Reach Out and Touch Someone

by Pearl Jones

Jackie shivered.

  "Going to change your mind?"

  "N-no.” She took a breath. “No."

  He rested his hands on her shoulders and stood perfectly still.

  Jackie closed her eyes and relaxed into the warmth. After a while, she realized she felt better; the weight of his hands, perhaps, or just knowing the phones would be fixed. Or maybe it was something more. She wasn't inclined to question it—for once. And then he pressed his thumbs into the base of her skull, and for a time, she couldn't have found her voice to ask. Lights went off behind her eyes; an odd sort of spasm that wasn't pain but something close ran down her spine. It went on forever.

  "Deep breath,” he said, and shifted his grip, one hand cupping the back of her neck, handspan so great his fingers overlapped around her throat. Very slowly, very gently, he pushed her head forward, then pressed his way down her spine from nape to shoulder blades. Reaching some knot there, he pushed his fingertips not quite gently into the muscle and massaged in tiny little circles for half an eternity, then made his slow way back up her back to where he'd started. “Better?"

  "Oh...” No pain in her head, her neck, her shoulders. The ache in the small of her back seemed worse, now there was nothing to distract her from it, but she didn't think she'd mention that, friend clause or not. “...yes.” She stretched, just because she could, and turned around in the chair to smile at him. “Thanks."

  "We aim to please, ma'am.” He tipped a nonexistent hat and walked back to the phones.

  She watched him go, thinking things that brought heat to her cheeks.

  * * * *

  Perhaps it was the lack of pain, or just knowing the phone would soon be fixed, but Jackie dove into work with a new energy, and soon found a perfectly lovely workaround for one of her newer client's more pressing needs. She hummed a bit as she rattled off a detailed e-mail, hitting ‘Send’ at the triumphant final note.

  Muir looked up, a thoroughly modern wizard surrounded by tech-toys as arcane as any ancient grimoire, and grinned. “I've got the basics working, but the retrieval system's shot. This will take a while. Why don't you go out, grab dinner? Lunch. Whatever. I'll catch the phone if it rings, which it should now, I hope, if anyone calls. Go take a break, get some air."

  "No, I think..."

  "Friend clause, remember?” He nodded toward Carrie-Anne's office. “She trusts me, you trust her; besides, the company trusts me to get this done, and they pay me. Trust my mercenary nature, if nothing else. I'll still be here when you get back."

  Jackie opened her mouth, closed it again. Not like I can say I'd rather just sit and stare at him. “I'll be back soon.” She had to force herself to move, to stand, to walk away. Down, girl! Her lips tingled, just watching him. Fresh air's a good idea.

  It helped, or the bright sunlight, or the motion, or all three. She took a breath and stretched her arms toward the sky, smiling to feel how easy it was to do so after his skillful massage, only the one twinge left. Yeah, and what else can he do with those hands of his? Not a thought she needed to dwell upon, and her body had a distraction ready to offer: She was starved, now that her head no longer hurt, her stomach growling loudly enough for passers-by to hear.

  Not in the mood for junk food ... nor really comfortable with leaving Muir alone in the office for long didn't seem to leave much choice. Take-out it is. The gourmet grocery up the street did a nice boxed lunch. She decided to walk, hoping it would shake out that last kink.

  I could ask him to help. Dangerous thought. Move.

  The staff at the store smiled to see her coming; they'd been among Deas’ earlier clients, a zoning issue, Jackie recalled. Shortsighted homeowners up in arms about mixed-use properties driving down their home values. No one complained anymore; the store did a brisk business in “finish-at-home” foods that assuaged working parents’ guilt while pleasing the kids, as well as the lunches they made for local workers and their personalized catering and ... Why am I thinking about this?

  Well, that was easy: to avoid thinking about Muir. Fine. Think about food—that's useful, at least.

  No matter how she tried, she'd never been able to just run into the store and back out again; there was always something new to see, a fruit she didn't recognize, an interesting jar, that strange after-dinner beer she'd heard about on NPR, copper bottle and all. She did her best to keep her gawking to a minimum, to move through the narrow aisles without stopping, but didn't worry too much when things proved too fascinating to pass by. At last, she settled on her two favorite boxed lunches, one croissant-cum-sandwich and one quiche with salad. And Carrie-Anne's favorite vegetarian box, too, because Muir was such a big guy he might need two meals, and in case he didn't eat meat, yoga type that he was.

  And when did I decide it was my task to feed him? She had no answer, and pique made her throw the pint containers of tabouli and imam bayeli into her cart rather less gently than the food deserved.

  She paused over two crème brûlées, wondering if men ate those. No matter. They'd keep a day or two, and she'd eat them both given the chance. If he was too masculine to appreciate such a wondrous dessert, that was his problem. A small bunch of champagne grapes came next, then the pomegranate juice she always bought, and a large jug of the store's specialty tea-cocktail with fruit juices.

  Frowning over her collection, she tossed in a couple of blood oranges and some of the regular sort. It occurred to her that she was building a picnic more than a work lunch, and she stopped without adding a bottle of wine, excusing her excess on the grounds that she really hadn't eaten in days, and, well, why not? He's a friend of Carrie-Anne's, isn't he? Didn't she owe it to her friend and partner to treat him well? The flowers weren't her idea; the cashier just tossed them into the bag with a wink and a smile.

  The walk back from the store was ... odd. Though the bag was heavy, it wasn't all that much of a strain, but twice, Jackie had to stop and rest; her knees seemed inclined to buckle, and her legs felt weak. She recognized it after a while, and blushed. Schoolgirl nerves. Just what I need. Still, it was kind of nice to know her knees could still knock over the right man. And is he? Really? How in God's name could I know that—we've hardly even met! Great hands do not a good guy make. She passed his van, blazoned with the company logo. Lucky me; not an axe murder, just a service tech. With a wife in every port, for all I know. Or a dryad in every tree. That image was charming, but not exactly comforting. There were no rings on his glorious thick fingers, but what did that prove, after all?

  I am not going to worry about that now. I'm just going to be glad that he's here and that he can fix the phones. Because after all, there was the van, and his demonstrated competency, and ... and who could mistrust a guy related to the great Builder Muir, anyway?

  The man's a redwood walking.

  Does that mean he should be trusted?

  Oh, shut up.

  And back into the building she went, carrying lunch—or breakfast, or dinner, as might be.

  He'd made a fair amount of progress, or at least a fair mess. The phone he'd been working on when she left was now de-shelled and bristling with odd wires and less identifiable things, and the one on her desk had sprouted some sort of circuitboard.

  She stood in the doorway a moment, watching him as he bent over the phone's exposed innards, still and focused on his task. His face was in shadows; she wondered if he got that little vertical frown-line between his brows that some people did. Wondered if he'd let her smooth it away. Despite the bag she still held, Jackie could almost feel his skin, sunwarmed and welcoming, beneath her fingers.

  Whoa. What sort of fantasy was that?

  Muir looked up at her laughter, and his smile seemed to warm the space between them. He quirked a brow, silently questioning, but she could only shrug. He nodded as though that had been an answer, and turned back to make another adjustment to the phone.

  Huh. Jackie couldn't decide if she was pleased or annoyed; on the one hand, she did need to have the phone fixed, but on the other ... St
op that. He's here to fix the phones, not chat with you, or joke, or flirt. Not star in your fantasies. Though he would be doing that for some time to come, she was sure.

  Still. No man she knew would have been so unconcerned; most of them would have demanded to know the joke, or worried she laughed at them. Muir didn't. No pressure, no fear ... She sighed. Here, maybe, was a man who didn't need to control the world, who was focused and calm ... and you're making this all up, you know. He's said maybe a dozen words to you.

  Starting with ones that had sounded for all the world like “Welcome home."

  He looked up then, and said again: “There you are."

  Oh, say that again. “Here I am."

  She pushed off from the doorframe and made her slightly unsteady way across the room. He offered the news that he'd copied their outgoing message to the new phone system, which was now installed and working. “Use your cell and call. Please.” He took the bag from her.

  It looked absurdly small in his hands. She decided to sit down before her knees failed, dropping her purse on the receptionist's desk, on top of a bunch of papers he'd scattered. The Flash-Over Tips page was familiar from the last time they'd switched phone providers. Her temples throbbed, remembering that ordeal. Not now. Food first.

  No, before food, she had to make that call, to check his work. Muir looked very like a small boy with a new toy to show off, though Jackie couldn't put her finger on what made him seem so. He wasn't jumping up and down, or jittering in place, or so much as twiddling his fingertips. He wasn't even grinning ear to ear, just smiling a warm but polite sort of smile, waiting.

  His eyes are dancing. She watched him as she fumbled for her phone, hit the autodial, listened as it rang. Six rings, then Carrie-Anne's voice. “Congratulations,” she said, and hung up. “I thought we'd lunch in."

  His smile went from polite to charmed, and charming. “Didn't trust me alone in here?"

  "Thought you might be hungry."

  She set out the food on her desk, as it was slightly less crowded than the receptionist's, and waved a hand in invitation; he tugged the yoga mat near before collecting a lunch-box, tea, and a blood orange. When she started to offer him a better chair than the straight-back, he shook his head, smiling, and gracefully descended into a tailor's seat without as much as tilting his armful.

  "Well, if you're sure..."

  "Quite. Thanks.” His eyes darted from her to the food and back. Waiting for her?

  "I'm not saying grace,” she ventured, and opened her box. Either the words or the action sufficed; he opened his own. Her eyes stung as she watched him look at the food—he seemed a child again, solemnly joyous. His hand hovered, and for an instant, she expected him to sing-song “eenie-meenie.” Only for a moment; there was nothing at all tentative in his grip, and he did not eat like a child.

  As she ate, she watched him. Poor man must have been starving. He took careful bites, and chewed, but still managed to put away his dhal in about fifteen seconds flat. The rest of the food he'd selected went almost as quickly. She felt a strange satisfaction in having provided for him. Not that he could be satisfied yet, with that huge frame.

  "Catch!” She tossed the container of tabouli his way. Grain salad with mint in it wasn't really her thing; she'd bought it without thinking, as the beefcake could always be bribed away from her food with it. “And if you don't mind an even stranger mix of cuisines, I'll split the eggplant with you."

  His mouth was full, but he managed to convey willingness to eat anything she cared to give him. Or ... had that been a more expansive acceptance than just for food?

  Stop that. She really needed to get out more, if she was going to read invitations into every perfectly polite shared meal. The man was in no way coming on to her; he was just sitting there enjoying his lunch. Any warmth in his gaze was for the tabouli, not for her.

  Which was the way things were supposed to be. He might be a friend of a friend, but she didn't know him, nor he her. For all she knew, he was gay! Sure. And Carrie-Anne's a virgin. Gay or straight, married or single, it didn't matter. What did was that they didn't know one another, and he was only there to fix the phones. It was just a meal-break, nothing more.

  So stop watching his hands, and pay attention to the food.

  Her own appetite surprised her; she ate the quiche, the salad, the roll, and was half tempted to split the sandwich with him, too. Instead, she opened the container of imam bayeli, breathing in the rich scent of spices and tomatoes. Smiling, she fished out a piece of eggplant with her fingers.

  And offered it to him. “Here."

  He rose up on his knees and leaned forward to take the bit of food from her fingertips.

  Her breath caught in sudden realization. What am I doing?

  What the hell am I doing?

  He must have eaten at the same sorts of restaurants as she; he took the food cleanly, carefully, without touching her flesh at all. It was still an almost painfully intimate moment. Does he know what we're doing?

  She bit her tongue. There is no “we.” This is just lunch, remember?

  "Well, ah, I take it you eat this.” She reached for another bit, the soft vegetable cool beneath her fingertips after the warmth of his breath. Stop. American manners. Miss Manners manners. Victorian manners! No feeding men you don't know. Good God, are you trying to lead him on?

  Yes.

  No! She picked up a spoon instead, dishing some of the eggplant in tomato sauce onto the plate where not even crumbs of quiche remained, then handing him the half-empty container. Damn if I wouldn't rather hand-feed him, though.

  He took the container from her hand, licked his lips, set it down, and leaned toward her. She couldn't quite stifle her moan.

  "Here,” he whispered, and very gently licked a spot of sauce from the side of her hand. Slowly, he settled back onto his heels. The pose put them eye to—well, not to eye; she thought his eyes must be level with her nipples.

  Her hard, tight-drawn nipples. Eep. Her mouth was dry. The same could not have been said of other parts. She looked down at her plate, afraid to meet his gaze. A soft rustle of fabric told her that he moved. Away, she knew without looking, out of reach, out of range, polite tree that he was. Suddenly ravenous, she devoured the savory dish.

  By the time she finished the eggplant, she was no longer hungry—for food—but she wasn't ready to declare an end to the meal, to the moment. To the fantasy. So she toyed with the bunch of grapes, stripping smaller clusters from the main branch. Fidgeting. Damn. He was so tempting, so very much what she wanted, and so close! Maybe she should just ... but no. That wasn't her.

  Carrie-Anne, maybe, but not pragmatic, practical, sensible Jackie-not-Jacqueline. Jackie didn't do one-night stands, stranger pick-ups, casual sex.

  Who says it'd be casual?

  Stop that!

  "What sort are those?"

  "Hmm?” The stem was rather the worse for her attentions, but the tiny plump blue-black grapes were clinging still. “Oh, champagne grapes. At least, that's what the marketing folks say. I have no idea if they really are. Would you like...?” She held out one of the tiny clusters, and he leaned forward again, his aim one single grape. His lips barely brushed her fingers as he withdrew.

  So soft.

  "Wonderful,” he said.

  Her breath fled; she looked away, toward the table but unseeing. “This is the wrong order."

  Muir made a choked sort of sound that drew her gaze back to him; consternation was clear on his face. “End of lunch, I take it? Right. Which work order?"

  "I'm not talking about work."

  "Oh.” His face eased back into the slight, gentle smile she had decided was his usual expression. He rose to his knees again, leaned forward. “In that case..."

  "No."

  He pulled away so fast she felt the wind of his moving, standing out of reach almost before the word had completely left her mouth.

  Damn, nice reflexes. Somebody trained this boy right. Her eyes stung; she cl
osed them, concentrating on her breathing until she was sure she wasn't about to cry. There was no reason for tears, surely? Just a bit of conversation. Granted, not the most usual sort of conversation, but still. Just some ground-work, some getting to know one another. Something!

  There was no logical reason for the way she felt, no basis for trust, no foundation. She didn't know him—is there an echo in here? Haven't I said that already?—no reason for him to be so certain, either. It wasn't as though she'd given him any signals, that he should be so upset when she pulled away.

  Did I?

  He was offended, though, or hurt; she could feel it in the air, like a chill cutting through the warmth she'd felt all through the meal. And before. Now it was gone, and for the briefest second, she felt off-balance. More than that: uprooted.

  Nonsense. He's the tree, not me, and I stand on my own two feet. If he doesn't like that, he can leave. But anger felt out of place; he hadn't objected, hadn't pressed. Whatever stress she felt, he wasn't the one applying it. She'd spoken one single negative, and he'd pulled away.

  Jackie heard the sound of fabric brushing against skin and opened her eyes, though she looked only at the table. “Wait, please. I didn't mean that kind of no. I just meant...” Yes, how am I going to finish that sentence? “Actually, why don't you just stay where you are. Makes it easier to think.” Well, possible, maybe. Why do I have to think, again?

  Muir cleared his throat, and, startled, she looked at him. “Do you think I could get a cup of coffee while you figure out what you did mean?"

  His voice was tight, sharp. Jackie didn't blame him, not with the erection tenting out his pants. She wondered if it had been that way through lunch, if she'd managed not to see it, if his pose had hidden it. Is that possible? It's not, um, small. If he'd been suffering to support that all through the meal, and had managed still to be so polite, so unthreatening, she was impressed. And if it had just sprung into being on the instant—she was impressed. And with it all eager and everything, he still heard me, still moved. No hesitation, no argument, not the slightest hint of protest, no least attempt to push. Damn. I didn't think they made ‘em that way anymore.