.”

  “See?” I said with an exasperated wave of my hand in his direction. “It’s things like this. You remembered what I said weeks ago about the baby not being a baby until it had arms and legs. You remember everything. You are thoughtful and giving. Every word, every detail has meaning. The dinner you made for me. The care you give. It attracts me beyond strictly chemicals.”

  “Then who’s to say a relationship wouldn’t work?”

  A hot flush bloomed up my neck, to my cheeks. “Who’s to say it would? There are too many variables to track. And I don’t know if the risk is wise for our future.”

  Something in him lit up, though his face was still calm and composed. He straightened up and leaned forward, resting his broad forearm on the table.

  “So, an experiment is in order. With controlled variables.”

  I straightened up myself. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve wanted you from the moment you wiped my kiss off the back of your hand.”

  A short burst of laughter bubbled out of me.

  “You ignored me for almost five weeks. And every single day, I thought about you. I think I can safely say I want you just as badly as you want me. More maybe. I understand your fears, and they’re real. And I understand the quandary. Our relationship, by accidental default, is happening backward. The rules don’t apply, and the stakes are high. So, let’s experiment. Rather than introduce all variables at once, let’s introduce them in increments.”

  Hope sprang. “This is a brilliant idea. Where do you suggest we start?”

  His sideways smile rose on one side. “Where we started.”

  My eyes widened. My lips parted to speak, but he cut me off.

  “Before you say no, consider a few things. Our chemistry, as you mentioned, is overwhelming at best, maddening at worst. By exercising those urges, it’s possible we might empty the tank of desire.”

  The way he said possible made me feel like he’d perhaps chosen that word for my benefit. The word held an undercurrent of patronization, as if he knew the tank of desire was bottomless.

  But the logic didn’t escape me.

  “And, if it doesn’t, then we can make a plan for more incremental steps.”

  “Like dates,” I offered, my mind whirring as it composed a list. “Public displays of affection. Cuddling. Sleeping in the same bed.”

  “Exactly. We can start where we started. Scratch the itch. See if we get it out of our systems. And if not, then we can add one thing at a time to determine long-term compatibility.”

  “Take it slow by taking it fast,” I mused. “Normally, I would disagree, but in our instance, I think it might work.”

  That smolder in his eyes was now all over his face, and the full effect would have wobbled my knees if I’d been standing. As it was, it simply made me sweat.

  Last time I’d seen that look, I’d gotten myself pregnant.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m deferring to you. When should we start?”

  “Right fucking now,” he said, standing, pushing back his chair, and tossing his napkin onto his plate in the same motion.

  I laughed, flustered and amused. But he didn’t stop, eating up the space between us, his eyes locked on mine and smirk firmly in place as he grabbed my chair and turned it with me still in the seat.

  I yelped, still laughing until I couldn’t laugh anymore.

  Because he was kissing me.

  God, was he kissing me, his lips bruising and determined and relieved and demanding. He kissed me like he’d been dreaming of kissing me his whole life, like he’d recounted it in a thousand ways, and now that it was upon him, his restraint was gone. Wild and hot, his breath noisy from his nose, his hands roaming my hair, my face, my thigh.

  I broke the kiss, unable to catch my breath, my lips parted and panting. He didn’t miss a beat, burying his face in my neck.

  My arms wound around his neck, my fingers skimming the close crop of his hair and sliding into the thick, dark locks on top.

  “Rules,” I whispered. “We need rules.”

  “Tell me,” he said between kisses.

  My eyelids were too heavy to keep open. I sighed. “Once a week. No sleeping in the same bed.”

  “Mmm,” was his answer.

  “No dating. No kissing and no touching, except for our itch-scratching. We—oh!” He nibbled my ear, and for a second, I couldn’t speak. “We need a signal. A…a sign.”

  He broke away, leaning back, his eyes black and lust-drunk. “I have one rule. It can double as the signal.”

  “What?” I said breathlessly.

  Theo reached for my face, cupped my jaw, and ran a thumb across my bottom lip, his eyes following the motion. “Wear this lipstick. I want you in it when we…scratch. And that’ll be my cue.”

  I smiled, shifting to extend my hand. “Deal.”

  But he kissed me instead.

  And I found I preferred it to a handshake without question.

  13

  The Itch

  Katherine

  Dinner was forgotten, the final straw drawn when he picked me up and carried me like a savage toward his bedroom. There was one brief moment wh
en I noted that I had no reservations, not a single one. And then I couldn’t be bothered to care.

  He laid me down in his bed with gentle care, breaking the kiss to smile down at me. He hovered over me, his forearm planted next to my head, his thigh slipping between mine. And my hands had a mind of their own, roaming down the crisp cotton of his shirt toward his belt, tugging the tails from his waistband.

  His lips crushed mine in the same moment my fingers grazed the tight skin of his abs. His pants hung from his narrow hips almost without touching them, the incongruity of the ridges of his body with the sleek lines of his slacks a study in opposites. His clothes were that of a man who had a meeting to attend or a private jet to catch or a business to run. His body was that of a man whose only job was to bale hay or chop wood or run a marathon.

  A wealth of muscles hid under the clean lines of his suit, rolling, corded, tight muscles, exposed little by little as I unfastened each pearly button. My fingertips were thirsty to map the topography of every one. He was the only man I’d ever been with who had a body like this. Muscles, sure, on occasion. But never this. His was the body of an athlete in the shell of a businessman, and I wondered as my hands skimmed the discs of his pecs and across small, tight nipples what his motivation was.

  His hand gripped my thigh, forcing it far wider than necessary to fit his hips. With a slow grind, he pressed his hard length into me.

  Control, I realized. I imagined he liked the control over his body, the exertion of his will against his physical self. I also imagined that he wasn’t a halfway sort of man. If he decided to work out, he’d push himself to the limits of his body. And then I suspected he’d push it one step further.

  I moaned into his mouth, my hands sliding over his hot skin, up to thickly muscled shoulders, catching his shirt on my wrists to rid him of it. My dress was hitched up to my hips, the black skirt hooked in the bend of my thighs and spread out under me. He sighed as his hand slipped high enough to slide his thumb under the silky black fabric.

  My body remembered his, ached for his. I didn’t realize just how much I’d been holding back, what I’d been tamping down. I’d tried to box up a tiger in cardboard, and it’d shredded the box the second it had the chance.