Vivian's List (Vol. 1)

by Lovell, Haleigh

  “Yes.” My throat swelled. “Of course.”

  “So when do we start?” The words came from her in a rush, too earnest, too eager, and I found myself smiling in spite of myself.

  “Tonight.” I edged closer and ran my knuckle along her cheek. “I’ll need to set the mood.”

  “Mood.” She looked at me with wide, inquiring eyes. “What mood?”

  “You’ll see,” I said, being deliberately evasive. “And while I get to work, I’ll need you out of the house for a few hours.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Where should I go?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Go see your friends, go do some shopping.”

  “Shopping …” she mused aloud. “But I can’t think of anything I really need at the moment.”

  Even so, she stood and I followed her down to the foyer. “How about Victoria’s Secret?” I placed a lingering hand on the small of her back. “Buy yourself something sexy.”

  “Okay,” she said mostly to herself. “I can do that.” When we neared the front door, she grabbed her purse and hoisted it over her shoulder. “By the way, what’s your favorite color?”

  “Red,” I said without missing a beat.

  Chapter Nine

  Vivian

  As I wrestled with the lock, I let out a heavy sigh. My brain hummed with nervous energy. I wanted to lose myself in Liam and forget all about Brody but a small semblance of rational thought remained. And for the briefest of seconds I considered putting an end to the absurdity of it all.

  No. A small voice in my head said. “No,” I said aloud to reinforce the notion. I needed to do this for me. I needed to get lost in the physical and forget the emotional.

  When the lock finally connected, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The hardwood floor gave their familiar creak, and the old house embraced me, still smelling faintly of Mom and Dad.

  Suddenly I froze as I took in my surroundings. Did I just walk into the wrong house?

  The open floor plan allowed me to see into the living room and dining area, and my eyes widened as they swept across the open space, taking in the blood red roses on the dining table, the crystal wineglasses, the lighted candles that glimmered and glowed, sending a score of reflections across the room.

  Jack Johnson’s “Sexy Plexi” was playing softly in the background, set in perfect harmony to the romantic and whimsical ambiance.

  I moved through the room and set my keys and purse on the coffee table, noting the overstuffed leather armchair sitting by the fireplace.

  Hmm, I thought. Liam must have gone furniture shopping.

  I found him in the kitchen, busying himself over the stove.

  “Smells good.” I slipped off my sandals and walked barefoot into the kitchen. “What’cha got cooking over there?”

  “Lobster bisque,” he replied, not looking up from the pot he was stirring. “That’s the starter. I’ve also got some ravioli cooking on the stove and the chicken tarragon is warming up in the oven.”

  “Nice.” I pursed my lips and gave a crisp nod. “I’m impressed.”

  “So.” He eyed me quickly. “Did you go shopping?”

  I held up the bright pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bag for his inspection. “Mission accomplished.”

  “Good. Dinner should be ready in about thirty minutes,” he said brusquely.

  “Okay.” I started toward my bedroom and tossed a glance over my shoulder. “I’m gonna hop in the shower and um … put on these racy underthings.”

  “You do that.” His gaze lingered on me and he sent me a lazy smile that did strange things to my equilibrium.

  After a quick shower, and a twenty-minute battle with a blow dryer and a straightening iron, I stood in front of the mirror in my Victoria’s Secret Dream Angels bra and matching lace thong.

  The bra was a veil of ruby red lace with a down-to-there plunge front and a delicate diamanté charm at the center.

  I smoothed my hands over my hips and turned to the side, taking in my profile.

  I didn’t look like a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I looked devilishly sinful.

  That and I hadn’t counted on the arousing effect of wearing these lacy underthings.

  A burning heat rose to my cheeks and my nipples strained against the intricate lace cups.

  Right. I swallowed as twin bolts of panic and anticipation shot through me. Time to get dressed.

  Decisions. Decisions. I sighed as I stared into my closet. What should I wear?

  I didn’t want to appear like I was trying too hard so I slipped on a plain white cotton tee and paired it with a short denim skirt. I dressed slowly, trying my best to ignore the butterflies starting up in my stomach.

  A long glance in the full-length mirror, a quick flick of mascara and I was finally ready.

  I pulled in a deep, calming breath before striding out.

  “Hey.” Liam sent me a warm smile as I cut across the kitchen floor.

  “Hey.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels. “Need any help?”

  “Nope,” he said switching off the burner. “I’ve got it all under control.”

  I stood behind him, giving him a wide berth as he carried a pot of boiling hot water to the sink. He tipped the pot and poured out the contents into a stainless steel colander.

  “Have a seat at the table,” he called over his shoulder.

  I did as I was instructed and Liam went about serving up dinner.

  “Careful.” He placed a bowl of lobster bisque in front of me. “It’s piping hot.”

  “You’re spoiling me here.” I smiled my delight. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  He headed back into the kitchen and emerged moments later with another steaming bowl of soup, a French baguette, and a bottle of wine.

  After setting the food on the table, he poured wine into the two glasses and pushed one toward me. “You hungry?”

  “Ravenous.” I picked up my wineglass and took a sip, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly relaxing.

  Liam started slicing the French baguette. “It’s still warm,” he informed me. “Right out of the oven.”

  “Nice.” I sat back and admired the spread. “You’ve really gone out of your way.”

  “Go on,” he prompted. “You can start.”

  I lifted the spoon to my mouth and slowly sipped on the bisque. The flavors were really bright, refreshing, and truly ballsy.

  “You like it?” he asked as he sat down across from me.

  “It’s delicious.” It was something to savor indeed. I found myself enjoying the flavors even more as they melded together. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  “Cooking shows,” he said simply. “In between missions there were long periods of doing nothing, and I’d usually watch the Food Network.” He tore a chunk of bread and dunked it liberally into his bisque. “Someday I’d like to enroll at culinary school.”

  I took another sip of wine, my eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Lieutenant Liam Sykes wants to go to culinary school? Why?”

  He shrugged. “For me cooking is … relaxing. Therapeutic.”

  My glass stopped halfway to my mouth and I wondered for a moment if he suffered from PTSD. If he did, he surely hid it well. “Interesting,” I commented.

  He lifted his glass and took a long drink as he gazed unseeingly toward me. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if I’m the broken-down soldier who’s a day away from suicide, PTSD, or who knows what kind of mental problems. Or you’re wondering if I’m the opposite: strong, nothing fazes me, completely unaffected by the war. It’s like I’m supposed to fit into one of these two extremes. Which one am I? Fit into one of these caricatures.”

  “A caricature?” I echoed. “No.” I shook my head fiercely. “That’s not what I think of you at all.”

  At my words, emotion flickered in his eyes. “Truthfully,” he went on, “sometimes I feel lost in the gray.”

  I gave the smalle
st nod of understanding but I didn’t quite know how else to respond.

  Should I say, “So tell me, Liam, why do you feel lost in the gray?”

  I didn’t think so, even though I truly wanted to know.

  “Thank you for your service,” seemed sort of inadequate, like telling someone to have a good day.

  Flippant remarks were obviously out.

  In the end I simply decided to say nothing and a new silence settled in.

  “I’m sorry, Viv.” Liam stared absently into his glass. “I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”

  “It’s okay.” I tacitly let it drop, and for a little while we ate in companionable silence.

  After we’d finished the bisque, Liam cleared the bowls and headed into the kitchen.

  The open pass-through area between the kitchen and the dining room allowed me to continue our conversation and watch Liam as he served up the main course: chicken tarragon and ravioli.

  “I see you went furniture shopping.” I gestured my head in the general direction of the living room. “Why’d you get that leather armchair for?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, giving me one of his maddening half smiles.

  I started to speak when I was interrupted by the sharp ringing of my cell phone.

  “Aren’t you gonna answer that?” Liam asked.

  “No.” I expelled a frustrated sigh. “It’s Brody. He keeps calling me. And he’s texted me like fifty times today.”

  My phone beeped. “Make that fifty-one.”

  And it beeped yet again. “Fifty-two times. Excuse me a sec.” I strode into the living room, retrieved my phone from my purse and switched it off.

  “Have you talked to him?” Liam inquired as I sat back down. “After last night?”

  “Just once.” I sighed, staring at my plate full of food. Liam had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this meal and the knowledge helped lift my spirits a little. “But I don’t think I’ll be doing that again.”

  “What did he say this time?” His voice held a combination of warmth and concern.

  Unable to meet his gaze, I picked up my fork and pushed the food around the plate in a circle. “He accused me of sleeping with you.” I inhaled sharply. “And he called me frigid again.” I paused and took a swig of wine to cover my distress. “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder … if I wasn’t so frigid in bed, he wouldn’t have needed to find it elsewhere.”

  I heard Liam exhale. “Don’t do that, Viv.”

  As I fiddled with the stem of the wineglass, I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

  “Doubt yourself. Blame yourself. Don’t do that.” His voice was nothing but kind. There was no hint of condescension in it.

  I tried to speak, failed, so I drank some more wine.

  “Listen.” Liam set his fork on the table. “If a girl is frigid, it is usually because the way she is treated outside of bed has left her frigid.”

  “But there has to be something wrong with me. I mean, what twenty-two-year-old has never experienced the Big O? You know, I can be a little uptight, even high-strung at times. So really, it could just be me.”

  “It’s not you,” Liam said firmly. “Don’t let Brody mess with your head. Do you know that about ten percent of women have never experienced an orgasm? And most women aren’t able to climax with intercourse alone. They need other sorts of …” He paused, seemingly to search for the word. “Stimulation.”

  The word made a blush rise on my neck and throat.

  Liam leaned back in his chair and regarded me steadily. “And from what it sounds like, Brody is a fucking moron. No guy should ever expect you to function with the predictability of a machine. And if he does, then he should just have sex with his car.”

  I smothered a giggle. “So I take it you’ve had plenty of experience helping girls reach the pinnacle of sexual passion.”

  His lips turned upward in a semi-grin. “Not really.”

  “C’mon,” I teased, swirling the wine in my glass. “What about all those Jessicas you dated? Jessica Neal, Jessica Cena, Jessica Long, Jessica Alba?”

  He let out a dismissive laugh. “I never dated Jessica Alba.”

  As I forked a mouthful of ravioli, I pointed out, “You had the biggest crush on her, though.”

  He didn’t deny it. “Me and every other guy I knew.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “So did you love all the other Jessicas?”

  He shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t think I even knew what love was back then.”

  I eyed him curiously. “Do you know now?”

  He shoveled in a bite, chewed then swallowed. “I think I may have some idea.”

  I leaned back in my chair and ran a fingertip around the rim of my wineglass. “What do you think love should feel like? Fireworks? Crazy intense, mad passion?”

  The look he gave me was long and considering. He lifted his glass and took a swig before answering. “I think a slow burning candle produces more warmth and light than a brief explosion.”

  We stared at each other as his words hung in the air between us. “With Brody …” I spoke into the silence. “It was crazy intense. I met him in college my freshman year. And right from the start, we had instant fireworks … the brief explosions you were just talking about. He pretty much swept me off my feet, and I kind of jumped off the diving board into the deep end.”

  Liam had a deep and intent expression on his face as he listened to me.

  His eyes were open and accepting. Nonjudgmental.

  When I finished, he grew quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I think the idea that love must be crazy intense all the time is what keeps people from being satisfied with the normal, boring day-to-day love. The sort of quiet love that is tucked away in the corner instead of shouted from the rooftops. That kind of simple day-to-day love … that quiet love, it might seem dull to others. But for me—” He gave a short shrug— “that’s love.”

  As we ate in companionable silence, I lapsed into my own thoughts … my relationship with Brody, his declarations of love. It was crazy intense but it was love without any joy or acceptance.

  Brody had told me time and time again how much he loved me.

  But his wish to control me, to change me … maybe he never truly loved me at all.

  Maybe he only loved the person he wished me to become.

  Liam’s deep voice cut into my thoughts. “Are you thinking about him?”

  I nodded and looked away from his questioning eyes. I did not trust my voice yet, so I remained silent. When I had finally gathered my wits, I turned back and cleared my throat. “So,” I said quietly. “What happens now that I’ve left Brody?”

  He held my gaze steadily. “You need time to heal, to move on. To find yourself outside of your relationship with Brody.”

  I bit down on my lower lip. “And what about Brody?”

  “My guess is he’ll go on to abuse someone else.”

  Staring into my empty glass, I swallowed hard. His words settled like rocks and boulders in my chest.

  If only abusers came with stamps on their forehead.

  Liam reached for the bottle. “More wine?”

  “Please.”

  He refilled my glass. “Are you nervous about tonight?”

  A burning heat rose to my cheeks. “A little,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized as my own. Taking a deep swig of wine, I gazed unseeingly toward the living room window.

  For the briefest of seconds, I considered crashing through the glass to make my escape.

  It was silly really, considering I was the one who had practically begged him to sleep with me.

  I took a deep breath and clasped my hands together to hide their trembling. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Ask away,” Liam said.

  I forced myself to meet his gaze. “How many women have you slept with?”

  Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “Not many. I can count the number of women I’ve been with on my fingers.”

&
nbsp; “Your fingers on one hand or two?”

  “One.”

  “So …” I coughed lightly to disguise my nerves. “Are you any good in bed?”

  His mouth curled slightly at the corners. “I like to think I am.” After a fraction of a pause, he added, “But every woman is unique. Truthfully, I can only get to know a girl’s sexuality the same way I get to know her personality—from her. Not from books, not from porn, not from guesswork.” He reached across the table and clasped my hand. “I want this to be good for you, Viv, which means you have to let me know what feels good for you. Do you think you can do that?”

  The earnestness in his voice made me blush. I could barely get the words out. “I think I can,” I said faintly.

  “Good.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Right,” I said in a voice that clearly revealed my doubts. “I have nothing to worry about.”

  An emotion that almost seemed like tenderness flickered over his face. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”

  “No.” I sucked in a shaky breath. “I haven’t changed my mind.” My words were stilted and unnatural.

  In the silence that followed, we looked at each other across the table. The air seemed to crackle around us and every inch of my skin was thrillingly and painfully aware of him.

  Chair legs scraped against the hardwood floor. Liam stood, walked around the table and laced his fingers with mine.

  “Come,” he said, pulling me gently to my feet.

  The word alone made my pulse race. I allowed myself to be led into the living room, feeling a sudden excitement compounded by trepidation.

  Framing my face in his hands, Liam looked at me for one long, breath-stealing moment before closing his lips over mine, joining our tongues in a slow, erotic tango.

  As he deepened the kiss, he slipped his hands beneath my shirt and cupped my breasts in his palms.

  Closing my eyes, I let out a soft sigh as Liam teased my nipples though the textured lace.

  “I want to see you,” he whispered against my skin, nipping the sensitive spot just beneath my earlobe. “All of you.”