by Lilia Moon
I wrap my hands around my mug of tea. This next memory isn’t wistful. It’s still got the strength to crack my heart. “She got breast cancer. The terrible, horribly invasive kind. One moment we were in a small village in Indonesia, recording the stories of their elders. Six months later, she was gone.”
She sucks in a breath of pain and sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
I reach for her hand. It’s trembling. “She’s been gone twelve years now. I’ve learned to live and grow without her.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Art I did twelve years ago is still a part of me.”
I pick up a sandwich, split it in two, and offer her half. “She’ll always be a part of me. Without her I’d be a boring fifty-seven-year-old man in a suit.”
Daley’s lips quirk as her eyes skim my attire.
I laugh. She’s got a delightful sense of humor, even when she’s shaken. “She did manage to get me out of a suit sometimes. She was more successful at rendering me less boring.”
She leans back a little and contemplates me. “She did very well, I think.”
Chapter Seven
Daley
I keep eating my soup. He’s easy with being seen. Too easy, maybe. It urges me to want the same. But I can already feel the warning flags.
I want him to see me, which is fine and good and healthy—and I want him to like what he sees, which is the first step into the danger zone. It’s the beginning of the siren song, the one that tempts me to work out what he wants to see and become her. Not because I’m weak. That would be the easy story, but it isn’t the true one. I’m not weak. I have big needs, and sometimes I’m willing to pay far too big a price to have them met. I figured that out the hard way, in therapy, and the easy way, with charcoals in my hand.
And that’s an awful lot of thinking to be doing over soup and sandwiches.
He smiles, like he knows I’ve gone deep down some crevice of introspection and he’s fine with that. “Tell me about your art. Why do you draw women?”
I grin at him. “Naked ones, you mean?”
His eyes twinkle. “As someone who appreciates naked women very much, that part isn’t hard to understand at all.”
Phew. The man is lethal, and I can’t even be mad at him for it. “It started with those drawings you were just looking at. I was my first model.” I swallow, because the rest of this answer sits a little differently in the context of my house and the conversation we’re having. “After my marriage ended, I was trying to sort out who I was. I wanted to be a good parent and a decent human being, and I knew I needed to see myself first. Now I help other people take that same walk.”
He smiles. “You do your name proud.”
I blink at him, lost.
“Daley is an old Irish family name. It means ‘bard.’ They bring out the hidden so that it can be seen. As do you.”
I take the gift he’s just given me and hold it gently. “I thought it was a Jewish name.”
He chuckles. “It may be that too. We Irish are terrible about borrowing from others and not giving them due credit.”
“It will change the way I hear my own name. Thank you.”
Something crackles between us, and it’s me who looks away first. I stare out at the view that usually soothes me, not at all sure what to do with him or me.
“It’s a wondrous place you have.”
A retreat to safer ground. I’m grateful, even though I’m pretty sure it’s a temporary reprieve. “I moved to Crawford Bay to finish raising my kids. I figured it would be a nice place for them to visit someday. I built this house once they were grown.”
He smiles. “You’ve a grandson nearby.”
He doesn’t lose track of things. “I do. My son lives down the road with his partner. They run a graphic-design business. My daughter is in Bulgaria at the moment. She’s the black sheep of the family.” I grin at him and pick up my sandwich. “She’s an engineer.”
His laugh is warm and interesting and generous. It suits the man very well. I let the smell of fresh bread and maple-glazed ham set my taste buds to drooling. “Do you have children?”
He shakes his head. There’s sadness there, and acceptance. “We were never able.”
There are rules, but the one about being a decent human being trumps all the rest. I set down my sandwich and reach for his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“As were we.” He squeezes my hands gently and shrugs, but he’s not doing it to hide away his regret. That stays in his eyes. “I borrow other people’s children when I can.”
I slip my hands away and pick up my sandwich, because it’s far too tempting to stay where I was. “I have a grandson who’s always happy to be borrowed. Mari the off-road skateboarder isn’t mine, but I’ve found that her parents are generally willing to part with her in exchange for baked goods.”
He makes appropriately amused noises around his bite of ham sandwich.
I realize how many assumptions I’ve just made. “I don’t know how long you’re staying.”
He swallows and chases it down with tea. “I don’t know either. I’ve rented a cottage on the lake. I thought I’d stay a while and get to know my friends’ new lives.”
That opens a lot of doors—and makes my insides wobble at how easily I opened mine. I’m good at jumps in the lake, sudden immersions with a sharp beginning and a quick end. Longer swims bring more of my issues into play. And more of my rules.
“Tell me what’s bothering you, Daley.” His words are gentle, but his eyes aren’t.
This isn’t a man who stays in nice, polite zones unless he wants to. Which means he can handle the honesty I’ve worked so very hard to make the core of who I am. “You’re a very intriguing man, and you’re tempting me to consider things I’ve kept at bay for a long time.”
He smiles. “That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
I sigh. “It doesn’t work for me. I wish it did, but it’s like one bite of chocolate cake. It doesn’t stop there, and then I end up with a bellyache, swearing I’ll never eat that much cake again.”
He cants his head, maybe because I’ve just compared him to a bellyache. “There’s an interesting story there.”
There is. And to my surprise, I’m willing to tell it.
Chapter Eight
Callum
She takes in a breath. It’s steady. This is a woman who shares of herself easily, at least in some realms.
She meets my eyes, and her smile is wistful. “I don’t know if astrology means anything to you, but I’m a Leo.”
I’m a man who appreciates the right label. “Tell me what it means for you.”
“Leos are the performers of the world, the ones who want a stage, who captivate a room, who create so the universe can tell us how wonderful we are.”
I chuckle. I come from a land that has a few of those. “Some of my favorite people fit that description.”
She dips her chin, but I don’t miss the grin. “I’m not surprised. You’re an excellent audience.”
I’m not a man who plays things safe, even when his companion might prefer that I do. “As you’re a woman who likes to be seen, it seems as if we might have some interesting territory to explore together.”
“That’s the tricky part. I know I invited you here, but I’m not looking for anything beyond being seen.” She makes a face, and all her body language tightens up. “I’m sorry. I know that kind of invitation is easy to confuse with a desire for intimacy in other ways.”
My lips quirk. I rarely get told to back off so eloquently. “I have no expectations.”
She raises an eyebrow.
I set down my spoon. “How much do you know about BDSM?”
She’s watching me, still wary. “Not a whole lot. I get the feeling Matteo only dabbles, and India’s not very talkative.”
India has reasons, and in his own way, so does Matteo. “We have two deeply cherished rules in our community. One is that consent is foundational. The second is that actual conversations need to ha
ppen before anyone gets to impose expectations on anyone else.”
She blinks.
“I invited you to lunch because I find you intriguing and I wanted to spend more time with you.” I smile. “You did an excellent job of tossing even those mild expectations out the window. I won’t deny there’s a sexual attraction, but I’m a man who can enjoy that very much without it leading to anything more than some interesting conversation over soup.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “I think you actually mean that.”
I do. But I’m also a Dom. Something in her is still uneasy, and all the charming Irish manners in the world aren’t settling it. “I’m not a man who tells a woman how she should feel, but I am curious why you keep sex so separate from your need to be seen.”
She huffs out a breath. “You’re just like Matteo and Rafe.”
I smile and pick up my sandwich again. It’s excellent, even if it’s not getting much of my attention. “I’m not sure you meant that as a compliment, but I’ll take it as one. Thank you.”
Amusement wins in those expressive eyes of hers. “I’m used to being careful with fragile male egos. The three of you don’t have them.”
“We’ve just had some training in being honest about our needs. Over time, that makes a person a lot less fragile.”
She nods, inhaling slowly. “Okay, then. Here’s my honesty. I need to be seen, in a way that’s very connected and intimate. That gets tricky with men, so I mostly keep you at arm’s length. I get what I need from a rich circle of female friends who understand me and don’t make me want to change who I am.”
Finally. “Tell me more about that last part.”
She shoots me a wry look.
I just sit quietly. This is a woman who wants to be seen. She doesn’t need my words driving her some place she already wants to go.
She picks up her tea as she assembles her thoughts. “Something different happens when I step into intimacy with a man. My need to be seen makes me willing to sacrifice too much of who I am, to remove anything that causes friction or discomfort. Small things, but they add up. Until my marriage ended, I didn’t realize just how much of myself I’d quietly tucked away so that it didn’t disturb the waters.”
She exhales. “My art is about friction, about using an eraser to lift things out of the sea of gray charcoal so that they find the light and can be seen.” She looks at me, quietly sad. “In my marriage, I stopped using my eraser.”
She’s not placing blame. “It takes two to let a relationship get to that place.”
“It wasn’t his fault.” She shrugs. “He was a good man for most of the years we were together. This isn’t on him. Being what India refers to as a dickwheel at the end is on him, but me setting down my eraser is on me.”
It’s never that simple. I know that as a man who didn’t end up suit-wearing and boring. I take a big bite of sandwich and let the delectable flavors of ham and spicy mustard mingle on my tongue as I consider how to say what, much to my surprise, I want to say. “I’d like to extend you an invitation.”
The wariness is back in her eyes, right where it should be.
I smile as a lovely, complex invitation unfolds inside me.
I’ve a stage for her, if she wants it.
Chapter Nine
Daley
He looks warm and welcoming and steady. He also looks like he’s about to pounce, and the darn Leo feline inside me thinks that’s a very fine idea.
“I’m going to be in Crawford Bay a while. Spend some time with me. The kind of time where there won’t be expectations until there are conversations.”
I stare at him. “I’m not sure what that means.”
He smiles. “It means we do this like kinky people would, even if they’re just being friends. We talk, and we get really clear on any hard limits, and I help you hold the boundaries you want to set.”
That sounds lopsided and mysterious and weird. “Why would it just be you doing that part?”
He reaches forward and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “It’s what a good Dom does. It’s part of my commitment, even as a friend.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No sex?”
His laces his fingers with mine. “If you like, but if I’m hearing rightly, the actual issue is whether you’re hiding some of who you are or not. If you could be in an intensely sexual relationship without that happening, would you?”
I can feel the answer inside me, instant and hot and deep. Want—and fear. “I tried that after my marriage ended. More than once. It would work for a little while, and then I’d wobble and start sliding.”
He nods, his eyes a bit sad. “That’s when vanilla relationships hit a wall and fall apart. In the kinky world, we’ve a different answer. You wobble and you let me see. I keep the promise I’ve made and help you steady, and then we keep walking however suits us both.”
I stare at him.
He holds both my hands in his, warm and strong. “I’ve a deep attraction to the woman you are, Daley. I’d be bitter cranky if you started hiding bits of yourself away. It wouldn’t be a hard promise to keep.”
His words are sinking in and finding fertile ground. Dangerous man. I look down at our joined hands. He’s looking straight at my one steadfast rule and telling me it’s the wrong one—and that there’s a really simple alternative. I don’t want to believe him, but I’ve spent the last several months watching both of my favorite people, and one of them in particular, walk exactly that walk with the new man in her life. “Rafe does that for India. He holds the center when she can’t.”
His smile is one of pure, soft pleasure. “He’d be very good at that.”
I swallow. “Are you that good?”
His dimples sneak out and take a peek at me. “That might depend on the circumstances. I’m not quite as much of a daredevil as Rafe.”
I’m not at all sure that’s true. I take my hands out of his, even though it hurts. “What would it look like, spending that kind of time together?”
He nods his head at the far corner of my living room. “I noticed you have a hammock with a very nice view. Maybe I’d help you with the dishes and then we’d cuddle up in there a while.”
Damnably tempting man. I sigh, but it comes out more like a growl. “I should have left you out in the rain.”
He chuckles. “I grew up in the hills of Ireland. Rain doesn’t interrupt my day at all.”
I’ve already figured that out. I eye his suit pants and nice shirt, which still look remarkably crisp given the treatment I’ve put them through. “Nobody gets in my hammock dressed like that.” It’s not entirely the truth. It’s remarkable how many of my visitors end up ensconced in the brightly woven cotton, and they do it in everything from beat-up jeans to nothing at all, although those in the latter category are mostly under five.
He pushes his chair back and reaches for my dishes. “If that’s a yes, I’ve a bag in the car with far more casual clothes.”
Of course he does. I sigh again and start to collect some of the dishes he hasn’t already gathered.
A hand reaches out and strokes my cheek. “My promise starts now. Consent needs to come with believable enthusiasm, sweetness.”
I consider breaking a plate over his head, but they’re handmade and I quite like them. “Bossy man.”
“Yes.” He smiles and carries a stack of plates and cutlery behind the tall counter that delineates my kitchen. “But in this case, it’s not about orders. It’s about clarity. If you don’t have it yet, then we don’t do this. That’s a general rule for me, but it seems an especially smart one when I’m dealing with a friend who’s worried about reshaping herself. If you say your needs clearly, then there’s a lot less chance either of us will allow them to disappear into the shadows.”
He’s making a frightening amount of sense for someone who barely knows me. I set glasses and soup bowls on the high counter. Dishwashing can wait. “I know what I want. I’m just not all that comfortable with it.”
He
leans in and kisses my cheek, smiling. “I’ve no requirements at all that consent be comfortable.”
Troublesome man. I check in with my insides, but I already know what they think. I also know what they’re scared of. “I heard you say you would help me hold my lines, but I feel like I need to take responsibility for that too.”
He nods, his hand coming to rest on my lower back. Not moving me anywhere, just easy connection. Waiting for me to use my eraser and bring what I need into the light. “I’d like very much to cuddle in my hammock with you. I’d also like to ask for a pause button after. I don’t want this to create any expectations beyond this afternoon, and I’d like some time and space after to sort out where I’m at.”
“Done.” It’s my forehead he kisses this time, casual affection such an easy part of who he is. “I’ve a requirement there as well. Once you’ve taken your time, I’d like a promise that you’ll check back in with me.”
I don’t typically draw in settings where two sets of hands are equipped with an eraser. I consider, and then I nod. “I can do that.”
“Good.” He lets go of my waist and runs his hands down my arms. “I’ll run to the car so that I can dress more appropriately for this adventure. Would it be remiss to ask for a fire?”
Guh. The feline inside me wants to lick him from head to toe.
I tell her to hold tight to her darned eraser.
Chapter Ten
Callum
It takes far less work than I imagined to assemble two people in one very cozy hammock.
I nestle Daley into my shoulder, well pleased with the ease in her. She lit a fire while I changed into a pair of the charcoal-gray flannel pants my niece sends me every year for my birthday, and chuckled at the very old t-shirt that proclaims me the world’s sexiest uncle.
The hazards of a niece who runs her own clothing company.
