by Grey, Helen
As the beef stew warmed, I brewed a pot of coffee. In a relatively short time, I carried a tray bearing two steaming bowls of stew and two mugs of coffee into the living area. I had my emotions, my thoughts, and my dick under control. I glanced at Misty as I placed the tray on one end of the coffee table and set a bowl and mug in front of her. She began to lean forward, paused, and adjusted the robe more tightly around her figure, tightening the plush waist belt. When she was ready, she leaned forward again, smiling as she inhaled the aroma of the stew.
“That smells wonderful,” she said. “The minute I smelled it wafting down the hallway, my stomach started grumbling. I forgot I hadn’t had more than a muffin to eat today.”
I realized I hadn’t either. “Sorry, I often forget to eat when I get busy.”
I dug into the beef stew, alternating every few bites with a sip of coffee. Misty did the same. We enjoyed a companionable silence, which I appreciated. No mention of… I pushed it out of my mind. Everyone made mistakes.
The shadows of the fading sun had darkened the room. The fire crackled, occasionally hissing and popping as the flames licked at sap. The atmosphere was cozy, and as I looked around, I knew my future guests would enjoy the ambiance.
I finished my stew and glanced at Misty, saw that she was just finishing hers as well. “Did you get enough? Do you want more?”
She smiled at me and shook her head. “No thank you, that was perfect. When you get up to refill your coffee though, I wouldn’t mind having another cup of that.”
I did my best not to stare at her dimples. Nodding, I placed my empty bowl on the serving tray along with hers, and then followed with the coffee mugs. “I’ll be right back. Then you can start asking your questions.”
I retreated to the kitchen, quickly washed the bowls and then refilled both mugs with coffee. I returned the cups to the tray along with what remained in the coffee pot. I had no idea how many or what kind of questions she planned to ask, but I steeled myself. I wanted to see where this interview would go. As I headed back to the living area, I saw her walking toward the stairs. I lifted an eyebrow. “Did you change your mind?”
“No,” she said, gesturing upstairs. “I’m just going to grab my notebook.”
I nodded and continued toward the couch. I placed a tray on the coffee table once more and reached for a chair that sat tucked under the small table in the corner of the room. I wasn’t about to sit on the sofa with her. I needed to stay out of arm’s reach. No sense tempting myself, not that I was hard up. I grimaced. Pun not intended. I just didn’t know what to expect of myself after that first lapse in judgment with her in the woods or the second lapse in judgment on the couch. I didn’t want a repeat performance, or that’s what I kept telling myself.
By the time Misty returned to the living room, I was comfortably ensconced in the chair, my feet up on the coffee table, and the mug of coffee resting on my thigh. I tried to appear relaxed though I felt tightly wound. I watched her walk slowly back to the couch, a wire-bound notebook and pen clutched closely to her chest. Beneath the bottom of the robe, I caught a glimpse of finely muscled, shapely calves. I pulled my gaze upward, schooling my expression. She sent me a glance, sat on the sofa, and curled herself up on the end closest to the fire, her legs tucked up beside her. She adjusted the bottom of the robe over her now bare feet.
“Ready?” she asked once she was settled.
I nodded. “Shoot.”
She thought for several moments, lightly tapping her ballpoint pen against her bottom lip. A slight frown tugged at her eyebrows. When she looked at me, her gaze was straightforward and contemplative.
“If there’s one thing you want people to know about you, what is it?”
The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Are we going to go through that again?” she asked, making a face. Before I could respond, she continued. “It’s an easy question. When people look at your picture or see your name, what impression do you want to give them?”
I shrugged. “Successful.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I’m a businessman. I wouldn’t be successful if I wasn’t doing my job, giving clients and customers what they want.”
“How do you define success?”
Again I shook my head, thinking the question silly, but then changed my mind. She looked perfectly serious. She didn’t look uncomfortable, as if she were groping for a topic. She was going somewhere with this. I could feel it.
I organized my thoughts. “To me, success implies more than just money. We can be successful at all kinds of things that have nothing to do with money.” I watched her jot on her notepad. “It’s about setting goals for yourself and striving to reach them. Notice I didn’t say reaching them, but striving to reach them. There’s a difference.” She paused her notetaking, looked at me, and nodded. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Misty?”
“Yes,” she said. “My father once told me that just because you wanted to reach the moon didn’t mean you could actually do it, but that it’s the trying that counts… the ability to dream, and dream big, which drives us to excel.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “I have goals and plans, but if one of my negotiations falls through or something hits a bump, it doesn’t mean that my dreams are over, that I haven’t reach my goals. It just means I have to find another way around obstacles. And it’s dealing with those obstacles that enable us to continue striving to reach our goals. If we keep trying, then we don’t fail.”
She thought a minute and then glanced at me, then back down at her notepad. “Does that apply to your private life as well as your business life?”
What was she asking me? “Are you intimating about my failed marriage with Celine?”
Misty tilted her head, the pen once again tapping gently against her lip. “You’re the one who said if you keep trying, you don’t fail,” she reminded me.
I sighed. “The marriage fell apart, true. But I don’t consider it a failure because I learned something along the way. I gained experience. I gained knowledge.” And I learned that a snake could hide in the strangest places.
“And what was that?”
While I didn’t especially want to get into my relationship with my ex-wife, I supposed I should be grateful that she hadn’t yet brought up the question. I wasn’t going to pull any punches, I promised myself as my eyes bored into hers until she looked away, glanced down at her notes, and then back to me as the flames danced in the fireplace.
“That people can be deceitful and conniving. And you can quote me verbatim on that. What’s that old saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”
“So you’re not currently in any relationship?”
“Next question,” I said.
She nodded and moved on.
“Who was your best friend growing up? You don’t have to name names. Mention just a first name if you want.”
“Why does it matter?”
She said nothing but continued to tap the tip of the pen against her lip. It was slightly captivating.
“A schoolmate,” I finally said. “He died when I was thirteen.”
She frowned. “That must have been—”
“It was difficult,” I agreed. I hadn’t thought about Nick in years. I couldn’t help but smile at the memories that flashed through my mind. I glanced at Misty and could tell she wanted to ask but seemed hesitant. “He had cancer. It was fast. He was diagnosed at the end of seventh grade and was dead before I started the eighth.”
“I’m sorry—”
“What about you?” I asked before she could continue. “Who was your best friend growing up?”
“Are we back to the quid pro quo?”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “You want to delve into my deepest, darkest secrets, why shouldn’t I have the same option?”
“I can give you plenty of reasons why not, mainly because I’m the journalist and you’re the interviewee, but, for
now, I’ll let it go.” She paused. “I didn’t really have any best friends growing up.”
How could anyone not have a best friend growing up? Everyone had a best friend growing up, didn’t they? “Why not?”
She waved the hand with the pen in front of her, gesturing. “When you’re heavier than all the other kids, you tend to get made fun of, chosen last for the team sports… not chosen for a BFF.”
I frowned. “Are you telling me that you had no friends growing up?”
“Sure, I had sometime friends,” she said.
“What are sometime friends?”
“You know, the ones that come over to your birthday party because they know you have horses or you get to go on hayrides or tractor pulls?”
I felt a surge of sympathy for her. Not that I felt sorry for her, but I had also experienced some of that and nodded in understanding. “Or when you’re the first family on the block to get a swimming pool?”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“Did it bother you?”
“What are you, my shrink?” she asked, carefully adjusting herself in the corner of the sofa. “I’m the one supposed to be grilling you, not the other way around.”
“Doyou have a shrink?”
She just made a face, shook her head and declined to reply. I felt a grin tugging at my lips. Apparently, wordplay was something that Misty was comfortable with. While I couldn’t say the same for her reaction to necking, she certainly didn’t seem shy or hesitant to give me tit-for-tat. Again, no pun intended.
“Where did you move after you left Shawnee County, Kansas?”
The question came out of left field. I sobered. “Private. Next question.”
“What was your father like?”
Here it comes, I thought. “Private. Next question.”
She made a face “Blake, it’s an innocent question that has nothing to do with… I’m not going there, okay?”
I blinked. I should’ve known. It always came to this.
“Blake, I’m serious. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, you’re ambitious, obviously pay attention to details, you’re intelligent… you must’ve had a good role model—”
I shook my head, growing frustrated and impatient. “How can you just assume that? The same can be applied to men and women who’ve grown up in abusive households or in foster homes, or even on the street—”
The pen thwacked her notepad. “Why so touchy?” she asked, her tone heavy with frustration. “You’ve certainly been asked this question before, haven’t you?”
“Too many times to count.”
“So what’s the problem? You can’t tell me what kind of man your father was—”
“It’s nobody’s business,” I snapped.
“I beg to disagree,” she said, her voice soft and calm. “I’m not after the gossip, Blake. I’m trying to introduce you, the man, to our readers. Figure out who you are and why you have become the man you are today. It’s not about—”
“I am who I am today because of hard work, focus, and dedication. My upbringing was nothing extraordinary. My parents taught me the difference between right and wrong, just as I’m sure yours did. My choices as an adult are just that. Mine. Next question.”
Misty sighed and then swung her feet down to the floor. “I’m going to bed. If I can’t ask you a couple of simple, innocent questions without raising your hackles, there’s no point in continuing, is there?”
I said nothing as she rose from the couch and readjusted the bathrobe around her. I couldn’t help but imagine what she looked like under that robe, naked. In spite of my frustration and irritation, I felt the tingle of arousal.
Without waiting for me to reply, Misty headed out of the room and toward the stairs. “Let me know if you want to nix this interview,” she said, pausing at the base of the stairway. “If you won’t talk to me, I have no intention of traipsing around after you as you inspect your properties. If you don’t want me asking any more questions, just let me know, and if you’d be so kind, arrange for me to get back to San Francisco. Then you’ll never have to see me again.”
Is that what I wanted? Surprisingly, I didn’t. “Maybe we can talk a little more tomorrow, but I’m telling you right now, Misty, there are some things I just don’t want to talk about. I’m tired of being the topic of conversation for gossip magazines and taking the brunt of unsubstantiated rumors and—”
“Then why don’t you just put a stop to it?” she exclaimed.
“It’s not that simple,” I retorted.
She headed up the stairs. “It may not be simple, Blake, but it’s certainly not impossible.”
With that, she was done. I stood and stepped toward the couch she had just vacated so I could watch her as she strode along the balcony toward her room. Even after she was out of sight, I heard her soft footsteps moving down the hallway and then the quiet opening and closing of her bedroom door. My blood was up. Frustration, irritation, and desire rushed through my veins. I didn’t want her to go. While the realization surprised me, I accepted it.
I imagined her in her room, sliding the robe off her shoulders into a plush puddle down around her feet, her naked body in all her glory. I imagined myself standing behind her, reaching around her, my hands cupping her heavy breasts, my erect cock pressed up against her ass. One hand caressing a breast, my fingers tweaking a nipple, my other hand sliding slowly down her silky smooth stomach until my fingers nestled over her soft mound. She would groan with pleasure, lean her head back against my shoulder, begin nuzzling my neck with her lips. I plunged a finger into her wet pussy—
“Dammit!” With a growl, I shook the erotic thoughts from my head. What the hell was the matter with me? I didn’t know her, didn’t want to get to know her, wasn’t attracted to her, didn’t want to have sex with her… but my half-erect cock said otherwise.
“Shit.”
*
The sound of a rhythmic creaking jolted me from sleep. For a second, I didn’t remember where I was, but soon realized I had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs in the main room. The fire had died down to glowing embers, but the room was warm and cozy. The cabin was dark save for the faint shimmer of the full moon outside oozing through the large front window.
I remained still, trying to determine where the noise came from. Animal out front? Wouldn’t be the first time deer and elk came to explore, or even a bear. Then I realized the sound came from the balcony. I glanced up and saw a flash of white. Misty walking toward the stairs, coming down slowly, one hand sliding silently on the highly polished railing. I said nothing until she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You all right?”
She bit back a squeal and then peered into the main room. One hand patted her chest. “Oh my God, you scared me!”
“Sorry,” I muttered, swinging my legs over the side of the couch to sit up. “I must’ve fallen asleep down here.” I stood and repeated my query. “You all right?”
“Yes… I just came down to get a glass of water. I couldn’t sleep.”
I didn’t know what time it was but felt incredibly rested. I must’ve slept for at least a few hours. I stepped toward her, standing frozen at the base of the stairs. Her robe, the same she’d worn earlier this evening, was loosely tied around her waist. I saw a glimpse of pale skin in the darkness and once again was surprised by my sudden surge of arousal.
Misty stared at me as I walked toward her, her mouth half open, as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure what compelled me to do it, but I felt the urge to wrap her in my arms. I wondered what she would do if I did. Stiffen? Smack me? Return my embrace?
“Blake, I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” she said, her voice soft and sleepy. “That was not at all my intention—”
“Forget it,” I said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I should have expected it.”
She took another step toward me and stopped when only a few inches separated us. She placed a hand on my
arm. The touch seared through me like a jolt of electricity.
“I… I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I want you to know that. I’m just trying to do my job. I’m new at the magazine. I know the editor is testing me. If I’m fired, it won’t look good, and it certainly won’t help my career any—”
“And that’s what this is all about to you, isn’t it? Your byline? A step up for your career aspirations?” The thought hurt more than it should have.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed to say. “Look, I don’t know you. I know very little about your past.” She sighed and leaned against the stairwell. “I do know what happened to your father—”
“That’s funny, because no one else does,” I said.
“I mean, I know that he was murdered and that you were considered a person of interest—”
I made a noise in my throat, wanting to stop her, but she rushed forward.
“I don’t know anything else about you, Blake. I would like to get to know you better, to explain to people who you are, how far you’ve come despite a tragedy in your past. Maybe, if I do a good job, somebody else can benefit from your story. Gain strength from your perseverance.”
“Do you really believe that?” I couldn’t help the cynicism. “Turn me into an example of the latest twist on the ‘if you believe it, you can make it happen’ crap?” I shook my head and she dropped her hand from my arm. I wanted to reach out and grab it again. “I don’t believe in all that. We either deal with what life throws our way or we don’t. It’s as simple as that. I’m not a role model, Misty. I’m just a man making his way through life.”
The way she looked up at me made my balls tighten. Dammit, I wanted to kiss her, to touch her skin again. And then, before I could stop myself, I was doing just that. I wrapped her in my arms, the plush fabric of the bathrobe brushing against my skin. She felt so soft, her hair smelling of shampoo, her skin bearing a lingering hint of soap and sleep. And then my lips were nuzzling the base of her neck. I waited for her to push me away, to scold me, to slap me even, but she didn’t do any of those things.
