Learning to Love the Heat

by Everly Lucas

  Time to look away, or parts of my body might get ideas about things they can’t have. For whatever reason, Claire agreed to take a chance with me. All I need to do is avoid perving on her too much, and she might stick around a while.

  She was sending crystal clear signals back at the park, shutting down any plans I had to ask her out. So why didn’t I bow out gracefully and leave her to read in peace? I don’t know. I got the impression she didn’t want me to, so I stayed. Claire strikes me as the kind of woman who would come right out and tell me to fuck off if she didn’t want me around. The fact that she didn’t was all the encouragement I needed.

  When it started pouring, I realized we’d reached the end of our time together. I’d just spent five amazing hours with this woman—probably the five most amazing hours I’ve spent with any woman—and the rain was saying, “Sorry, Ben, that’s all you get.” Claire would’ve gone back to whatever heavenly body she traveled to Earth from, and I would’ve spent every Saturday at the park, hoping to catch another glimpse of her.

  So I asked her back to my place because what could it hurt? I’d assumed she’d say no, but at least I wouldn’t have been forever kicking my own ass for not having the balls to ask.

  But she said yes. The word didn’t register at first, but once it did, I didn’t let another second tick by before taking off with her. One second would’ve been more than enough time for her yes to become a no.

  Actually, she didn’t say yes right away. First, she asked a strange question.

  “Was my having air conditioning a determining factor in your decision to come here?” I hold up two bottles of wine—red and white—silently asking which she’d prefer.

  “If I wanted to go somewhere without AC, I would’ve gone home. White, please.”

  I cut the foil and deftly uncork the bottle, thanking Bacchus for letting me get through it without ripping the cork to shreds. As I pour, I process what she said.

  “Hold up. You don’t have air? How do you live?”

  This is a deadly serious question. We’ve had more hundred-plus degree days this summer than we’ve had in half a century. It can’t be safe for her to live like that, can it?

  Claire leans a hip against the granite island and takes a tentative sip of chilled Riesling. Her eyes close and her lips turn up in a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with my selection. Well, not my selection. My sister, Leah, makes sure I stay well-stocked with good wine for when she visits.

  “This is really tasty,” she says before taking another, longer drink.

  “Thanks. I’m serious, though. Why don’t you have AC at your place?”

  Grabbing a bowl of pretzels, I lead her to the living area, which is all of four strides from the kitchen. When we reach the couch, she stops and contemplates the thing like a life or death puzzle she needs to solve.

  I honestly don’t know what to make of her. She shies away from me, making an obvious effort to keep her distance. If she hadn’t spent all those hours with me at the park and agreed to come here, I’d have to assume she’s afraid of me.

  This couch-versus-Claire standoff calls for a departure from standard male etiquette, so I sit first, claiming a spot as far to one side as possible. Her body visibly sheds all its tension, and her shoulders drop on the release of a breath she probably didn’t realize she’d been holding. She takes her place on the opposite side and curls her legs under her, facing her body toward me and giving the appearance of being perfectly relaxed.

  “I don’t have AC at my apartment because my apartment isn’t built for AC,” she explains. “Or, more accurately, my apartment isn’t built to accommodate AC and ensure my safety at the same time. I live in the basement unit, so the windows are sidewalk-level.”

  “Why did you move in there, then?” I make a mental note to connect Claire with my realtor whenever she’s ready to move again.

  “Necessity. Plus, it checked all my boxes. I figured, people lived without air conditioning for, like, ever, right? Why shouldn’t I be able to tough out the heat for one measly summer?” She scoffs at her own naiveté. “But it’s miserable, Ben. I’m miserable.”

  God, she looks desperate. Hell, maybe I could pay the fee to break her lease, so she can move tomorrow. It can’t be more than a couple thousand. Fuck, I’d pay that and more to take away her misery.

  “Do you know, I actually look forward to going to work every Monday? How twisted is that?” She swirls the wine in her glass, staring blankly at the shallow vortex it creates. “It’s the weekends I dread.”

  I open my mouth to offer words of comfort, but she shoots me a look that says there’s no such thing so don’t even bother.

  “This place is amazing,” she says, changing the topic. Her eyes scan the room, lingering on the intricately inlaid floor, red brick wall, and large wooden beams on the ceiling. All original to the house. “How long have you lived here?”

  “I bought it five years ago—"

  “No shit,” she says, cutting me off. “You own this apartment?”

  “Um, well, I…” Did I mention I hate to brag?

  “You own the whole house,” she finishes for me. I nod, ready to move on to another topic, but she shakes her head. “No, you can’t. That’d be crazy. People I know don’t own property in neighborhoods like this. It’s pretty much Law of Claire Number Six, or something.”

  “You’re going to have to replace that law with something else, then. Might I recommend ‘Never again live without AC’?”

  My suggestion gets brushed off with a dramatic eye-roll.

  “It looked like there was a first-floor apartment. Or is that where you keep women tied up until you bury them in your backyard?”

  She tips back her glass to take a sip, and I can see the exact moment it hits her that for all she knows I really do hold women captive downstairs. Her wine glass freezes in front of her mouth, and her eyes double in size and dart around the room.

  “I have a tenant,” I say, quick to reassure her, lest she bolt the fuck out of here, “and if that’s what he’s doing, he’s in serious violation of the lease.”

  Her smile is back, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have one goal for the night—spend as much time with Claire Templeton as possible. There’s no end game. I know exactly how tonight won’t end, but I’d also like it to not end with her fleeing my house with visions of plastic sheeting and kill rooms running through her head.

  She sets her glass on the coffee table, and when our eyes meet again, she traps her bottom lip between her teeth, looking up at me from beneath pale lashes. Her being this gorgeous isn’t just unfair, it’s pure agony.

  “I feel rude asking you this, now, considering we both know I’m just curious how you can afford this place, but…”

  A battle of wills ensues as I wait for her to ask the question and she waits for me to take pity on her. I’d let her off the hook in a heartbeat, but she’s so cute when she squirms. Eventually, she huffs and, as if completely unprompted, asks, “So, Ben, what do you do for a living?”

  I chuckle while Claire finishes her wine and waves me off when I ask if she’d like a refill. Then she turns that wave into an emphatic out-with-it gesture.

  “I’m an architect.”

  “Seriously?” Her enthusiasm over my answer is absolutely adorable and, more importantly, draws her closer to me by a few inches. “I went to school for interior design. Well, for a semester. But I had some friends in college who were architecture majors. None of them live like this, though,” she says, popping a pretzel in her mouth.

  Eyes off the plump, pink lips, Ben.

  “I’ve, uh, worked on some big projects.”

  And that’s all I’m willing to say on that subject right now. Red splotches are no doubt already creeping up my neck, and there’s no way I can tell her about my contracts with the health system without breaking into hives. I’ll also save my properties in Avalon and Lake George for another day. If I’m lucky enough to have another day with Claire.

&nbs
p; “That’s how I met Andy,” I say to steer the conversation away from me. “We went to college together.”

  “That guy really ought to keep his dog on a leash. Somebody might get the idea to steal it.”

  “Somebody, huh?” I can’t help grinning at her and playing along. “What kind of immoral person would steal a man’s best friend?”

  “I figured you were his best friend.”

  “It’s a tie, I think. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself.”

  She laughs that full body laugh of hers. No one can tell me I’m not the man right now.

  I rest my arm along the back of the couch. She immediately notices the new proximity of my hand to her face, and her smile loses some of its brightness. I notice it, too, but I have the opposite reaction. I’m itching to reach closer, to brush the backs of my fingers over her flawless face. Light, almost imperceptible freckles dust the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. I could spend an entire night charting new constellations in them…and then the rest of my life working my way through every freckle on her body.

  She’d have to let me touch her for that to happen, though, which doesn’t seem to be in the cards for us. Not yet, at least. But some people are worth all the patience and understanding you can give them. My gut tells me Claire’s one of those people.

  Crap. How long have I been staring at her face, now? Fifteen seconds? Fifteen minutes? It really could’ve been either.

  From what I’ve seen so far, she’s the kind of person who wears her heart on her sleeve, which has been a huge help to me. I doubt it’s intentional, but I’m grateful for it, regardless. Right now, though, I can’t read her, at all. She stopped laughing. She’s not even smiling, anymore. But she hasn’t shifted away from me or crossed her arms or hugged her knees to her chest like she did at the park. That can only be a good sign, right?

  “Are you hungry?” I ask to shatter the strange moment because it really feels like it needs shattering.

  She glances at the door, then back at me, weighing her options. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

  I need to decipher that quickly. Is she giving me an out, or is she giving herself one? Fuck it. I took a risk when I asked her here. Why not roll the dice one more time?

  “You can stay as long as you want, Claire.” The vibrant pink and purple sunset filters through my westward-facing windows. It’ll be dark soon. “Whenever you’re ready to go, I’ll get you a Lyft.”

  With that, her wilted smile returns and her denim blue eyes sparkle.

  I’m usually laid back when it comes to women. If I want her and she wants me, I just go with the natural progression of things. My one serious relationship lasted over five years, and after the first couple years, it was a constant struggle to make two pieces fit together that were better off apart. Since then, I’ve never forced anything that didn’t feel right.

  Claire Templeton feels right.

  Her beautiful, endearing transparency is back, and the relief I see all over her face gives me hope that she might want to be near me as much as I need to be near her.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll stay,” she says, making me the happiest man on Earth. “As long as you don’t mind me using you for your air conditioning.”

  I don’t dare say it out loud, but she can use me for anything she wants.

  I don’t keep much food in my kitchen, unless you count Lucky Charms, and there’s no way I’m letting this woman in on my dirty cereal secret. I open the drawer where menus go to die and run through the options with Claire.

  She tries to hide her revulsion when I recommend Indian…and Thai and Ethiopian and Vietnamese and Middle Eastern. But, as usual, she’s incapable of keeping her heart off her sleeve. Especially when it comes to food, apparently.

  She lights up when I show her the menu for Omega, so we end up splitting a large cheese pie from what is, without a doubt, the best pizza place in Philly. The girl’s got good taste, I’ll give her that. She also has an impressive appetite, polishing off four slices before I make it to my third. Her explanation is that the oppressive heat at her place kills her appetite, so she’s catching up on calories. That’s some pretty sound reasoning, in my opinion. If her curves ever waste away, it’ll be a loss to all mankind.

  After dinner, we relax on the couch. She works some kind of ginger voodoo magic on me, convincing me to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and we fall into comfortable silence. When the credits roll on the third episode, I turn to comment on it, but Claire is out cold. Her rose petal lips are parted in her sleep, and her head rests on the back of my contemporary sofa.

  This is the first time I’ve seen her so relaxed. She’s stunning. Her neck is at an awkward angle, though, so she’s going to be in some serious pain when she wakes up.

  I hesitate to touch her because I know with one-hundred-percent certainty she wouldn’t want me to. She’s avoided my touch our entire time together, and I respect that. But I can’t leave her like this, so I reach out and jostle her shoulder. Nothing.

  I shake with a little more force. Her lips press together, but that’s it. Brushing back strands of her hair, I let my fingertips trace along the side of her peaceful face.

  Alright, that was definitely crossing a line. I might’ve been able to justify it if I’d managed to wake her that way, but even that didn’t work.

  Would it be crazy to just let her sleep? I can’t imagine she gets much in that apartment of hers, and there’s no way she would’ve passed out with her head at a ninety-degree angle if her body wasn't hard up for some rest.

  One last unsuccessful go at her shoulder elicits a breathy moan from her.

  Fuck. She’s unconsciously sexy even when she’s, well, unconscious.

  Standing by my couch, I watch the even rise and fall of her chest. And her breasts. The deep neckline of my shirt drapes down, displaying one of her soft curves and just a hint of the pale pink that surrounds her nipple. While I stare at her, I take my time contemplating my options. I could put more effort into waking her, sure. But if I’m being honest, I don’t want to. I’ve got this unexplainable and irrational urge to keep her here forever—you know, to protect her from the unbearable heat she’s constantly escaping from, of course.

  I could simply reposition her on the couch. But then what? There’s only the one bedroom, up on the third floor, so I’d sleep there while her muscles cramp up down here? No way.

  That settles it. I need to carry her upstairs. If she wakes up with my arms around her, I’m fucked. She’d fly out of here without another word. Actually, she’d probably inflict some irreparable injury on my genitals first, then bolt. I can’t let either of those things happen.

  With a great deal of caution, I slip one arm behind Claire’s back and the other under her bent knees. Her bare skin on my arm feels almost feverish, as if her body is letting itself generate heat for the first time in who knows how long.

  As soon as I lift her, she nuzzles her cheek into my chest and her fingers clutch at one of my sleeves. This is the kind of touch I’ve been craving since the moment her fair skin caught my eye. It would be better if she were awake for it, but I’ll take what I can get.

  Her walls crumble during sleep, with her eyes closed and her anxious brain switched off. Even if I have to dismantle them brick by brick, I won’t stop until there’s nothing left of those walls—nothing left of her need to hide behind them—while she’s awake.

  I carry her up the winding staircase and lay her on my bed. After covering her with a light blanket, I hover in the doorway. Indulging my craving for her one last time, I spend a few moments watching her sleeping face. Then I turn and leave the room.

  There’s an angel in my bed, and it hurts like hell to walk away from her.

  Five

  Claire

  I wake up grasping at a blanket to protect myself from the chill in the room.

  Wait—that can’t be right. Did I sleep through the rest of summer and wake up in November? That would be definitive, scientif
ic proof that throwing pennies in fountains really does grant wishes. That doesn’t make sense, though, does it? More likely, I’ve got a dangerously high fever, and everything outside my body feels cold by comparison. If that’s the case, I’ll be camping out at the ER on the daily, licking runny noses. It could also be—

  Shit. It could also be that I’m still at Ben’s house. Yep. That’s the winner, right there.

  I do a mental rundown of the events of last night. There was wine, but just one glass. If he’d spiked it, I would’ve passed out before the pizza arrived. I need to remember to check the sex offenders registry before agreeing to go home with a near stranger…and then remember to never again go home with a near stranger.

  Okay, so, pizza. I vividly recall that because of its lordship over all other pizzas. And after that came Buffy. I’m pretty sure it’s written into the Girl Code handbook that any man willing to watch your favorite show with you is automatically a keeper.

  If only I could keep Ben.

  Moving right along from that depressing line of thought… So, yeah, there was that. And then there was nothing.

  Well, that answers the question of when I passed out. I already know where, and it definitely wasn’t on a king-sized mattress made of Heaven. Sitting up, I perform a quick survey of my surroundings. I’m in Ben’s bedroom—I recognize it from when I came up here to change last night—which means this is his bed I’m in. So, here’s another question: Where did Ben sleep?

  The side I’m not currently curled in a ball on looks unslept in, which I’m choosing to interpret as a good sign. Either I spent the night alone, or he’s admirably diligent about making the bed in the morning. I think I’ll go ahead and cling to option one. I’m just glad he’s not here now because if there’d been a man lying next to me when I woke up, there’s a solid chance I would’ve had a heart attack. Or a panic attack, but that feels enough like a heart attack that it’s basically the same thing, just less fatal.