by J. L. Mac
“Thank you. This smells amazing. You smell amazing, too.” I watched as her cheeks tinted a rosy pink, and I decided right then and there that she looked even more beautiful with blush on her cheeks. I’d make it my job to make it happen as often as possible.
I dug into the potato wedges. They were amazing. So she’s a good cook. It was no surprise to me. She was the total package.
“Can I ask you a question?” I wiped my hands on the napkin she’d handed me and stuffed it down into the discarded paper bag.
“Sure.”
“Are you not attracted to me?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Because not that long ago we were getting to know each other at a rapid rate and now you seem intent on keeping me at arms distance.”
She took a deep breath and her shoulders slumped a little.
“You’re my neighbor and it’s just a little weird.”
“I’d say convenient.”
“Graham!” She squawked, throwing a couch pillow at my face and that subtle blush crept up her neck to her cheeks. God she was beautiful.
“If it’s the neighbor part that bothers you, you should remind yourself that I don’t live here full time.” I held up my finger as I made my point.
“You do for now.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m stuck for now. Will you come over tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here.”
“Good. I like having you here.”
“I like spending time with you too.” Her voice was small, like the rest of her, when she’d said the words but they were huge to me. It was evidence that I desperately needed and wanted. I could see a glimmer of a chance with her. We’d started off a little rocky but there was no reason we couldn’t find our way to smoother ground. “Graham, what happened?”
“He died.” Those two words still caught in my throat. It had been nine years and they were just as difficult to say now as they were the day that it happened.
“When I was a kid, my sister died.” She fiddled with the strap of her bag and I knew she had offered her confession to make me feel a little better about my own. “The end of this month will make—God—twenty-two years. Seems like a long time but it doesn’t feel like a long time has passed.”
“I’m sorry.” I caught her gray eyes and noted the glistening tears there. She sniffled and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, too.”
Flor
Deal
When the other shoe dropped, it just sort of plopped limply on the floor. There was no resonating thud. No life-altering sonic boom. It was just kind of…expected. My time at Social She was over.
“I’m sorry, Flor. I know this is hard on everyone and we hate that there aren’t more positions to fill but…” Chris, my boss, shrugged, shaking her head. I felt bad for her. Delivering all this bad news had to be unpleasant. “But, if you need anything at all, if you need a letter of recommendation or you’d like me to make some phone calls on your behalf, please don’t hesitate.”
“It’s okay, Chris. I appreciate it. My dad has offered me a position and I may end up taking it.” I smiled, pretending that everything turned out fine but it was mostly for her benefit. Maybe if she thought I already had a job lined up, she’d feel less guilty about being the messenger.
“Well, there ya go!”
“Yes. I’m lucky like that.” I smiled again and got to my feet, thinking that I was glad that I didn’t have my own office with a big desk. Less to pack.
I made my way back to my desk and mentally took stock of all my things to gauge what size box I should bring with me to work on my last day. My stomach turned and defeat swaddled me up in a stuffy blanket made of discontentment. The idea of packing my desk up and walking out of the building with all those sympathetic stares made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I lunged forward and grabbed the picture frame showcasing a photo of Matt and me last New Year’s Eve, my mini orchid and my headphones. I stuffed it all into my bag, deciding that I’d clear out a little at a time if it meant avoiding the final walk with a box in my arms.
I was thankful that the day was almost over. I had enough time to save and backup all my files and grab my leftover lunch from the lounge.
Today, I found myself thankful that I’d be seeing Graham later that night. I needed a distraction and if that man was anything, he was distracting!
Graham took one look at me and furrowed his brows. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Balls,” I demanded holding my hand out, palm up.
“Excuse me?” He raised his brows.
“Your tennis balls, racket balls, whatever they are. Hand them over.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” He crossed his thick arms over his chest, making his muscles look impossibly bulkier.
“Nothing. I lost my job. No big deal. Give me the balls.”
“Shit, Flor. I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, ignoring the lump in my throat. “Balls.”
“What makes you think I have tennis balls here?”
I planted one hand at the dip in my waist and watched as Graham’s eyes followed my movement.
“Because I have heard them hitting the wall. Balls,” I repeated with my hand still held out in front of me.
“You’re bossy.” He laughed, shaking his head.
“Fine. I’ll just go back to my apartment.” I turned and picked my shoulder bag up off the floor as if to leave.
“Okay, okay. You win, but you can’t have them. They aren’t mine. The tennis stuff is my brother’s.” He motioned his slightly dimpled chin toward a tennis bag hanging on a hook near the front door.
“Promise to stop with the wall ball?”
“Promise. I didn’t know you were home. I thought you would be at work.” He held his large hands up in surrender and I felt victorious. My smile probably said as much.
“I was until I wasn’t. I left a few minutes early. And no more blaring music?”
“I’ll turn it down a little.” He nodded.
“Thank you. And no more—”
“Don’t push your luck, bossy,” he warned, staring me down with those intense chocolate eyes.
I turned my attention back to my bag and began digging out my sketch book.
“What’s that?”
“Work.”
“You’re an artist too?”
“Not so much but that’s the beauty of writing and illustrating children’s books. I don’t have to be the best artist.”
“When will the books be done?”
“Um, it’s hard to say. There’s a disconnect right now that makes me feel more like a fraud than an author. Just trying to work through it, you know?”
“Can I take a look?”
I eyed him for a moment and decided that I could use the feedback. Matt always said that everything about the books was wonderful and he couldn’t wait to see my name on a bestseller list. I reminded him that he was nuts and that an honest critique was invaluable.
It was no secret to me that my books were lacking something very fundamental. I wasn’t under the impression that they were perfect and destined for instant success. I had been struggling with the entire process and I was very honest with myself about it. I just didn’t know how to fix it.
“Go easy on me. It’s a work in progress.” I handed him the first book and tried to quell the ball of nerves that had set up shop in my stomach.
Graham’s dark eyes looked over each page. He made a few sounds that were indiscernible as approval or disapproval, which did nothing for my nerves.
He finally seemed to have seen enough because his gaze came back to meet mine and, at that point, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be a fan.
“I really like the art, but the story—this—this could be much more accurate.” He shook his head, thumbing through the rough draft with a critical expression marring his handsome face.
“What do you mean?” I snatched my work back from
him and looked over the pages, which was dumb because I doubted I’d see anything new there. I’d combed over the book more times than I was capable of counting.
“Kids don’t do…this.” He waved his hand outward.
“Sure they do.” I sounded dispassionate even to my own ears. I hated to admit it, but he was right in feeling that something was off because I’d been feeling the exact same thing.
“No. They don’t. What kid wants to read a book where the moral of the story is that keeping a clean room makes everyone happy? Don’t you remember your childhood? Pop Rocks and forts and practical jokes. And filthy bedrooms!”
“Well, sure,” I said, lacking conviction. I flopped back on the couch and watched Graham carefully as he wheeled himself closer to where I sat.
“Oh my god. You’re one of those.” It came out as a shocked whisper. His eyes were wide.
“One of what?” I squeaked.
“A sheltered kid.” One thick finger pointed at me accusingly. I recoiled and sank further back into the couch.
“I wouldn’t exactly say we were sheltered. We were…well cared for.” The confession felt lacking, because Anthony and I had become very sheltered kids almost overnight.
“You had no fun,” he went on.
“Sure I did,” I countered.
“Did you ever build a fort out of your bed sheets?” He crossed his muscled arms over his chest and leaned back in his wheelchair.
Why does he do that? I can’t think when he shows off his arms like that!
“No. My mother is a very cautious person and stringing sheets all around would have gotten them dirty. I had a weak immune system.”
“Yeah, because you never got dirty! Did you ever eat Pop Rocks and then chug a Coke?”
“No. My mom said doing things like that could cause irreparable gastric damage.”
“Did you have walkie talkies?”
“No. My mother was afraid that a predator could get on the same frequency and lure me away. It’s a very practical thing to worry about.”
“No. It’s ridiculous. Did you ever steal something from your sibling or friend?”
“No. Why in the world would I do that?”
“To start a war. Did you ever sneak out?”
“No. Anything could happen and no one would know that I had left.”
“Did you ever go skinny-dipping? Get drunk? Prank the neighbor? Watch The Goonies at least once a year?” He shook his head disbelievingly. “That’s what I thought. No wonder you feel like a fraud! You are a fraud! How can you possibly expect to write a children’s book when you skipped out on your entire childhood?”
“I didn’t skip it. I read a lot and played with my brother. I was in soccer too.”
“How long”
“Um…one game or so. I got hurt.”
“A skinned knee is a rite of passage, not an injury.”
“I had a weak immune system,” I explained feebly, realizing that he’s absolutely right. How in the world could I possibly write a proper children’s book when my childhood consisted of reading and watching television from a preapproved list of shows?
“I suppose you’re right. Maybe you should write children’s books seeing as how you still behave like a child. Calling your sister names, it’s no wonder she acts like she does.”
“I could help you write your books as long as you help me around here.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You bounce your ideas off me and I’ll give you suggestions. In return, you’ll make me sandwiches and spend a little time with me. Everyday. Deal?”
“Deal. I could use help from a friend who can actually be helpful,” I admitted, thinking that this was a good thing. While I appreciated Matt’s praise, it wasn’t going to make my books any better.
“Flor?”
“Yeah?”
“I still have zero interest in being your friend.”
Oh, this Goliath is so much trouble.
If I was going to be helping him out while he recovered in exchange for his help with my series, I needed to ignore his masculine beauty and keep reminding myself of all the reasons he was awful. “Wall ball. Wall ball. Wall ball,” I chanted as I let myself back into my apartment for the night.
Graham
Bewitched
“So, you said you would give me suggestions for my books. I brought my pen and pad. Fire away.” She sat on the couch with her little notepad resting on her knee, pen in hand. Her hair was piled high on her head in some kind of bun with wayward tendrils falling here and there.
I wanted so badly to brush that hair away from her face and kiss her senseless. I missed the taste of her on my mouth and looked forward to the day I’d have the opportunity—the invitation—to taste her again.
“I’ve been thinking about that and I have a plan. It has taken a lot of sifting through memories to come up with it.”
“What’s this?” Her eyebrows scrunched up as she studied the list I’d handed her.
“A time machine!” I smiled, feeling pretty damn proud of my idea. “That list in your pretty little hands is what I’m calling The Stone Kid Experience! We start today.”
“Start what?” she asked as her eyes scanned the long handwritten list I’d been putting together since the day before.
“Kid shit. Things they actually do because they are kids and it’s important.”
“Pop Rocks and Coke?”
“Imperative.”
“Build a fort?”
“Absolutely imperative. That will be your home base for hide and seek.”
“Make a rubber band ball?”
“Classic kid shit.” I nodded confidently as she read off each item.
“Really? Skinny-dipping?” she asked deadpan.
“Well, that one will have to be done in the bathtub or something. Or at my place,” I suggested with a wink.
“The kid experience, huh?”
“Okay, I’d being lying if I said that one wasn’t benefiting me too but still, it’s a must.”
“Fine. This one only says super glue.” She looked up in confusion.
“A wild card. Something with super glue. Doesn’t matter what it is, but no childhood is complete without super glue somewhere in the mix.”
“You’re a two year old. I’m not doing any of this.”
“Say what you will, but at this rate, I’ll be more qualified to write a children’s book than you are.” I sighed dramatically and shrugged.
“Whatever. All I’m saying is that on the immaturity scale, this list is off the charts.”
“Precisely.” I leaned forward and chucked her lightly on her chin.
“You’re impossible.” She continued to read down the list and seemed to contemplate my little challenge. “I’ll think about it.”
“You do that.”
Flor got to work curled up on the couch. Her lounging there, so focused on what she was doing, made paying attention to the television pretty damned difficult. I tried for some time to get into the action flick I had on, but it was no use. My eyes strayed to where she was sitting every minute or so.
My phone chimed and I looked down at the screen to see that Halley had sent me a new text message.
Halley: Would it kill you to check in with me?
Me: It may.
Halley: Good to know.
Me: I’m fine, Halley.
I chuckled as I sent the antagonizing text message to my sister. Flor looked up from the notepad in her lap and raised her brows.
“Care to share with the class?”
“My sister. She gets pissy when I call her Halley. I can’t resist and I don’t think it will ever get old.”
“That woman’s name really should have been Halley.” I laughed again.
“Why did you say you call her that?”
“Because she’s beautiful to look at but she’s icy-cold and can be as destructive as hell if she sets her sights on you. Now, if only I could figure out how to make sure she only came around ev
ery seventy some-odd years like the dirty snowball…” I scratched my temple, pretending to really think on it. Flor laughed full on, clutching her chest, and I swear to God it was the most beautiful, gratifying thing to hear. I fell silent and studied her smiling face, committing it to memory. I never wanted to forget that look on her face. I never wanted to forget the sound of her laugh. She glanced up to see me studying her appraisingly.
“You really should do that more.”
“What? Sketch?” she asked, looking down at the spiral sketch pad in her lap.
“Laugh. You should laugh. As often and as long as possible. All the time.”
I clutched my hand over my chest wishing it were her hand—wishing she wasn’t clear across the living room. “You’re beautiful all the time, but you’re breathtaking when you’re laughing,” I said as I looked at her hungrily.
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked down to her sketchpad, a slight smile curving her full lips. Seeing that smile had made me feel like I’d won something precious and irreplaceable.
I couldn’t be sure because she hadn’t seen fit to reveal much of herself yet, but she didn’t seem as though she’d done near enough smiling in her lifetime. I silently vowed to give it my best effort to change that. I also vowed to find out more about Florence Randall, the woman who had bewitched me.
Flor
Savage
I loved the glint of admiration in his eyes as he looked at me. I especially loved that I was the one who’d put it there. I would have been lying to myself if I’d said that I didn’t want him to want me. I wanted his feelings to mirror my own, pure desire and need so potent it kept me awake at night.
Desire mixing intermittently with frustration over him was the culprit that had robbed me of a full night’s rest for more than three weeks now. Had it really been that long since I’d first met him at the art gallery? Time seemed to simultaneously fast forward and stand still.
I often wondered if he ever felt compelled to relieve the tension in his body in private like I considered doing just about every time I left his apartment. The tingling at my center was especially distracting at night, knowing that he was just right next door. All I would have had to do was let myself in to his place, crawl in his lap and let him into me.
