by Strauss, Lee
Katja jumped back, startled. “Frau Sturm?”
The woman leaned against the frame of the bathroom door. That door had been closed when Katja had passed it the first time. Had Micah’s mother been here the whole time? She answered the question for her.
“Don’t look so surprised. I have my own key to my son’s flat.” She added a moment later for emphasis, “too.”
“What are you doing here?” Katja finally managed.
“I wanted to see for myself if you were just a visitor like my son claimed.” Her eyes cut to the room Katja had just exited. Micah’s bedroom. “Or more.”
Katja folded her arms in front of her. “And your conclusion?”
“Don’t play stupid with me.”
“I don’t intend to play anything with you.”
“Look,” Frau Sturm said, tugging on her suit jacket. “We both know what girls like you want from boys like my son.”
Katja stiffened. Girls like her? “And what would that be?”
“Money.”
“I’m not after Micah’s money.” Katja felt like she’d just walked onto the set of a bad daytime soap opera.
“Oh, please. Look at you! And look at this nice roof over your head. Be honest. Where did you live before you came here?”
Hot anger boiled in Katja’s stomach. How dare this woman?
“Don’t bother trying to scramble up a lie. I already know. You slept on the sofa of a flat not leased by you. Before then you lived with your mother and stepfather in a GDR housing project in Berlin. You quit university before you finished your first year.”
Katja felt sucker punched.
“So,” Frau Sturm continued. “Let’s go back to the money. What will it take to get you to leave my son for good? Ten thousand euros? Twenty?”
“Shall I just name my price?” Katja spit out.
“Please do.”
“I choose zero euro. Whatever Micah and I have, it has nothing to do with you. I will not be bullied or bribed. Believe it or not, money can’t buy you everything.”
“Mother?”
They both gasped at the sight of Micah standing at the end of the hall. Katja’s heart stammered. How much had he heard?
“Micah, Schatz, hello.” Frau Sturm pulled her face into a friendly smile like she hadn’t just been caught belittling the girl in the hall. Her stilettos clicked on the floor as she moved to her son and kissed his cheeks. He stood still, not returning her affection.
“I think you should leave,” he said.
Katja couldn’t tell if he was talking to his mother or to her. She stepped back toward the bedroom. Micah caught her eye. “Not you.”
He guided his mother to the front door. Katja could hear their muffled voices from her position in the hall.
Frau Sturm switched to English. “This is a mistake.”
“Then it’s my mistake.”
“She’s just like…”
“Mother!”
“And what is that thing in her lip?”
Katja scowled and pulled her lip ring into her mouth with her teeth. She was tempted to storm out past the two of them and make a big scene, but a part of her didn’t want to give in to Frau Bully.
The door shut loudly, and in the next moment Micah was back, staring at her again, an apologetic expression on his face.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“She hates me.”
“She doesn’t know you. She’s just really protective of me.”
Katja rolled her eyes.
“I bought groceries,” he said. “Can I make you dinner?”
“Micah.”
“It’s not Tuesday yet. If you leave tomorrow, this will be our last night. At least have dinner with me.”
Micah’s eyes were so kind and pleading. Katja felt her anger melt a little. “You’ve made dinner for me so many times.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s your turn to make it.”
She snorted. “Do you have a death wish?”
“No, actually. And I’d like to see you live another day as well. I think you need a lesson.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “You think you can teach me to cook?”
He cocked his head. “I’d like to try.”
Katja couldn’t resist Micah’s charms and had, against her better judgment, agreed to the cooking lesson. What she needed was to hide away from Micah, to somehow escape the undeniable pull he had on her. Instead, she’d just signed up for more emotional torture.
She was her own worst enemy.
Micah scooped up the remote and turned on a satellite radio station that played soft jazz. Katja silently moaned. Romantic music? She really was in trouble.
She followed Micah into the kitchen where he turned on the taps and washed his hands. He offered her the soap. She tried to keep her distance, but there was only one tap, and Micah didn’t seem to be in any hurry to finish rinsing his hands. She kept a good half meter between them and stubbornly waited until he left his position by the sink. “What are you going to teach me to make?”
“Something simple. Pasta with braised vegetables and sheep cheese.”
“Well, we both know I’m lousy at cooking pasta. What’s the big secret?”
Micah smirked. “Slow down, young chef. One thing at a time.” He opened a cupboard door. “First, you need the right pot. Uncooked pasta must have room to expand. You want to cover it with water without filling it more than three-quarters full. You don’t want it to boil over.”
Hmm. That was one of her problems. She obviously didn’t use the right pot, or enough water. Good to know.
Micah handed her the pot, and she filled it, and placed it on the stove, turning the element to high. “Where’s the pasta?”
Micah removed a package from his grocery bag. “It’s here, but you don’t want to add it until the water’s boiling. In the meantime, we can wash and slice the vegetables.” Micah produced a small amount of fresh mushrooms, a zucchini and a package of grape tomatoes. Katja washed them and returned them to the cutting board.
The kitchen wasn’t that big, and Katja found it difficult to move without brushing against Micah at times.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
He stared down at her. “Please, don’t be.”
She started slicing the zucchini at the thickness Micah had shown her. Being in close quarters like this might be torture, but she appreciated the lesson. No one had taken the time to teach her how to cook before.
“Now we’ll sauté the zucchini and mushrooms in butter,” Micah said while scooping a spoonful of butter into a frying pan. “Turn it on medium, and throw them in.”
Katja did as instructed, scraping the sliced vegetables from the cutting board into the pan.
“You just need to keep stirring them so they don’t burn.”
Katja nodded and gave the vegetables a whirl. “What about the tomatoes?”
“Those go on top, later. Fresh, not cooked.” Micah pulled a bottle of wine out of one of the bags. “For the lady.” He opened it and poured Katja a glass.
She raised an eyebrow. “You were pretty certain I’d say yes to this invitation?”
He shrugged while pouring himself a glass of sparkling water. “I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance.”
The frying pan sizzled and Micah instructed, “Keep stirring.”
Katja did as told. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did your mother like Greta?”
Micah paused until she looked at him. “No, she didn’t. If that makes you feel better. My mother is always rude.”
It did, in fact, make her feel better. She was glad to know she wasn’t the only one on the receiving end of Frau Sturm’s disapproval.
“The water’s ready for the pasta,” Micah said. He opened the bag and handed it to Katja. “You may do the honors.”
Katja smiled, despite herself, and poured the contents in. “How long do you cook it?”
> “About ten minutes,” Micah said. He checked the package and nodded. “Italians like to undercook it by three minutes and then cook it with the sauce for the remaining three. The pasta captures the flavors of the sauce, that way.”
Katja was impressed. “How did you learn to cook?” She couldn’t imagine his mother stepping foot into a kitchen.
“We had professional cooks. I wanted to learn, so they taught me.”
He had cooks. She had a mother who could barely pull herself out of bed.
“It helps to set a timer,” Micah added, winking. “Especially if you find yourself distracted by a song demanding to be written or a picture insisting on being sketched.” He set the timer and then handed her a spoon. “You need to stir it once in a while.”
Micah pulled the tin lid off a small plastic container. “Now to add crème and a bit of salt and pepper to the vegetables.”
Katja found it increasingly difficult to pull her gaze away from her teacher. Men who knew their way around a kitchen were sexy. Her pulse jumped as she watched him, and she felt herself flush. “So, what’s left?” she asked, trying to distract herself.
“The cheese. Many people like Parmesan, but I prefer sheep cheese. It adds a nice tang.” He sliced a piece off the block and handed it to Katja. “You can grate it.”
Micah produced a grater, and Katja began the process of shredding the cheese onto a plate. Micah made no attempt to hide the fact he was staring at her.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“You know what.”
“I want to kiss you.”
She dropped the cheese and dared to glance at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He stepped closer, forcing her to back up against the counter. “I think it’s a great idea.”
Oh, Lord, she really wanted him to kiss her, but it was still a really, really bad idea. Her pulse raged, and her body flooded with warmth. Her throat grew dry. Maybe just one kiss. She heard herself say, “Perhaps it’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Yes it was! What was she thinking? It was a terrible, terrible idea!
He pressed his mouth to her ear, his breath causing tremors that would break the Richter scale. “Admit it. It’s an incredible idea.”
She gulped, wanting nothing more than to grab him by the shirt and pull him to her. “Maybe it’s not so bad,” she whispered.
“Not so bad works for me.” Micah’s lips found hers, and Katja was sure the kitchen floor had cracked open. She was falling, helpless. She grabbed his head and returned the kiss, urgently taking him in. She wrapped a leg around him, and he grabbed her thigh. She wanted to tear his shirt off and drag him to his room.
Then she remembered his force field.
And her own oath to leave.
She’d told him he had until Tuesday to change her mind, and here she was sucking his lips off on Monday night.
Did she have no willpower at all? Had she changed her mind about what she should do so easily? Tomorrow, she’d still be the poor girl chasing a dream, and he’d still be the rich boy with every advantage. And with a domineering mother who scared the crap out of her. Frau Sturm would always be trying to break them up, and eventually she would win. She and Micah had too much working against them.
She had to be stronger than this.
She placed a palm against his chest and pushed gently. “Micah…”
He tapped a finger to her lips. “You promised me until Tuesday.”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Then I have you until tomorrow.”
She quivered under his touch. She would leave tomorrow, but she knew beyond a doubt that Micah would have her heart for much longer. She ran fingers along the roughness of his jaw, drank in his face, his eyes, the curls on his head. She was memorizing him. Something told her she’d be living in this moment forever.
“I love you, Katja.”
Her heart stopped. Then she kissed him again and didn’t quit until the timer went.
They ate dinner by candlelight and spent the night curled up together on the sofa bed. Micah remained in control, and she was glad he’d enforced a slow pace. Especially since she still didn’t know if staying with him was the right thing to do.
Tuesday arrived, and even though she went through the motions of packing, she didn’t leave. It wasn’t a clear win for Micah, and they both knew it. Despite their passion, Katja wasn’t convinced she’d made the right choice, yet the longer she stayed the deeper she sank. By the weekend, she knew she was a prisoner to Micah, no matter what his rules were, no matter how torn her heart would be when the end came.
Saturday brought a welcome diversion from her emotional torment in the form of Jonas’s art festival. It was held outdoors at the foot of the pedestrian zone called Neustädter Markt by the Golden Horseman statue. Katja had gotten hired to play music on a small stage while people meandered through the artwork and crafts displayed there.
It was within walking distance from their flat, and Micah insisted on carrying her guitar. “It makes me feel cool,” he joked.
Katja laughed. “It makes you look cool.”
He purposefully bumped into her. “Then I’ll just have to carry it for you all the time.”
It was a warm, sunny day with clear blue skies, and the fair was full of people taking in the show. Jonas waved her over when he saw her.
“Hey, Jonas,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good.” Jonas beamed his boyish grin. “Already sold one painting.”
“That’s great,” Katja said. She motioned to Micah. “This is …” Again, she didn’t know what to call him and settled for just his name. “Micah.”
They shook hands and Katja looked around for Renata. “Is your mother here?”
“Not yet. She’ll stop by later.”
Katja took a moment to look at Jonas’s work before setting up. “He’s good,” she said to Micah. He nodded his head. “Who knew there were so many talented people in the world?” He squeezed her shoulders. “Here I thought you were the only one.”
She swatted his arm. “You’re such a sap.”
He laughed. “Do you need any help?”
“It’s just me and my guitar. I think I can manage, but thanks.”
The small stage had a sound system set up. The guy managing it ran her through a short sound check. “It’s all yours,” he said.
“I’m going to be here a while,” Katja said to Micah.
“I’ll have a look around and then go home,” he said. “We’ll meet up later?”
She nodded and took the stage, sitting on the stool provided there. She’d play mostly instrumentals, unless a group gathered wanting to listen to her sing. She was fine either way. She smiled as she watched Jonas chatting up admirers of his work. Though young and geeky looking, he had a self-confidence and charm that would go a long way. Renata had done a good job.
Micah caught her eye and pointed at a canvas. Katja nodded and mouthed, It’s good. Micah smiled and surprised her by picking it up and handing several bills to Jonas.
She watched as he walked away with a new painting under his arm. She loved that he supported Jonas by purchasing one.
She loved him.
It was true. She was hopelessly snared. Ignoring the truth wouldn’t change it. She felt surprisingly light about her admission. A smile threatened to take over her face. She chewed on her lip ring and tried to stay focused on her playing.
She spotted another familiar face in the crowd. Maurice was there, checking out the pottery. It was strange to see him around town milling about. She only ever saw him at the Blue Note. He followed the music and eventually spotted the source. He drew closer.
“Ma Cherie,” he called out. “I should’ve known it was you. You play exquisitely.”
She laughed and blew him a kiss.
If only Renata were here. She’d love to introduce them. Maurice and Renata had become two of her most favorite p
eople.
Katja finished her two-hour set and collected her pay. Micah wasn’t home when she got back, and she felt the emptiness. He hadn’t mentioned his plans for the day, only that they’d meet up later. She put her guitar away and rested on the sofa.
The art show had inspired her so she pulled her sketch pad out. Her eyes were drawn to the sketch of Micah that hung on the formerly locked door. She lifted herself from her cross-legged position on the sofa and carefully removed the drawing, taking it into the bathroom where she stood staring at her image in the mirror.
She poised her pencil over the shadowy area beside the drawing of Micah’s head and began to rapidly pencil in the lines of her face. She made her eyes bright and her mouth turned up with amusement. Her image looked mischievous and happy, her gaze directed at Micah.
She propped up the sketch and stood back to examine it. Yes, it said what she wanted it to say, that she admired and adored him. She signed it: I love you, K, and hung it back up on the door.
She fell asleep on the sofa and awoke to Micah lifting her legs and sitting down under them.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. He took one of her feet and rubbed it.
“Oh, that feels good.”
“I knew you were keeping me around for something.” He switched to the other one.
“I thought you were keeping me around.”
Her eyes darted to the revised sketch on the wall, and Micah followed her gaze. He slipped out from under her, walked over to view it and tilted his head. His hand went to his chin and he rubbed the shadow of his beard. “Hmm. It’s charming, yet bold. The artist has a way with a pencil, crafting shadow and light. Brilliant, actually.”
Katja laughed at Micah’s poor attempt at mimicking an art critic. “I’m glad you like it.”
His dark, simmering gaze locked with hers. “I don’t just like it. I love it.”
Katja blushed and pursed her lips to suppress a girlish giggle.
Micah returned and pulled her up onto his lap. His lips brushed against her ear and he whispered, “I think you should kiss me now. Kiss me good.”
She reached for his face, tracing his jaw with her fingertip, and met his lips with hers. They were warm and soft, and she trembled as his tongue played with her lip ring. He ran his fingers lightly over her temples, and she responded in kind, holding his head, and running fingers through his curls. She pulled back to gaze at his face and lost herself in the love she saw there. Then she tucked herself under his arm, feeling safe and secure—something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
