by Claire Cain
“Good. Mine’s good too.” He took a bite, and once he swallowed, he asked, “What’s the latest on your book?”
“Hoping to hear from the agent on my edits this week. I don’t know when, but she said, ‘within the next few weeks’ in the email, so I feel like any time now. I’m kind of trying not to think about it, even though that is virtually impossible.”
“What happens when you hear from them?”
“I don’t totally know. It depends on what they say. She lays out her contract for representing me and probably gives me a bunch more notes and things she wants me to edit, from what I’ve heard.” I felt a little rush of excitement just thinking about what the next few weeks might bring in that regard. I’d done a decent job not obsessing about hearing from her, remembering she’d sent me the very enthusiastic email.
“What about the project on post?” he asked and speared a few pieces of asparagus.
“Still going. My current project wraps in two months, but I’ve applied for an expansion of the project to gather more data from other military bases.”
“And if that happens, would you move to another base?” He dropped his eyes to his plate after he asked the question.
“No, definitely not. I like the area. It feels a little bit like where I grew up in Kansas—smaller town but easy access to Nashville for some of the cultural elements you don’t get in a smaller community. I’d commute to the other posts, maybe spend a few days depending on how far I’m going, but ultimately be here. Eventually I’d like to write full time, which I could do anywhere, but it’ll take time before I’m at that level, so the project helps me do something meaningful I care about and also helps pay rent and for all of those other practical things like groceries.” I rolled my eyes to show how pesky I found those things, the things that cost money. He grinned at me.
“I didn’t know you grew up in Kansas. I lived there for about a year when I was eight. Don’t remember much about it though,” he said.
“I’m guessing at an Army base?”
“Yeah. Fort Leavenworth.”
“That’s not too far from where I was. Farther southwest from Leavenworth but still about an hour from Kansas City,” I explained. I remembered then he’d already mentioned living in two other states. “You guys moved a ton when you were growing up.”
“We did. We’d get three years in a row some places, but most often it was one or two. It wasn’t bad, and having my grandma with us for much of that time made a huge difference. It was also easier once Henry was bigger. He became my little sidekick, and we’ve been inseparable ever since, at least as much as we can be in adulthood and with me in the Army.”
“You’re a good brother,” I said, my voice earnest and admiring. Even though I was an only child, I could see it. He was thoughtful and engaged in his family’s lives even when he wasn’t right next to them. It took a kind of devotion that made me feel a little fluttery and restless. It drew me to him even more.
“Henry’s a good little brother. He makes it easy,” he said. I wasn’t surprised he deflected because he simply wasn’t someone to take credit for something that wasn’t his own. He was plenty confident, but the fact he refused to gather up shared accolades was one more thing. One more thing to signal to me I was in trouble with this guy.
“He’s great,” I said while my mind swirled with how much I liked the man sitting across from me, eying me now.
“My turn to ask a question—a blunt one—if you’ll let me,” he said, one eyebrow arched at me.
“Ok.”
“What makes you unsure about me?” he asked, then took a bite and chewed, waiting for my reply.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I deflected. I was fairly sure I knew where he was going, but clarification never hurt.
“You’re a confident woman. You seem to know what you want from your life. It’s surprising you aren’t the same way in your dating life.”
“How do you know I’m not?” I asked, already feeling a mild panic rising at the thought of explaining what I wanted in a mate. That wasn’t exactly the stuff of a first date. Though, to be fair, it didn’t feel like a first date.
“Are you?” His attention was fully on me now, his utensils resting on the sides of his plate.
“I haven’t had much of a dating life for the last few years. It wasn’t a priority for me,” I said.
“I can understand that.”
“Yeah, I guess you can,” I said and smiled at him.
The last date I’d gone on in New York was with another professor from the history department. He was cute, already tenure-tracked, and had started dating once he clinched assistant professor. He asked me about my dating history, and when I explained I hadn’t had one since undergrad, he was baffled. He couldn’t understand how “a woman like me” could not be dating. But what it translated to was that he couldn’t understand how a woman wasn’t more interested in nailing down a husband. Never mind the fact that he was several years older and had only recently decided to date with any kind of purpose.
I’d left the date infuriated. I was nice enough when I left, but I made it clear we weren’t a match. He could not understand why I wasn’t dating seriously or engaged or married. It blew his mind that a woman—yep, uterus and all—wouldn’t have tied the knot the day I got my PhD, if not sooner. It wasn’t so bad that he insinuated I shouldn’t be working, no it wasn’t that obvious. But he was genuinely trying to uncover the mystery of my singleness, like I had a bad secret hidden away instead of just no desire to deal with fools when I could be writing or spending time with friends I already liked, or sleeping.
I didn’t have much time to date then, and when I did, I didn’t have anyone interesting enough to bother with. That may sound calloused, and it was a little ironic considering my deep devotion to the idea of true love, but in the end, I always thought I’d feel compelled by my person, whoever he was.
I nudged a few green beans around my plate and looked up to find him watching me, waiting for more information. Who knew how long I’d gotten lost in my thoughts.
“I haven’t been interested enough, I guess. It’s not that I don’t think I have something to offer, or I’m not worth the effort, or whatever other nonsense women supposedly get tangled up in. It’s that I hate small talk, I hate the get to know you phase. I kind of hate the beginning, especially if I’m not really interested. That has resulted in what is probably a lot less dating and relationship know-how compared to other women my age, but I’m ok with that.”
This very clearly indicated I was interested enough in him, but that was obvious based on the way I’d responded to him the night before.
“So then, why are you here with me?”
Ah, damn. He went for it. He could see my response and he looked pleased with himself.
“Why do you think, Jake?” I wasn’t going to make it easy on him. Come on now.
“I think you’re curious. Maybe you just wanted to get a free dinner. Who knows.”
“Yep. You caught me. Couldn’t resist being bossed around and getting a free dinner out of it.”
After that, we kept talking, and talking, and talking. He asked me about my favorite books, and I asked about his. As predicted, many of his were military history, but he had a healthy relationship with fantasy and knew Tolkien better than I did. He of course liked Margaret Atwood and was very widely read on new releases.
Was there anything more attractive than a well-read man?
“This may be a strange question, but why don’t you have bookshelves in your living room? Why in the bedroom?” I slid my fork through the cheesecake in front of me. It was good. Really good.
“Years ago I lived in a studio when I didn’t have to live in the barracks, and I had a bookshelf right next to my bed. Everything was cramped together in that little piece of crap place outside of Fort Bragg. When I moved to a one bedroom, I put the bookshelf next to the bed again. After that, it became a habit and felt weird to have them anywhere else.�
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“Curious,” I said and tilted my head to the side. “It’s like you’re hoarding all this information. It’s killing me.”
“Hoarding it? What information do you need? If it’s killing you I’d like to help you.” One side of his mouth quirked up, and he made a fakely concerned face.
“What a person has on his bookshelf is telling. What kind of books do you own. And are there are lot, or a precious few? And of your favorites, do you have more than one version. These are all pieces to the puzzle that is Jake Harrison. As a book nerd and a writer, these are burning questions for me.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said, amusement growing on his face.
“Maybe.”
“Well, you can visit my bookshelves sometime soon and answer those questions for yourself.” His face was serious and my heart galloped when I looked back at him. His focus was squarely on me, and I steadied myself so I didn’t swallow my own tongue right along with the bite of cheesecake I’d just taken. I coughed a little but managed not to go into a fit.
This was dumb. I was having a conniption over him saying I could look at his bookshelves.
Simmer.
“Ok,” I said quietly.
I admitted to my deep love of romantic comedies, and he admitted he hadn’t seen many. I wasn’t surprised considering the general lack of women in his life. His favorite movies were all the top military history classics: Saving Private Ryan, Black Hawk Down, and a few I didn’t recognize. When he promised to watch one of my favorites if I’d watch one of his, my insides flipped for the twentieth time that night at the thought of more time with him.
He paid for dinner and we wandered back to his car slowly, down the historic downtown street, and he held my hand the whole time. My heart raced at the contact, even though we’d spent the entire night talking and laughing and truly enjoying each other.
We were back at my house before I knew what was happening. He ushered me to the door and I swallowed my nerves, determined not to shrivel up with anxiety at this point in a great night.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said, and I, despite all my mental bravado, felt shy. I fiddled with my keys and held them in one hand.
“Thanks for going with me.” He stepped close, then slid closer. He was absolutely unbearably handsome this close. His strong jaw left shadows under his chin. His dark eyes were darker here in the dim light of my porch lamp, but I could still see a little bit of the warm brown color that was so lovely in the daylight.
“Sure, anytime,” I said, like I’d done him some kind of favor. I inwardly rolled my eyes as my hands fiddled with my keys, and I tried to feel out the moment when I should disappear behind my door.
“Tomorrow?” he asked. My head jerked up.
“You want to—”
“I want to watch a movie with you tomorrow. Your place or mine. Either way,” he said, shifting closer still.
I was beginning to think he liked crowding me. He was standing close, we were nearly chest to chest, and at five foot six, my head was tilted back in order to see his face. He had a devilish little smirk, the same glint in his eye I’d seen on Henry’s face more than once. They certainly were related, even though I’d rarely seen anything like this from Jake. I liked playful Jake, even if he did make my pulse pound so loud I could hardly think.
“Ok.” I maintained focus on the fact he’d asked me to spend more time with him the next day. I was honestly more concerned with the moment at hand, trying not to throw myself at him. Yes, he’d kissed me the day before, but that was all him. All him. And while I was certainly a woman who could be assertive and take what she wanted, my guts weren’t up to the task just now.
“Let’s do your place,” he said, his voice low with that gravelly texture that made my restraint wave its white flag.
“Ok,” I said, still looking him in the eye, my neck still strained up to see his face. I angled my chin just a bit, and our lips were breaths apart.
“Ok.” His voice was velvet.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I said, waiting for him to close the distance of the last few inches between us.
“Yes, you will,” he said, his face inches from mine, a little smile still playing on his lips.
“Ok, well, good night then.” My voice was weak with desire, and I didn’t move.
He shifted, closed the gap between us, but settled his kiss at the corner of my mouth, mostly on my cheek. I let out a deep breath as he said, “Goodnight, Elizabeth.”
He took one step back and once I put the key in the door, he turned and was out on the path before I closed it.
Once inside, I let out a long, frustrated breath. I felt a twinge of annoyance with myself. Yes, this man was extremely attractive, and he was imposing in the best way. I liked that he got in my space. Why hadn’t I just kissed him?
Being around him reminded me of the time I’d gone swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. It was mid-July and my parents and I had traveled by car—like we did for all of our travels—from Kansas, stopping every few states to see national parks and other highlights on the way. We ended up in a little town called Ogunquit on the coast of Maine. I felt the chilly water on my toes and waded in as far as my knees. I waited until my feet were numb and then dove in headfirst.
The shock of the cold, and then the ensuing numbness, was all-encompassing. There was no end to it—it just kept coming, wave after wave of cold, salty water. It was exhilarating and terrifying to know I was standing in squishy, wet sand and rough pebbles, but I couldn’t feel them under my feet. The water had slowly driven me out and out, farther than I’d planned to go, and I felt like I might not get back. If I stayed too long, I certainly wouldn’t.
This was me with Jake. His attention surrounded me completely when I was near him, and I couldn’t think about anything else. I’d gotten dragged out into the deep by Jake Harrison, one knocking wave at a time, shifting me out and out and out into deeper water, till I was up to my chin. It made me feel breathless and a little panicky, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to wade back to shore.
Chapter Thirteen
The next day, I scoured my apartment. I wasn’t a particularly dirty person and I performed the requisite apartment upkeep on the regular, but I woke up with extra energy. After a run, I scrubbed the shower, toilet, and sink in the bathroom. I cleaned the kitchen sink with a toothbrush and straight razor and then tackled the microwave. I cleaned the sticky light over the stove. I cleaned the front of all of the appliances, and under them, and even behind the fridge.
It was four o’clock when Jake texted and asked what time he should come over—he’d made me text him on the drive home the night before so he’d have my number and I’d have his. He wasn’t on Facebook, which was no surprise, so this was the only way I could get ahold of him.
I messaged back and told him anytime. The fact that seeing his name pop up in a text message to me—the first of any communication to take place other than face to face and professional e-mails—made a small heat wave begin in my chest was an obnoxious reality I wished I could deny, but I couldn’t.
When he responded he’d be over in about twenty minutes, I had a small panic attack. Since I was cleaning after my run, I hadn’t showered. I ran to the shower, took the fastest shower in the history of my life, and managed to be pulling on jeans when I heard a knock at the back door.
Interesting, I thought. He was using the back door. Did that make it less than an official date? Was it an official date? Did it even matter?
No. Probably not.
I straightened my white v neck t-shirt, hiked up my fitted jeans, and combed my hands through my still-damp hair. I’d blasted it with the hair dryer so it wouldn’t be soaking wet and look quite so disheveled, but since it was long and fairly thick, it was still damp. I took a deep, stabilizing breath and went to the door.
He was smiling at me as soon as I came into view of the glass patio door, and my stomach dipped in anticipation. His smile was like eating dessert firs
t.
With one hand on the wall, I pulled the patio door open. I’d been waiting all day to see him, simultaneously nervous and excited. He looked gorgeous in his plain black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was mussed again, what little of it that could be perfectly, attractively disheveled despite the clean military cut. Before I knew what I was doing, I put my hand in the center of his chest and leaned in.
The jolt of electricity that went through me when our lips met was not a total surprise since it had felt the same way two days ago when he’d kissed me the first time. His lips were full and soft, but goodness, this man could kiss.
Just as I started to pull away, he stepped closer, one hand on my hip pulling me to him, and he walked forward through the door, forcing me to step back. His other hand must have closed the door behind him because I heard it. His hands came to my face and he tilted my head so he could deepen the kiss, his hands then threading in my hair. My whole body was electrified. Finally, he pulled back.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes still lit with desire, his mouth a broad smile.
“Hi.” I held on to his arms, appreciating the hard muscles under his shirt, and felt my whole body’s awareness pinned to him.
We stood there, holding each other, our breath not calming, our eyes not moving. I cleared my throat and stepped back enough to separate our bodies an inch or two.
“How’s your day been?”
“Slow. I’ve been waiting all day to see you.” His hands slid down through my hair gently, so they didn’t pull or snag, and rested on my waist.
This man. He was such a serious, quiet person most of the time, but then lately I’d seen this warm, generous, almost effusive version of him. It wasn’t that he talked constantly, but it didn’t seem to pain him as much anymore. The first few months of our interactions felt like they might have cost him something to open his mouth.
The power of this was when he did choose to say something, I heard it. When he said things like that, everything in me, including my ovaries, heard it.
