On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  "Um...sure. Thank you."

  He led me through his house, which was not at all what I expected. I'd pictured him...well, in many places. Hell, for one. A casket, for another, like Dracula needing to sleep on Transylvanian soil. That sterile condo.

  But this house was big and rambling and filled with comfortable furniture and the occasional antique. Not the fussy kind that you don't want to touch--rough, battered, we're here because we've earned it kind of pieces. A grandfather clock, a big brown sofa with a patch of pink fabric on one arm. We went upstairs, and Jonathan went into his room, which featured a sleigh bed and fireplace. Old chest of drawers, pictures of his girls, a view of the fields from his windows.

  "I don't have any women's clothes," he said.

  "Really?" I asked. "You're not a drag queen?"

  He ignored that. "And you won't fit into my daughters' things."

  "Of course I won't, Jonathan! I'm a grown woman. Just give me some sweats, okay?"

  He complied. "You can change across the hall. There's a bathroom, as well."

  "Thank you, Mr. Kent." I took the clothes he handed me, went across the hall and fell instantly in love.

  It was the girls' room, clearly; bunk beds, two desks filled with cheerful clutter and construction paper, a giant box-turned-playhouse with windows cut in it, flowers drawn in Magic Markers at the base. Bookcases surrounded a huge window seat, the shelves filled with piles of books and photos and little treasures--a music box, a porcelain cat. A hammock was strung across one corner, filled with stuffed animals. There was an enormous soft chair on one side of the bed, perfect for reading and cuddling.

  I took off my dress, laid it across the desk chair and pulled on Jonathan's sweatpants (which fit far too well; I'd have to go on a diet very soon). He'd given me a flannel shirt, too. Huh. I didn't picture him owning one. An ascot, yes. Flannel...not so much.

  The photos on the bookshelves called to me.

  Damn.

  There he was, holding a little white burrito of a baby, smiling into the camera with all the happiness a man could have. Emily, I decided. He looked so young in the picture. And there was another, Jonathan holding toddler Emily in one arm, infant Lydia in the other, smiling at Emily as she touched her baby sister on the nose with one shy finger.

  Another of him with the girls on Halloween. One of him coming out of the water with Lydia. Nice abs, I noted. His, not Lydia's. Another shot of him holding Emily, pointing at something in the sky.

  He was a good father. If I didn't believe it already, I'd have known from these pictures.

  "Are you hungry?"

  I jumped, flushing with guilt. Jonathan's voice was right outside. "Yeah. Sure! Thank you." Opening the door, I smiled. "This is a lovely room," I said. "The whole house is beautiful."

  "Thank you. It's been in my family for five generations. This way, please."

  Ah, yes. I was a servant in the family wing.

  He led the way back to the large kitchen, which had wooded plank floors and tile counters, a fridge covered in children's artwork and photos. "I need to call my daughters," he said. "Please have a seat."

  I wriggled onto a stool at the counter. To my surprise, Jonathan poured me a glass of red wine without asking if I wanted one, then one for himself. Took out his phone. "Hello, Laine," he said. "Are you safe?"

  His jaw clenched, and yet his first question was for her safety.

  "I'm home now. Yes. Do you have power? Good. Don't go out. There are branches down all over town. Are the girls available? Thank you."

  Very civilized. I took a sip of my wine.

  "Hello, honey bear," he said, and my heart melted a little. His face gentled, and his voiced deepened even more. "Oh, it's not so bad. No, nothing's broken. It's just windy. Don't forget, the house has been here a long time." His smile flashed and was gone. "Sure. I'll pick you up at ten. I love you, too, bear. Put Lydia on, okay?" He glanced at me, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the floorboards.

  "Hello, Lyddie. How was your day, pumpkin? What did you have for lunch? You did? Three pieces? How's your tummy?" Another lightning smile. "The fairies?" He glanced at me, his eyebrow rising. "I imagine they have places to go. Sure. A hollow tree, maybe. A bee's nest? I'll ask. Okay, sweetheart. I love you. See you in the morning. Bye-bye."

  My heart felt achy and sore.

  A man who loved his children that much should not have had to leave them. I hated his wife. Hated her.

  "Lydia was concerned about the fairies," he said. "But she thinks they must be friendly with bees and wanted me to check with you."

  A warm prickle crept across my chest. "Yes, she's right, of course. Bees and fairies are very good friends. They also use mushrooms as umbrellas."

  His eyes crinkled with a smile. "I'll let her know." He looked at me. "Well. Let me make you dinner." He opened the fridge. "Are you a meat-eater?"

  "Yes. I love meat."

  "Good."

  I was suddenly nervous. Drank a little more wine. "Can I help?"

  "You can make a salad."

  He set out some lettuce and tomatoes, dug around in the fridge and found a pepper, as well. I got to work, rinsing the lettuce and patting it dry, slicing the tomatoes. Opened the fridge and found some carrots and avocado, too. "Can I use these?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  There were herbs growing in little pots on the windowsill. "How about these?"

  "Make yourself at home," he said.

  It was so strange to be here, the rain still pounding the roof and gurgling in the gutters. Jonathan turned on the gas stove and set a cast-iron frying pan on it and began slicing up the beef.

  Making dinner with Captain Flatline. Very strange.

  "So this house is quite something," I said when it became apparent he wasn't going to initiate conversation.

  "Thank you. My great-great-grandfather built it in 1872. Part of it burned down in the 1950s, so this kitchen and the family room are new. Newer, that is."

  He moved quickly around the kitchen, cooking efficiently. Occasionally, we'd get in each other's way, doing that awkward left-right-left thing. The smell of beef filled the air. He sliced some potatoes and seasoned them with salt and pepper, then drizzled olive oil on them. Took some rosemary from the windowsill and added that.

  Gotta love a man who knew his way around a kitchen.

  He wore jeans and a henley shirt, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Beautiful forearms, muscled and smooth.

  Had he always been this tall, or was it just because I was barefoot?

  I finished making the salad, sat back down at the counter and watched as he nudged the meat and potatoes. Drank the very good wine.

  Felt some feelings.

  A thunderclap shook the house, and if possible, the rain fell harder. "It should clear up soon," Jonathan said. "These storms don't usually last very long."

  "I know."

  I poured myself a little more wine, then topped off his glass, as well. He nodded his thanks.

  I was getting used to that formality. It occurred to me that he might be a little shy.

  "Dinner is served," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

  He was shy.

  I couldn't believe I'd never noticed it before.

  We ate at the table, not talking, just letting the storm blow and rumble around us. The food was fantastic, simple and flavorful, and I was suddenly starving.

  Jonathan ate carefully and precisely, holding his fork in his left hand, like a European. Probably learned that at boarding school. I pictured the bleak place in the James Joyce novel, the little boy crossing off the days till he could go home at Christmas.

  Yes. Jonathan fit that picture.

  "Did you go to boarding school?" I asked.

  He looked up. "Yes."

  "I can tell."

  He smiled. I smiled. The cat smiled.

  He had a cat!

  "You have a cat!" I said. Maybe shouldn't have had that second glass of wine. Too late now.
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  "Ainsley, this is Luciano. Luciano, meet Ainsley. Miss O'Leary to you."

  "Call me Ainsley, Luciano. Is he named after Pavarotti?"

  Jonathan looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"

  "I only know one guy named Luciano."

  "Ah. Well. This Luciano also likes to sing." The cat obliged with a squeaky meow, then regarded me with a delightful lack of interest.

  "I have a question for you, Jonathan," I said.

  "Deeply personal, no doubt."

  "Yes." I put my fork down and leaned back in my chair, the intimacy of the weather and the cozy kitchen making me relax. "Why are you running Hudson Lifestyle?"

  He chewed carefully, his strong jaw flexing hypnotically, then swallowed, which forced me to look at his throat. "It's the family business."

  What were we talking about? Oh, right, the magazine. "Do you like it?"

  "I do."

  I shifted in my chair. "Why? All those kiss-ass articles about plastic surgery and day spas, all those phony, gushing restaurant and gallery reviews...you could be doing a lot more. You're so smart."

  He didn't answer.

  Shit. That had been a really rude question. "I'm sorry," I said.

  "Yes. Well, the kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews do make our advertisers happy, and our advertisers pay your salary. And the salaries of the rest of us."

  "That's true."

  He looked at me for a few beats. His eyes looked green now, but there was the little piece of gold. "I love this area," he said. "The river that seems to go unnoticed, the farms that are fighting to survive. The little towns and ice tool museums. The whole history of our country is embodied here. If kiss-ass articles and gushing reviews get people to at least get a glimpse of a place like the ice tool museum, then maybe they'll stop for a minute and learn something. Appreciate where we are and all that we have here."

  He turned his attention back to his plate.

  "That was a good answer," I murmured.

  "Let me ask you something," he said.

  "Go for it." I took another sip of wine.

  "Why do you work at a job you hate?"

  I sputtered, spraying a little wine. "Uh, I don't hate my job!" I said, dabbing my lips with a napkin. "I... It's fun. Today was fun. Chip, that is. That part was fun."

  He folded his hands in front of him, looked me straight in the eye and sighed.

  "I don't hate it that much," I said. "I'll probably like it much more after what you just said so poetically."

  "When you're paying attention, you're not a bad editor. That being said, I think I can count on one hand how many days you've paid attention. And most of those days have been this week."

  "Yes, well, we live in a distractible society."

  He stared at me. Unfortunately, he was not distractible.

  "Why haven't you fired me?" I asked.

  He took his time answering. "I like your mother," he finally said.

  I laughed. "Good for you. It's not easy. Also, she's my stepmother."

  He resumed his tidy eating. "How old were you when your parents divorced?"

  "They didn't. My mom died when I was three. Candy was my father's first wife. And also his third." I stood up and cleared our plates. "Thank you for dinner. It was very good."

  "I'm sorry about your mother."

  "Thank you."

  "Also, you make a good salad."

  I smiled at his awkward attempt at conversation. "Everyone has special gifts, Jonathan. Mine is salad."

  He glanced at me uncertainly, then finished clearing the table, and we loaded the dishwasher in silence.

  "I'll check the forecast," he said, going into the other room.

  Right. So he could get me home.

  I followed him into the family room, where there were more framed photos of the girls on the mantel. Stone fireplace. I'd always been a sucker for those.

  I sat on the couch, which was soft and comfortable. There was a yellow crayon stuck between the cushions, which made me happy for some reason.

  The TV showed another red blob headed our way.

  "Do you mind waiting till that passes?" he asked.

  "Not if you don't."

  "I don't."

  He went back to the kitchen and returned with the wine bottle. Poured me a little more. "I don't have anything to offer you for dessert. I'm sorry."

  "Life without dessert is sad, boss."

  Another robust crash of thunder. Jonathan turned off the TV and sat next to me on the couch. I curled into the corner and stared at him. He didn't return the look. Then again, this allowed me to study his profile. The gods of bone structure had had a lot of fun with him--razor-sharp cheekbones, hard, well-defined jaw.

  Funny that I used to think he was unattractive.

  "How are you doing with your ex-wife and that, um, situation?" I asked.

  The eyebrow I could see lifted. "It's...difficult."

  "You were very polite on the phone."

  "Yes. Laine is the mother of my children. It wouldn't help them to have us be at each other's throats."

  I couldn't imagine Jonathan at anyone's throat.

  I could, however, imagine him heartbroken.

  "Do you ever talk to your brother?"

  "No."

  "That's a tough one."

  "Yes." He swirled the wine in his glass. "My father and brother and I were very close, and when my father had the stroke, it was devastating. I worked at the magazine at the time and took over my father's job there, as well." He paused. "You may have noticed that I'm not the best at..." The hand that wasn't holding his wineglass flailed a little as he searched for the words.

  "Expressing human emotion?" I offered.

  "That. Yes." The cat jumped up on his lap, and he began petting him, eliciting a silky purr. The cat narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine back. "So. The magazine was struggling, and I was working long hours so we wouldn't have to lay anyone off. My brother was grieving, my wife was lonely, I was emotionally unavailable, according to Laine. So they found comfort with each other. For the sake of the girls, I'm trying to be civilized."

  "It's still shitty, Jon. You're allowed to be mad."

  "Oh, I was. Believe me, I was." There was that deep voice again, low and dangerous and kind of...hot. "No one calls me Jon, by the way."

  "Do you hate it?"

  "No. But no one calls me that."

  "Except me."

  The lips quirked again. "Yes."

  Luciano jumped down and began licking his privates, which were publics if you were a cat. Jonathan nudged him away, and the cat left with an impressive yowl.

  "How's that woman you mentioned?" I asked. "Remember? In divorce group? You said there was someone you liked."

  "I'm quite sure I never said that."

  "Well, Carly said you said it. In a prior session."

  "So much for the group's confidentiality clause."

  "You were on a date the night Eric dumped me. Was that the woman?"

  "No. That was my cousin."

  "Oh. Well, according to rumor, there was a woman, and you liked her." I pulled a throw pillow against my stomach. "Come on. It's raining, we have wine, I'm Dr. Lovely's stepdaughter. You can tell me. How is she?" I felt oddly jealous. But of course he'd be dating someone. Though a little clenched, I'd discovered that Jonathan was...well, a kind man. A good father. He had those eyes and that voice. "There was a woman, right?"

  He glanced at me. "Yes."

  "And? How's it going with her? What's she like?"

  "It's...complicated."

  "Why?"

  "She doesn't know what she wants."

  "Oh, one of those." So she was stringing him along, then, huh? Sounded like she needed a hearty slap.

  "Have you made your move?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "I repeat--it's complicated."

  "Why is it complicated? God, this is like pulling teeth! Can you put two sentences together, please?"

  H
e turned his head to look straight ahead once more. These humans and their interactions. So maddening. "She just got out of a long-term relationship."

  "So? Maybe she needs a good bang to get over him. A little boom-boom-pow."

  Jonathan didn't answer. Thunder rolled across the fields outside, but it was fainter now.

  Then he turned those beautiful eyes to me. "Also, she works for me."

  I sat bolt upright. "Really? Who--Oh."

  Oh.

  I felt hot. My whole body felt flushed and tight and tingly.

  "I'm not quite sure she even likes me." He shifted so he was facing me. "Though recently, she seems to like me a little more."

  My heart jerked in my chest. "Just to be clear," I said, my voice husky, "we are talking about me, right?"

  He closed his eyes for a second--why do I get the idiots?--then opened them. "Yes," he said, his voice so deep it was just a rumble. He didn't look away, and there it was, that glimmer of gold in his strange, beautiful eyes.

  "I do like you," I murmured. "But only when you smile."

  Very slowly, he obliged, one side of his mouth leading the way, a crooked, small smile, and God, he was just ridiculously appealing. My heart jackrabbitted in my chest, furiously pounding, and I was pretty sure I couldn't feel my legs.

  "Are you going to kiss me, or are you just going to sit there staring?" I asked.

  He leaned forward, set his wineglass on the coffee table, took mine from my fingers and set it down next to his. His movements were slow and precise. He looked at me a beat or two (or seventeen, it seemed), then cupped my face, his long fingers sliding into my hair, and then he did kiss me.

  His mouth was gentle but sure, his lips perfect against mine. He was warm and solid and my hand went to the side of his neck, feeling the strong thud of his pulse there, his smooth skin. Then his mouth moved, and good God, Jonathan Kent could kiss like there was no tomorrow. His tongue touched mine, and that was it, I was abruptly lost and found at the same time. My whole body throbbed, and it was a wonder I didn't just dissolve into a big puddle of yes.

  I grabbed his head and kissed him back, crawled onto his lap, still kissing him, pushing him back against the cushions, straddling him. I groped for the buttons on my shirt, and God, his mouth, I loved his mouth so much, and who knew? Who even knew Jonathan Kent could kiss like this, long, luxurious, hot kissing that rendered me blind with lust, and who cared? I had two fistfuls of shirt in my hands and was pulling and tugging, and he was doing the same, and now his hands were on my skin, burning me in the most wonderful, intense way, and all I could do was feel.

  There was just one thought left. It didn't make sense, but it felt true all the same.