by Sorcha Grace
I knew men like this existed—with perfect lighting, makeup, and a little airbrushing—but this guy was the real deal. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, and I reeled, unable to catch my balance either. I stared up at him, vaguely aware he had been touching me a moment ago, and shocked because some part of me clearly wanted him to touch me again.
“Are you alright?” he asked, and from the tone, I knew he was repeating an earlier question. His voice was low and velvety, and I actually felt it rumble through me and slide seductively against my skin.
“I…” I tried to respond, but my whole body tingled with awareness and heat poured through me, making me suddenly too warm, even for January in Chicago. I couldn’t think. I could only feel.
“Let me help you,” he said, setting my bag back on my shoulder and bending so we were at eye level. Oh, my. That face—those eyes. He had dark brown hair, wavy and thick and tousled. It was sexy hair. The kind of hair a man sports after he’s been rolling around in bed. I wanted to run my hands through it and feel its texture between my fingers. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, giving him an aristocratic air, but his chiseled jaw and his sensuous lips spoke of a masculine earthiness that caused my belly to perform a slow roll.
And then there were his eyes. I was staring blatantly now, and I couldn’t quite get a fix on their color. I decided they were blue and then changed my mind and went with smoky grey. Whatever color they were, they reminded me of the skies above the beach just before a storm—wild, unpredictable, dangerous.
“Are you a photographer?” he asked.
That snapped me out of my trance. “Y-yes. Why?”
“An observation.” He gestured to my equipment , now scattered all over the sidewalk. “It looks expensive.”
“Oh shit!” I scrambled to my knees and shoved cameras, notebooks, and batteries back in my bag. “It is expensive. If anything is damaged, I am so screwed.”
He was crouching next to me, and he didn’t miss a beat. “I’d like to see that.”
What? My mouth might have been hanging open at this point. Did he just say what I think he said? I took a camera case he held out and then a lamp. Our fingers brushed, just for a second, and I flinched as though burned. The tingle of electricity rushed up my arm and infused my body. I even glanced at the lamp to see if the heat that passed through me could have come from it. But no. It was dark and cold. That spark of charged current came from him.
He stood. “If anything is damaged, you should send me the bill. This was my fault entirely.”
I shook my head, still on my knees, and painfully aware I was level with his crotch. This wasn’t his fault. I had a hazy memory of an uneven sidewalk. “No. I couldn’t.” I peered in my bag, studying the contents. It was lacking my normal organization, but it appeared everything was inside. I wobbled to my feet, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I tripped. You were an innocent bystander.”
He grinned, looking almost boyish, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his wool overcoat. And then he did it again. “That’s the first time in a long while I’ve been called innocent.”
I was too stunned to respond. I felt my cheeks heat, but my schoolgirl blush was nothing compared to the heat coursing through the rest of me. My heart was beating so fast my stomach dipped again, and I actually felt a pull deep inside, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. How was this possible? I kept staring, silent, watching his blue-grey eyes crinkle. Then he gave me a knowing smile, as though he could read every one of my thoughts, even the secret, naughty ones I’d never reveal to anyone. But this man looked as though he not only saw them, but he liked what he saw.
“Sorry that took so long.” Beckett’s voice was like a weight, bringing me down to earth and reality. I turned, trying to think of an appropriate response. I had no idea how long I’d been in front of the restaurant with this tall, dark, and handsome stormy-eyed Adonis, but it felt like time had stopped. Beckett blinked. “Cat, what’s wrong? What are you doing?”
I faltered. “I… nothing.”
“Your face is all flushed.”
I put my hands to my cheeks. “It’s the cold. I’m not used to it.” I couldn’t resist glancing at Stormy Eyes to gauge whether he could tell I was lying, whether he knew the heat in my cheeks was caused by him and his sexy innuendo, but when I turned, he wasn’t standing there anymore. He was gone. Completely gone.
What the fuck? Where did he go? I craned my neck to see if I could spot him on the sidewalk striding away, but the block wasn’t lit, and he’d disappeared into the darkness. Despair lanced through me. I’d lost him. I shook my head. We’d met for all of three minutes. I was making too much of it. Still, I couldn’t believe he was gone so quickly. Beckett hadn’t seen him. Had I imagined the whole encounter? I peered into my bag, studying the haphazard way everything was shoved inside. If I imagined it, then who helped me pick up all my equipment, and why were my legs still weak, and my center so hot and tender? I shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other, feeling an unexpected warmth between them, which made my skinny jeans feel too skinny in certain places. Oh my God, I had been totally turned on by a random stranger. I lifted out the lamp he’d handed me, hoping I’d feel something of the connection in the object, but it was just a lamp. What the hell had just happened?
“Cat?” Beckett’s voice was high and concerned. “You’re scaring me, sweetie. What’s going on?”
I tried to collect myself and explain. “I dropped my bag,” I said, knowing I sounded a little too breathy to be totally convincing, “and this guy helped me pick everything up.” Except he wasn’t a guy, I screamed in my head. He was so much more than that. But how was I supposed to explain that to Beckett? And now that the mystery man had disappeared into the night, I was starting to feel the cold again. Beckett just stared. “You said something about dinner?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. My thoughts were too jumbled to make any sense right now.
“Sure. Let’s get some food in you. I think you’ll feel better.”
*****
An hour later my thoughts were less scattered, and I was more relaxed. I was sipping my second glass of a really delicious tempranillo and basking in the warmth of the cozy Spanish restaurant.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t ask his name,” Beckett chided me, topping off my glass with the last of the red wine. “He gave you the perfect opportunity.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” I said. “I was too…”
“Horny?”
I laughed. “Yes, there is that, but I was going to say overwhelmed.”
“I wish I’d be overwhelmed by a sexy stranger on the street. What are you calling him again?”
I felt the heat creep into my cheeks. “Stormy Eyes.” I had interacted with the guy for like ninety seconds and I had already given him a nickname.
“I like it. Makes him sound all sexy and mysterious.”
“I don’t even know why we’re still talking about him. I’m sure I’ll never see him again. It was just one of those weird things. Memorable, but meaningless, right?” I could hear the breathiness creeping into my voice as I did my best to sound convincing. Again. Beckett seemed to buy it, but I wasn’t sure I did. “Let’s talk about something else—like the shoot tomorrow. Tell me what you have in mind for the styling.”
Beckett launched into his ideas for arranging Ben’s dishes in a sexy, mouthwatering way, what sprays and colorings he would use, and I tried to pay attention. I really did. I needed to pay attention, but my thoughts kept wandering back to Stormy Eyes. What had he meant when he said no one had called him innocent in a long time? It was so obviously sexual, but I suppose he could have meant it any one of three or four different ways. Was he just a smart-ass, or was he thoroughly debauched? And why should the thought of a man with a dark, sexual side turn me on so much? I’d always preferred the clean-cut type, and I liked guys with open smiles and all-American values. Then why did I have to press my legs together to ease the tension building there?
My mind wandered to the vibrator a friend bought me as a gag gift for my bachelorette party. I still had it. Jace and I played around with it once or twice, but I hadn’t ever used it on my own. But tonight, after Stormy Eyes and our sidewalk encounter, I needed to ease the ache between my thighs, and I knew my hand wasn’t going to cut it.
*****
Beckett and I took separate cabs, and mine dropped me at my condo in Lincoln Park. I paid the driver and looked at my black windows, wondering when this place would feel like home to me. After eight months with a Chicago zip code, I still felt like a visitor. Santa Cruz was home. In Chicago, I had to remind myself the water was east, not west, and driving anywhere took double the time I anticipated. Some days I woke up and still couldn’t believe I had packed up and moved halfway across the country. I’d never considered moving until Beckett called and suggested I come to Chicago.
I was a California girl at heart, but a move was exactly the escape plan I needed after my life in Santa Cruz had fallen apart. And Beckett had helped me through it all. He was the one who found my condo, and I couldn’t have asked for a better location. I was a few blocks from the lake, and the neighborhood was full of coffee shops and little boutiques. I could spend an entire Saturday browsing unique shops. My condo was fabulous as well. It was on the top floor of a converted nineteenth-century mansion and retained all the charm of that past era. I loved the stone foundation, the limestone exterior, and the floor-to-ceiling French windows. It was a remnant of the past nestled among the modern and new.
I usually enjoyed the exercise of taking the stairs to my floor, but tonight I was tired and drained. When I opened the door, Laird gave a low woof and bounded over to greet me. I dropped my bag, bent down, and gave him a huge hug. He was a big mutt with hints of Australian Cattle Dog. For an older dog he still had a lot of energy, but he didn’t shed much and was happy and easygoing. Laird was the one thing I’d brought from my life in Santa Cruz. He’d been Jace’s dog, and Jace had named him Laird after Laird Hamilton, a famous surfer and one of his idols. Laird licked my face and woofed again, letting me know he didn’t appreciate these late nights.
Later, after I’d walked the dog, changed into flannel pajamas, and laid in bed listening to Laird’s soft snores in his own bed on the floor at my feet, my thoughts turned to Stormy Eyes. I pictured his slow, sexy smile, the way his eyes darkened when they focused on me, the feel of his fingers as they brushed mine.
I pressed my hand between my legs. I felt swollen and tender there, and I thought again of that vibrator, wondering where I’d put it when I unpacked. But then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.
*****
I woke up thinking of Stormy Eyes. I’d dreamed of him, though the dreams were foggy in the morning light. It was what I was beginning to think of as a typical January day in Chicago—cold and sleeting. From my window, the sky looked dreary and ominous. It was a good day to stay inside, curl up with a copy of Digital Photo Pro or B&W, and eat soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. But I didn’t have that luxury today, so instead, I took Laird for a brisk walk along the lakefront. My breath puffed out in great gusts the faster we walked. Despite my thermal leggings, multiple layers, and North Face boots, I was freezing and in a hurry to get back. But Laird romped and played and generally had a great time. He obviously didn’t mind the cold temperatures.
The lake was iced over in places, and so calm and placid compared to the ever-churning waters of the Pacific. I told myself that was a good change for me. My life had been wild and churning the past few years, and I needed calm and placid. I did miss the vivid blue of the Pacific, though Lake Michigancould take on that color at times. But this morning it was grey, reminding me of Stormy Eyes. His eyes were such an unusual color. I would have liked to see them in another light to judge them better. I really had to stop fixating on this guy. Already his effect on me was the antithesis of the calm I wished for. It was a random encounter, I reminded myself. I whistled for Laird, and we headed back.
We were wet from the sleet, and I grabbed a towel from my car and dried him off before we went inside. As Laird and I stepped into the warmth of the common foyer, he gave a happy yelp and ran to lick a handsome, older woman trying to collect her mail. “Laird! No! Sorry, Mrs. Himmler.” I dragged Laird off. The Himmlers sometimes watched Laird when I had to be away overnight or on a long shoot, and he adored them. The feeling was mutual.
“It’s quite alright, Catherine,” she said, patting Laird on the head. I could hear the faint trace of her German accent. “You know I don’t mind. What I do mind is your refusal to call me Minerva. Mrs. Himmler makes me feel old!” She gave me a warm hug.
“I’ll try, Minerva,” I said. But it was hard to call this refined, dignified woman by her given name. Minerva Himmler and her husband, Hans, were my first friends in Chicago, other than Beckett. They lived in the condo below mine, and Minerva welcomed me with chocolate-covered baumkuchen the day after I moved in. I think I ate the whole cake in less than an hour.
Since then, Minerva and Hans had become good friends. They invited me over for dinner once a month, and the food was always delicious. Minerva liked to point out how lucky I was to have a renovated kitchen that included an AGA stove—or cooker, as it was called. It was this behemoth, white cast-iron monstrosity with all these doors and compartments, and it wasn’t anything like the Kenmore gas range I had grown up with. I still hadn’t figured out how to use the AGA, so I felt luckier that I was a master of my microwave. Minerva, however, made wonderful stollen in the AGA, and Beckett—well, Beckett just about creamed himself every time he looked at it. He found reasons to come over and bake in it all the time, which I didn’t mind, since he usually left me half of whatever he made.
Having Minerva and Hans as neighbors was another great perk about the condo and completely unexpected. It was like having my grandparents living downstairs. They were sweet and funny and spoiled me. They also knew enough not to pry into my life. They minded their business when they could tell I was having a bad day and wanted to be alone, and they drew me out of my shell when I was lonely and wanted cheering up.
“I have not seen you much the last few days,” Minerva said.
“I have a job. I’m doing a shoot for Chicago Now. It’s to accompany a piece on Willowgrass, a new restaurant opening in Fulton Market.”
She nodded. “I read about that one. Ben Lee’s venture. He was on that cooking contest show, yes? He’s quite the rising star and handsome too. And Chicago Now? I am impressed. You are making quite a name for yourself.” This from a woman who was a celebrated opera singer in her day, the coloratura soprano famed for her brilliant performance as The Queen of the Night in Mozart’s The Magic Flute. She still looked the part, with her grey and black hair coiled high on her head, her stylish navy trousers and white sweater, and her dramatic makeup. I hardly ever wore makeup and always felt pale beside Minerva.
“Thanks. I’m doing the actual shoot today, so I’d better get going.”
“Good luck. Come for dinner soon, ja?”
“I will.” Laird and I walked upstairs, and I changed for the shoot. It took me longer than usual to get ready because I tried three different outfits. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Usually I threw on whatever I first grabbed in my closet, but I couldn’t seem to make a decision. Finally, I decided on black suede boots, tights, a slim black skirt, a grey and black striped sweater, a cashmere scarf wound around my neck, and the diamond studs that were a gift from my mother when I turned twenty-one. And just for fun, I put on a lacy, red balconette bra and matching panties. It wasn’t because I was hoping to see Stormy Eyes again. Even if I saw him, he’d never know what I was wearing underneath. But I would.
A quick check of the time told me I was running late, so I dashed out the door, stowed my equipment in my white Volvo SUV, and backed out of my parking space. It still felt weird to drive such a big car, but I needed a change, and now that I didn’t have surf gear to tote, I didn’t have to worry abo
ut scratching the paint on a nice vehicle. Plus, the design was touted as one of the most solid, and the car had all these high-tech safety features.
It was sleeting hard, and traffic was slow thanks to the icy conditions. By the time I reached Willowgrass, found a parking spot, and unloaded my gear, I was ten minutes late. Cat time. Great, I thought. I dashed into the restaurant feeling completely frazzled. I’m sure I looked it too, but Amanda was all smiles when she greeted me. “Do you need anything, Catherine? How about a nice espresso to warm you up? It looks awful out there.”
I ran my hand through my hair, hoping to smooth it down and undo the sleet damage. “Um, no thanks. How about a water instead?” I was already nervous enough, and the last thing I needed was to be bouncing off the walls with a caffeine buzz.
“Sure thing, hon. Let me go grab it. Beckett’s in the kitchen with Ben,” she added as she left to fetch my water.
I went to look for Beckett. He was in the back, working with Ben and the food, and after I checked in, I went into the dining room and set up. Amanda brought me the water then finished tearing the paper off the windows. I wished the sleet would stop so more light would come in, but I had brought extra lamps just in case. Except for a handful of Ben and Amanda’s friends and what I assumed were financial backers sitting quietly by the bar, I was alone for a few minutes, which was perfect. I could really look at the space and the lighting and do a few test shots before making final decisions.
I started working, but every few minutes I found myself glancing over my shoulder at the restaurant’s front windows. I knew it was because I kept expecting to see him. I had no idea who he was or why he was outside the restaurant the night before, but a part of me hoped he’d reappear today.
