Red Red Rose

by Stephanie Hoffman McManus

  “So how is it that you’re an only child with such a competitive streak?”

  “I wasn’t always. Before I was adopted, I was in lots of homes with lots of kids, and everything was a competition. Plus I just like to win,” I tacked on to take away from the depressing turn of conversation.

  “I see.” His eyes had lost a little of their mischievous twinkle. Before digging into his pizza, he tugged the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and I got my very first real look at the ink that covered his forearms. He caught me staring.

  “You have any tats?”

  “Nope. I think I’d like to, but first I have to deal with my dislike of needles.”

  “Eh, it’s not so bad depending on where you get one and whether or not you’ve got a heavy-handed artist.”

  “Maybe someday. Did you get yours done all at once or over a long time?”

  “Took me several years to do all this, plus the ones I have on my chest.” While we ate he shared some of the meaning behind the different pieces I could see. I loved that he’d found a way to intricately weave quotes from his favorite literature into some of the pieces, and that set us off on a discussion traversing history and all the greats; Tolkien, C.S., Hemingway. He was even up on his Jane Austen. I had to remind myself that the guy didn’t like pineapple on his pizza.

  “You going to take your shirt off for me later so I can get the full picture?”

  He licked a bit of pizza sauce from his lips and then washed it down with a long drink of beer. His eyes remained fixed on me over the glass. Mine were still focused on his lips when he set the glass back on the table.

  “For you I could be persuaded to lose more than just my shirt,” he smirked.

  I swallowed. “We’ll just start with the shirt,” my voice came out a little more breathless than intended.

  “Whatever you want.”

  Oh sweet, sweet Jesus.

  What I wanted . . . let’s just say it would get us arrested in public, and if his heated gaze was anything to go by, his thoughts were sprinting the same direction. I picked up my glass only to realize I’d already drained it. I felt like channeling Thor and throwing the glass to the floor and shouting for “another” but I doubted another beer would help the situation any. If he was going to start stripping later, I needed all of my inhibitions properly intact.

  “Can I ask you something?” I detected a bit of reluctance and was curious what would have him holding back.

  “Sure.”

  “You and Raynes. There’s a story there.” Of course he would pick up on that.

  I let out a long breath, and lowered my gaze to the piece of crust I was picking at, while I thought about the best way to respond.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it. I just couldn’t help but notice he had that kicked puppy look on his face when I picked you up tonight.”

  I cringed. “He did?”

  “Yeah. He did.”

  The guilt, though unwarranted, started gnawing at me again. “It’s not much of a story. We flirted a bit in the past, but he was already military when Em introduced us. He’s like a super secret super soldier or something. Em said he was always off doing dangerous stuff in dangerous places that he could never talk about. They would sometimes go months without hearing from him. I wasn’t cut out for that. I knew it. Em knew it. He knew it. Now he says he’s getting out.” I ducked my eyes again, but not before I saw surprise flash in Spencer’s. This was altogether an uncomfortable conversation. Just par for the course tonight, I guess.

  “Really? I got the impression from him and his dad that day at the shop, that he was looking to be career military like his old man.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think Em has him all mixed up. It’s tearing him up and he doesn’t know what to do. None of us do. We just want her to come home. I don’t want to think about what it would do to him, or any of us, if she doesn’t.” I could barely voice the last part.

  Spencer’s hand reached across the table and took mine. “I wish I could do more than just tell you it’s going to be okay.”

  “You’re doing it. This right here, this whole night, making me laugh and smile, it means I’m not sitting home in my room crying, worrying about her or getting drunk to try and make it all go away.”

  His features softened and he let go of my hand to lift his to my face. He brushed my hair out of the way with the backs of his fingers and then gently cupped my jaw, sweeping his thumb over my cheek, before pulling me part way across the table to meet his lips. He brushed them over my cheek, along my jaw, then the corner of my mouth before finally touching his mouth to mine in a light caress that ended much too soon. He pulled away just an inch and held my eyes before releasing me and then we both sank back down in our seats.

  “I’m sorry, Nora. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for doing that. Ever.”

  “That’s good, because I plan on doing it again.” He relaxed against the back of his booth and his eyes searched out our server. He lifted his hand briefly to snag his attention and then asked for a to-go box and our check. He tossed back the last of his beer and then was content to watch me until our server returned. My foot tapped rapidly and my fingers played around the rim of my glass while he remained still and so at ease.

  He couldn’t just say something like, “I plan on doing it again,” and then ask for our check and leave me wondering what exactly he meant and more importantly, when. Because I was perfectly okay with a repeat right now. I was actually craving it. I was definitely not ready for the night to be over, but Spencer paid the bill with cash and we left the restaurant.

  We’d been driving for a few minutes with just the quiet music of the radio to fill the silence when Spencer finally spoke. “I don’t want to take you home.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” I admitted boldly.

  “But I think it would be best if you did.” He kept his eyes forward, never breaking from the road.

  “Okay.” I didn’t know how else to respond. I’d just told him I didn’t want to go home and his reaction was to tell me that I should anyway. Wasn’t much I could say to that.

  “Believe me, it’s not what I want, but what I want wouldn’t be good for either one of us. Not right now.”

  I bristled at the implication of his words, and more precisely, his tone. That if he didn’t get me home, we were a foregone conclusion and the night would end with us sweaty between the sheets. Or maybe it was only my mind that kept going there.

  “That’s fine. I’m feeling tired anyway.” I stared out the window. After a few blocks, he made a turn that took us in the opposite direction of my house.

  I looked over at him for an explanation. “I thought you were taking me home.”

  “I am. Just not yet. I realize all that before didn’t exactly come out right and I made a bit of an ass of myself.”

  “If I’m not going home, where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer me. His eyes were focused on something in the rearview. A scowl darkened his expression. I waited, and a moment later he relaxed, eyes back on the road. He did everything with such intensity. He made a few more turns and I couldn’t tell what direction we were headed.

  “Soo . . . are we just driving around in circles?”

  “No, sorry. I made a wrong turn. We’re almost there.”

  Almost where?

  It was only another minute before I found out. He pulled up outside one of Bellingham’s best small diner cafes. I knew this one quite well. It had been here longer than I had and from the decor I’d say going back a good thirty years at least, with only minor updates having been made to the interior. It was cozy and old fashioned if not outdated, but the food was excellent.

  I cocked my head at Spencer when he put the truck in park. “We’ve already eaten.”

  “Yes, but I realize now that twice at dinner you’ve been deprived of dessert. I intend to rectify that tonight.”

  If the food at
Home Town Café was good, the dessert was to die for. I mean, I loved the treats from Sweet Indulgence, but I would probably prostitute my body for a single piece of pie from Home Town. Thankfully that wasn’t going to be necessary, but after the three slices of pizza I already had, a new pair of jeans might be.

  My face must have lit up at the mention of dessert, because Spencer chuckled and then entwined his fingers in mine and pulled me toward the café. “Come on, let’s get you some dessert.”

  I was wholeheartedly for this new plan. Pie beat going home, hands down, every time. And his easy smile was back. He’d ditched some of that enigmatic broodiness that had made an appearance in the truck.

  I didn’t even have to look at a menu once we were seated at a little table in one of the large windows that made up the front of the café. I knew what I was craving. Spencer didn’t touch his menu either.

  “Do you know what you’re having?” he asked me.

  “Yes, but if I had known you were going to bring me here, I might have stopped at two slices of pizza. I don’t know if I’ll have room for a whole slice of pie.”

  “We could always share,” he offered.

  “It sounds like wisdom, but I know myself and I might try to stab you with my fork if you made a move on the pie. I can’t be held responsible for my actions when I’m in the thrall of key lime.”

  “Key lime? No, the cherry pie is where the magic is. For anyone else I wouldn’t even offer to share a slice.”

  I laughed, “Oh, well then, how generous of you, but you can keep your boring, unoriginal cherry pie.”

  “Boring? Unoriginal?”

  “Yes. You heard me.

  “Are you even human?”

  “Look, I’m sure the cherry is perfectly fine,” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.

  “You mean you’ve never even tried a piece of the cherry pie here?”

  “Why would I have the cherry when there’s key lime?”

  He sat back. “I give. You’re impossible. You have your key lime and I’ll have the cherry.”

  A waitress walked over and he begrudgingly gave her our order, trying one last time to tempt me with his boring pie. I assured him I was good with the key lime.

  “The key lime is my favorite. Good choice,” my new favorite waitress, Susan, chimed in.

  I grinned at Spencer’s look of dismay, and his barely audible mutter, “Women.”

  When Susan returned with our pie and two glasses of milk, I dug in right away, unable to help the groan of pleasure that slipped from my lips. It was taste bud heaven. In a completely selfless act I scooped another bite onto my fork and held it out to Spencer.

  “You have to try it. This is the one and only time I’ll ever make this offer, but I just don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight with it on my conscience if you leave here not knowing what you’re missing.”

  His mouth twitched. He’d already started in on his cherry pie as well, but he swallowed and then washed it down with the milk. He then leaned forward and parted his lips, wrapping them around my fork. Lucky fork. He sat back and I anxiously watched his expression, waiting for that moment when he would slip into bliss and admit that it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

  “It’s good. The cherry’s better.” He went back to his own pie, digging in enthusiastically and playing it up with his own little groan of satisfaction. Dear Lord, if that’s how he could sound when eating pie . . . If I didn’t already know my pie was better than his pie, this would have been one of those Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally moments, and I would have been having what he was having. Seriously, the café could pay him to sit here and eat pie like that and they would sell it faster than they could make it.

  “You really should try this,” he grinned.

  I scowled. “Keep your cherry pie.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  By the time I finished mine, I was miserable and thankful for the extra stretch my pants allowed. Praise the Lord for whoever decided to put spandex in jeans. It allowed me to walk out of the diner in only minor discomfort.

  So damn worth it though.

  I envied Spencer’s metabolism. No doubt he’d already burned off the pizza and pie just by walking out to the truck. I might finally have to give in and let Will force me into a membership at the gym if Spencer planned to continue wining, dining and desserting me.

  Adele’s new song was playing on the radio when we climbed into the truck and he started it up. I reached for the volume, cranking it loud enough that my singing along wouldn’t be torture to him, which got me a look from Spencer.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like Adele either?”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug.”

  I sat back against my seat with a huff. “Do you have a soul?”

  He simply chuckled at that and then I dragged him into a musical debate on the drive back to my place. We were arguing the merits of Freddie Mercury, Axl Rose and Kyden McCabe.

  “How can you say he’s not on the same level? His voice makes the angels weep,” I cried out.

  His eyes rolled. “Look, the guy is good, I’m not saying he isn’t. I have their latest album, but you just can’t make that comparison to guys like Axl and Mercury.”

  “Yes, I can,” I insisted. “Ashes and Embers have broken chart records and sales records left and right since they released their first album.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. A lot has changed in the last twenty years with iTunes and music videos and social media and media in general. Not to mention that the musical tastes of this generation are rapidly declining.”

  “No you didn’t. Did you just say I have bad taste in music?”

  “I wasn’t referring to you specifically, just musical standards in general have dropped steadily.”

  “That’s your opinion, but with voices like Adele, and Kyden McCabe, you can’t say there is a lack of talent.”

  “It’s not about lack of talent, more lack of heart. It’s the heart of the music that’s changed. What’s being put out and played doesn’t have any soul.”

  I shook my head. “You’re trying to say that Adele doesn’t have any soul? Or Kyden? I get chills every time I hear Just a Little More Time.”

  “There are some exceptions, but they are few.”

  “Or maybe it’s you who has poor taste. I mean, do you like any music from the last decade, or two, or hell, we can go back three decades. Anything since the nineties?”

  He laughed. “I never said I didn’t like any current music. It’s just not the same when there were guys like Dylan, Otis and Lennon and McCartney.”

  “And I’m saying Kyden McCabe is like this generation’s Dylan.”

  He barked out a laugh. “I think you’re letting yourself be swayed more by his face than his music. Next you’re going to try and convince me Bieber is the next Elvis.”

  I glared, not that he was looking directly at me, but I was sure he could see it out of the corner of his eye. “Kyden’s voice is like a smooth whiskey or, depending on your tastes, a fine scotch. The fact that he has a face like a fallen angel and an ass that should be in underwear ads is just a very nice bonus. And don’t go hating on the Biebs, he’s making a comeback.”

  He snorted. “Like I said, you’re biased by your female hormones.”

  “Ha. Well you don’t have to worry about my female hormones making me fall all over you, because you’ve pissed them off now,” I shot back.

  He turned onto my street and then pulled into my drive, throwing the truck in park and turning in his seat to face me. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Speaking of voices like smooth whiskey. I may have lied about those hormones.

  I stole a quick look over my shoulder at my house. I should have said good night and gone inside, but I hesitated and looked back at Spencer.

  “You never did show me the rest of that ink.” My eyes skimmed over his chest, wondering what was beneath the layers of fabric.

  His chest expanded when he
sucked in a deep breath and then blew it out. “Are you really asking me to take off my shirt right now?”

  I nodded, biting my lip to hide my amusement.

  He started to shrug out of his jacket, but then paused. One corner of his mouth quirked up and he cocked an eyebrow at me. “You sure you’re going to be able to control yourself?”

  “Just take it off.”

  The jacket came off and he reluctantly tugged his shirt up over his head. “You’re making me feel like a piece of meat.”

  “I’m just doing thorough research before I make a decision about getting a tattoo.”

  “Right.” His eyes hit the ceiling and mine were already trying to make out the markings that ran up his arms and covered his shoulders and a large section of his chest as well. I searched for the cab light and turned it on, illuminating his artwork. My eyes were immediately drawn to the lion’s head that covered one side of his chest, over his heart. It was stunning and by no means looked like a tame lion. The mane flowed back into the piece on his shoulder, tangling with the roses, vines and serpents in a perfect blending that made it all look like one piece.

  I couldn’t help myself and reached out to touch the face of the lion, feeling his warm skin beneath my fingertips. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if a slight shudder rolled through him when I did. I traced it all the way back to the roses, admiring the intricacies of each detail.

  He grabbed my wrist and stilled it. My eyes lifted slowly to his, which seemed much darker all of the sudden.

  “If you don’t stop touching me, I won’t be the only one to lose my shirt, and then we’ll have problems.”

  I tugged on my hand, mumbling, “Sorry.” He let it go.

  “Not asking you to be sorry. Having you touch me isn’t exactly torture, except that right now I can’t touch you back.”

  I was a little embarrassed and unsure of what to say, because part of me wanted him to touch me back, but the reasonable and rational me, knew he was right and that it was better to take this thing slow. Right now it was hard to do that with the way he was looking at me. I averted my gaze momentarily and it landed on the shoulder and bicep I had yet to take a closer look at. I did now, and was surprised by the skull wearing a beret and the numbers and script that framed it. My gaze jerked back up. “You’re army? A Ranger?”