by R. S. Elliot
“This is a huge order,” I say nervously. This is going to take forever for them to prepare. “Are you building your own house?”
He laughs, and a feeling like warm butter slides down my chest. “Not mine, actually. The supplies are for a charity. My friend and his wife develop housing for underprivileged families. They recruit volunteers to make repairs, build new houses, stuff like that.”
My heart. I can’t take it. The man has a soul. “That’s awesome! How often do you do this?”
“Oh, I don’t,” he says, practically leaping at the chance to correct the mistake. “I just pay for the supplies.”
I feel my lips collapse at the ends. Did he mean to say it like that? To treat volunteering like something to be sneered at, looked down upon as insignificant when compared to the gift of money?
The declaration shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but for some reason, I’m shook. There’s almost a form of terror in his voice. The same distance I’ve seen from so many highbrow clients in the past. The ones who would rather pay their way into a charity rather than mingle with the riff-raff. Of course, those contributions look great, exchanging large sums of cash for the prestige of giving, along with a generous tax write-off to ease the sting. So long as they don’t have to look at any of us poor folk.
“What?” He leans toward me, propping his arms against the table next to me. I feel the heat from his body graze mine, and I suppress the shiver of pleasure coursing through me. “You don’t approve?”
I turn toward him, surprised by how close his face is to mine. I fight the urge to move forward, to drop my gaze to his lips, just to sneak a peek. Despite the anger welling in my chest at his words, I can’t deny he is incredibly attractive. Almost magnetic. And he knows it.
A dangerous combination.
I tilt my shoulder upward and flash my most condescending smile. “Do you need my approval?”
“I’d settle for what made that little crease in your forehead just now.”
His green eyes search my face as if committing to memory every line and pivot of my features for future use. Warmth fans its way up my throat, lingering, caressing. Why do I want his eyes on me, so intimate despite knowing him for a matter of seconds? Why does every second I spend in his company make me imagine his hands over me, undressing me?
Another moment passes, and I realize I haven’t said a word. I’m lost in the spell of his gaze, the hypnotic fragrance of his cologne, and the overwhelming flood of feelings setting my skin alight. My stare slides downward, curiosity getting the better of me. His lips are perfect, full and soft.
He probably kisses like the devil.
I raise my eyes back upward, surprised to find his attention fixed to my own lips and the playful teasing in his features gone. The cool, jade hue of his green eyes now resembles a dense forest of evergreens. Dark, untamed and ready to be explored.
I force myself to remember how we got here. We’re in the middle of Home Depot, for goodness’ sake. It wouldn’t look right. Me jumping him in the middle of the aisle, my orange apron flagging down every onlooker for miles like those orange vests they make criminals wear when they pick up trash by the side of the road.
It wouldn’t be right to start something I can’t finish.
Not when we are clearly worlds apart.
Chapter Two
Zach
“Is it genuine?” she asks.
Genuine? There was an endless number of possibilities behind that question.
Am I genuine? I certainly try, especially when I want nothing more than this woman’s approving gaze to be mine again. Is what I’m feeling genuine?
God, I hope so.
Every nerve stands at attention, tense, and awaiting the relief only a woman’s touch offers. This woman’s. Without reason, I am spellbound. It takes every ounce of control I have not to lift her onto this flimsy table. But there’s that little crease in her forehead again, the kind that any idiot can identify as a warning before an argument.
“Is what genuine?” I ask, still focused on her expression, looking for any insight into her thoughts.
She had looked so impressed at first, regarding me with the same interest the women of my social circle usually do when I pay for their extravagant expenses. Well, not exactly the same. Her eyes didn’t light up with dollar signs or diamonds. She regarded me with compassion, with admiration. Now, she only looks disappointed.
“The gesture,” she says. “Do you do it because you want to or because it’s just something to do?”
Now, this is a first. What exactly is she accusing me of doing? Does she think most people spend this amount of money on a whim? “I don’t think I follow.”
“Nevermind.” She shakes her head. “Forget I said anything.”
She starts to pull away. An impulse strikes me, the irrational fear of her walking away from me. I don’t want her to place any distance between us.
I want her here. Close. Her disappointed scowl makes me feel unusually enlivened for the first time in years. As if she expects something of me. Something more than I’ve allowed myself to be in years.
I reach for her. My hand catches her arm, and I pull her back toward me. Immediately, I realize my mistake. The same current of electricity runs down my arm, alerting those parts of my brain and body that I want this woman beyond reason. I want her vibrant red hair laced between my fingers, her plush lips against my skin. I want her legs wrapped around my waist, and every breath she takes a pant of pure ecstasy.
I let her go. These thoughts are too much for the aisle of a home improvement store. I’m already half-hard from just talking to her. Another second longer of me touching her, and I’ll have her pushed up against these shelves.
I close my eyes, blocking out any images of her in my bed. I’ve clearly hit a nerve, and I need to know why.
“What am I missing?” I ask finally.
She sighs. Her bright blue eyes tilt upward as if searching for an answer amidst the imaginary clouds. “Do you ever want to help the people you donate supplies to? I mean, face-to-face. Do you ever think about what their lives must be like?”
I shift from one foot to the other.
She is hitting me with the hard questions today. I haven’t even asked myself that in almost four years. Do I ever want to engage with the people in Derek’s organization? There was a time I did. A time when all I thought about was social reform and helping others. It was the whole reason I got into teaching in the first place. Now, all my time is relegated to term papers and publishing analyses in academic journals.
“Sure, but who has the time for that?” Damn it. Why did I say it like that? I sound like a dick!
You sound like your father.
Her brow knits deeper. I’m in for it now. Clearly, this woman has a soft spot for volunteer work, and I am pushing all of the wrong buttons. “Right, because people in those situations are there by their own doing. Is that it?”
Now, that sounds more like your father.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, fumbling through the millions of excuses rolling around in my head.
I used to help.
I’ve been too busy to help the less fortunate. My father thinks its beneath us to give money to the poor, and I’ve grown tired of arguing.
None of the excuses I can think of make me feel any better. What happened to me? Didn’t I want to change the world? I donated plenty of time in the past, working in food kitchens, mentoring foster kids. It was where I met Derek. Where I first realized there was more to life than socializing with business investors and spending thousands of dollars on extravagant parties.
So why does it feel different when she asks me? Why does it feel like I’ve failed somehow?
“Then what did you mean?” she asks.
“There’s not enough time to do everything that needs to be done,” I explain. “You can’t change the world in a day.”
That’s it. Crush her idealistic spirit. What am I doing?
&nbs
p; Sparing her from learning a harsh reality the long way. Some people don’t want to be saved. And sometimes the struggle to save them comes at a great cost to yourself.
“So we sit back and do nothing?” she asks, her eyes narrowing over me.
“I am doing something.”
“So long as you don’t have to see the pitiful creatures you’re helping?” she says. Now, that one hurt. “So long as you can drop off the supplies and pretend like you’re doing some good in the world.”
“But I am donating supplies. Isn’t that enough?” I say, foolishly regretting it afterward. “Something is better than nothing.”
Keep digging that hole you’re working on, Zach.
To my surprise, she stops, staring after me as if she had awakened from a trance. As if she hadn’t meant to lay into me for the last five minutes with her lecture about the poor and their struggles.
“Yes.” She nods, weakly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Whatever passion I had ignited in her before quickly dissipates. I find myself longing to spark it back up again, just to see what other idealistic notions she still has. I want them for myself. Every inch of the fire in her spirit, the passion, I want it. The way I used to before.
Somewhere deep within me, a memory emerges. I was once like her. Bright-eyed, ready to tackle the world and its problems. So why did I stop? Was it really all about the time? I could do more if I wanted to. Do I even want to anymore?
“Here’s your receipt,” she says and hands me the sheet of paper. I sign it, reluctantly, feeling far too much like I’ve signed away my soul instead.
I hand her back the slip. But when she takes it, I don’t let go. She stops, holding my gaze one last time. I’m not sure what’s left to say, only that I don’t want to let her go.
The flicker of heat from before passes between us. I lean forward, drawn by a force I can’t explain. This is more than seduction, more than a quick tumble between the sheets. I want her to look at me the way she did before. Before I opened my mouth and ruined her illusions with my cynicism.
She sucks in a quick draw of breath. The parting of her lips instantly focuses my attention downward. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing shallow. A few mere inches away from her mouth, and I’m not entirely sure what I intend to do.
Am I really going to kiss her? Here in the middle of the aisle? A complete stranger, at her place of work?
I don’t even know if she wants to be kissed.
That does it. A cold, hard taste of reality. Here I am, pouring all my interest in this woman who clearly thinks I have no soul, whatsoever. It can’t be all my imagination. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’m not imagining the way she looks at me, like she’s ready to devour me with the same hunger I have for her.
But now is not the time. I’m not even sure when the right time would be.
I release the ticket, release her. A splash of cool air sweeps over me. It knocks me back like a punch to the stomach. What am I doing?
“The order will be ready by Sunday,” she says weakly, her voice noticeably shaking.
“Thanks.” I nod and move back toward the entrance of the store.
Blood rushes to my ears like a roaring flood. I quicken my steps and relish in the splash of cold air that hits my face when I exit.
I might be in trouble.
Sunday. That’s in three days. Three days to come up with a new approach. Three days to make a new first impression.
Just enough time to figure out how to make her mine.
Chapter Three
Aly
I wander through the garden center.
The air wraps around me like a warm blanket, thick and dry despite being the middle of January. The cloying scent of some distant flower reaches my nose, but I can’t define it. Lavender, maybe? Rose? I’m not sure.
I continue down the rows lined with yellow and orange marigolds, past the open spaces peppered with alternating alyssum and snapdragons. It’s uncommonly quiet today. I don’t even see any of my coworkers, or even my floor manager, wandering the aisles.
Am I alone? This doesn’t feel right.
I turn around, and he’s there. The man from the other night. The nameless customer who doesn’t have time for charity cases like myself.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. Why does my voice sound like that? Why does everything feel so strange, and yet...perfect.
“I came to see you,” he says, and I feel the low rumble of his voice echo in the pit of my stomach. “I came to apologize.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” I say, my heartbeat quickening as he takes a step toward me. I was foolish and haughty. I let my pride be wounded by a man who couldn’t possibly have known any better. He had clearly been given everything he had ever wanted in life.
Only now, what it looks like what he wants is me.
The distance between us dissolves. He’s so close I can feel his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. My hands draw lazy circles over his collarbone, creeping downward to enjoy the rough sinew beneath my palms.
Every bit as perfect as I imagined.
He’s a Greek god in Burberry and imported leather shoes. The faint scent of warm sandalwood musk and citrus tickles my nose. He smells of exotic spices, of luxurious comforts and danger. I want to feel more, his hands on my hips, undressing me. His mouth worshiping my body like the virgin sacrifice before an altar.
His hand caresses my cheek, and a stream of molten fire winds its way down my chest. My breasts tingle with anticipation. His long fingers dive into the tousled red strands of hair surrounding my face. The pad of his thumb strokes my lower lip, and I part my mouth in a sigh.
“Kiss me,” I say. “Why hesitate?”
The way he did the first time we met.
Did it matter that we hardly know each other? Did it matter that I had just questioned his dedication to the plight of the common man? He had looked damn near ready to devour me on the spot despite it all, and – heaven help me – I would have let him.
His lips claim mine.
My knees weaken. It’s been so long. I’ve waited too long to feel like this, to feel whole again, complete. I grip his shoulders, pulling my body tighter against him. His tongue slides over the seam of my lips, seeking, requesting entry without words. I let him.
A ricochet of pleasure winds down my spine, a strange meld of ice and fire that leaves me breathless. He tastes like honey and citrus, a flavor as sinfully sweet as his kiss. Our mouths move in a dance, each of us giving and taking whatever the other has to offer.
His hands glide down my back, lower and lower until they clasp my bottom. He lifts me onto the countertop behind me. My legs straddle him, pressing into the firm evidence of his arousal. An ache tugs within me, teasing at the growing pulse between my thighs.
I have no idea what this man can do, but I am ready to find out.
I startle awake and squint through the misty haze of sleepiness.
Lyndsey is sitting on the chair at the opposite corner of our couch. Her knowing eyes shift from the television to me as she shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She’s trying to conceal her entertainment, but she’s not very subtle.
“So…” She pauses, her lip twitching in amusement. “How’d you sleep?”
My cheeks burn. “God, was it that bad?”
“Honey, I’m going to need some chocolate and a tinder date after listening to you.”
Ugh. I toss the blanket I’d fallen asleep on the couch with over my head and groan.
“Yep. That’s what you sounded like,” Lyndsey says. “I’m never going to be able to forget that sound.”
Silence. Some soft munching. A few lines from some cheesy Hallmark movie, and then, “So...who’s the guy?”
“Lyndsey, there is no guy,” I snap from under my blanket. I can’t face her right now. She’ll know I’m lying. She always knows.
“Well, you don’t normally have dreams like that out of nowhere.”
I whip the blanket up off my head and prop myself up into a sitting position. “Maybe it was all the Prosecco from the night before. I don’t know.”
Lyndsey tosses a blonde ringlet over her shoulder and feigns offense. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But I’m glad you’re finally getting some, one way or another.”
“Is that all you think about?”
“Please, how can you not think about it?” she says. “Like ever?”
“I-I think about...it,” I stammer. Obviously, I think about it more than I should if I’m developing fantasies about a man whose name I don’t even know.
“Yeah. And what have you done about it? You’re the only twenty-one-year-old I know who still has their v-card. And I can understand if you wanted to wait for marriage or ‘the one’.” Lyndsey giggles when she says “the one,” shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth and continues staring intensely at the television. “But you don’t even try to make yourself available.”
I stare at the television screen. The woman on the TV is trying to achieve her dream of becoming the world’s greatest baker...or something like that. The hero opposite her is seemingly the only one who can help her reach those goals, even though she has what appears to be all the right skillset. So how does this help me feel any better?
This character on this show supposedly has everything she needs to be successful: a killer talent, a quirky group of friends and the drive and determination to move forward. But what? Her plans of total happiness are dead in the water unless she gets the hunky hero to help her out?
I’m being cynical. Again.
I’ve never had time for dating. I’ve never had to sit down and think about what I even want from a man. What would I even do if I saw someone I was interested in dating? If my recent escapades were anything to go by, I would simply scold them and question their dedication to complete strangers.
