Seeing Colour

by Amber Faucher

  The man’s chuckle deepened, as he threw his arms up and defended, “I didnae use them. I modelled the frames on fr’iends and family, finding the size based on the feel and mood of the design.”

  “Frames have a set size, Connie,” she argued, sure that he was teasing her, “you can’t just throw that to the wind on a whim. I mean, the average person fits…”

  “Och, average!” the man hissed, waving his arms at her dismissively as he countered, “Who’s that? People come in all shapes and sizes, Evie. They all deserve a frame. My collection is neither male or female. It is neither adult or child. It just is.”

  He held up three fingers on his right hand, as he asserted, “The frame is fit based on size, shape, and colour, all of which can be deceiving. You can make a small lens look wider using a wider post extension, or a greater bridge width. Fit is dependent on the individual. The three sizes fits all attitude that the slap-and-dash frame market has created leaves those people who dinna fit in those parameters without anythin’. How is that fair? Can you honestly tell me that you have always had a frame choice for every patient that you’ve ever come across?”

  The optician had come across the odd person that she did not have a frame choice for. Petite women were stuck with kid’s frames, and men with melon-sized craniums were worse off, stuck with a frame that was bent out of shape to fit. It always left her feeling guilty when she could not find a frame for her patient.

  “And my frames are not limited to 192 variations.” He crooned, his smile quirking up mischievously, as he picked up a frame. He showed her the temple hinge, explaining, “I made all the hinges the same size, so...”

  “Interchangeable…?” she breathed admiringly, as numbers flashed through her mind, adding up the plethora of variations and possibilities.

  “Yes,” He affirmed, “so if the colour options dinna suit your patient, you can switch ‘em.”

  “Amazing,” the word came out of her in an exuberant giggle, as she thought of all the fun combinations she could put together for herself—or her patients.

  Evie turned back around to face the Scot, slipping her arms through his. Excited and inspired by his genius, her hands slipped brazenly under the hem of his sweater, as she whispered, “Pick more for me. I want to try them all on.”

  “Aye,” he replied in that deep velvety timbre of his that always made the hairs on the back of her neck rise, as he pressed his smile against her own.

  Evie deepened the kiss, revelling in the pressure of his soft lips against her own, while her hands roamed his lower back. He teased the hem of her jeans before his hands snaked their way down over the curve of her backside. She gave an appreciative moan against his lips. With little effort, the Scot hefted Evie up, and her legs wrapped willingly around his middle, her backside remaining firmly in his grip. She smoothed back the unruly curls away from his high cheekbones and brought her mouth down against his panting lips with an urgency that betrayed the cloying hunger inside of her.

  Connie’s lips parted, and the girl felt the tickle of his tongue darting out to flick at her mouth, the rough stubble on his cheeks and chin rasping rousingly against her own. The man had lips that any girl would envy. Soft, wide, and full, with that irresistibly defined cupids-bow that begged to be traced.

  The Scot had no patience for her dalliances. His mouth was heated with a need that required attention, and she relented, allowing his tongue to explore. As their kisses left them panting and moaning, she felt his stance shift. His strong arm lifted her higher, one hand moving to take her full weight as he walked around the frame trays on the end of the bed.

  Without warning, her body became weightless. Connie threw her down, a squeak of surprise escaping her lips as she landed on the bed. She had only a moment to meet his cocky gaze before he descended on top of her, his conquest apparent and accepted.

  Connie stayed propped up on his elbows, his hands cupping her face, tilting her chin back to expose her neck to his ravenous mouth. Her breath hitched, caught, as she felt the tip of his tongue flick before she felt the teasing nip of teeth.

  Evie felt herself melt against him, her body arching against her better judgement, in her need to be consumed by this man. She could hear her own moans as her fingers laced through the raven softness of his curls. The ache in her belly grew hot and tight, a pressing need that demanded focus, making her fingers scrambled down his back to the band of his jeans. She reefed the thick sweater up to his shoulder blades, and Connie acquiesced to her direction. Leaning back, he pulled the sweater over his head and tossed it haphazardly behind him, exposing his strong lean torso.

  Never had Evie seen a man as chiselled. She mapped each curve and divet with her fingers, stopping to dip a thumb into the round navel. Working her way upwards to his chest, she rounded the swell of each shoulder, each deltoid, to his jaw. There he leaned down, allowing her to take his face in her hands as he brought his lust swollen lips back down against her own. He relinquished his control, letting her dominate his mouth with her lips and tongue, then his cheeks, and the lobe of his ear.

  Evie felt his large hand take both her wrists, pinning them above her head, unable to resist further. He claimed her mouth once more, kissing her until her lips tingled. It was a long time before they parted again, and when he did pull back, he rested his forehead against her own. The tips of their noses touched as they panted against one another, trying to catch their breath.

  Connie hesitated, staying in this position long enough to make the girl wonder what held him back. His lips pecked hers once more, soft and tender and quick, before in a strained voice he breathily admitted, “I want ya, Evie. I want ya all the time. It’s been driving me pure mad…”

  Uncharacteristically the redhead prompted him to continue, goading him, “Since when…?”

  His chuckle ghosted across her lips as he pulled back far enough to gaze down into the depths of her eyes. Quietly, he conceded, “Never been bought drinks by a lass before.”

  It made her insides melt to hear his affirmation, to hear that his desire was as mutually crazy and wonton as her own. Her craving for him multiplied ten-fold.

  Connie’s eyes searched her own, looking for some kind of confirmation that she didn’t know how to put into words. She could see the muscles in his temples tense, as his teeth came down on his bottom lip. His gaze flitted between her eyes and her mouth, as he huskily whispered a gallant query. “May I have ya, Evie?”

  Evie felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. He did not have to ask. She had felt that her readiness was self-evident in her own fevered response to their foray, but still, he waited, hesitated, bit his lip and mulled.

  This was by far the most chivalrous act that any man had ever granted her. He wanted to hear her say it, affirm it, to allow him this desire. At that moment, nothing else mattered. She didn’t care that he was her boss, or about their age gap, or about Mara and the store. All she wanted was him.

  “All of me,”

  The corners of Connie’s eyes crinkled, as the light green tinge to his iris gave a sparkle of overwhelming relief and happiness. His mouth quirked, that one side lifting to grant her the sight of his mischievous dimple. He gave a huffed grunt of satisfaction, as he smartly replied, “Oh, trust me, I’d be accept’n nothin’ less.”

  The man’s roguish lips and mouth worked a trail delightfully torturous down the length of her neck. He released her hands to push her shirt over her head, relieving her of everything at once. Her fingers pulled his curls loose of the tie, as his mouth resumed its downward path. From her mouth escaped a long gasping moan, unbidden and unrestrained, as his lips found her navel, his tongue delving and looping around the sensitive skin, while his hands made quick work of the button and fly of her jeans.

  Evie felt dizzy with lust as the man’s large hands shoved the jeans down over her butt and thighs in one quick movement, pealing them off her. They were tossed, reminding her of the haphazard way she had found her clothes the morning after that first night
together. She did not have to recall the memory of his hot hands on her body, massaging, tracking, mapping her every curve and plane. His hands repeated the motions the moment she was bared to him once more.

  The Scot mapped her with his hands, from the tops of her feet, over her shins, and the bump of her knees. They spread out towards her hips, his thumbs hooking the cotton of her dark bottoms. He hesitated there a moment, taking the time to make eye contact with her, that wicked glint in his eyes before he painfully inched the garment lower. His mouth descended once more, the barely-there-whiskers working to roughen her skin as much as his tongue delighted. She was nearly bared to him, in all her glory, when his pace hitched to a stop.

  Evie was gasping for breath, her hands still tangled encouragingly in his hair, as her body was disappointingly relieved of the tantric pleasure of his mouth. She glanced down at him, eagerly needing to know why he paused. Her breath caught in her throat as she bit back a disgruntled groan of protest. Her body was electrified by the need for him to continue—un-pause! A warning siren screaming in her mind; something was wrong.

  “Connie, please,” the words were escaping her even as her mind formed them, “don’t stop.”

  As much as she had not intended to let them slip out—sounding as pathetically needy as they did—the words fell on deaf ears.

  The Scot remained as he was, frozen, paused, with his thumbs still hooked in her underwear and his mouth mere inches from her skin, tauntingly teasing and yet hauntingly strange. A mantra began to track through her mind, replacing the warning siren, asking, demanding, needing to know why. Why did he stop? Why didn’t he move? She willed him with her thoughts to move, to continue, to pull away, to do whatever it was that he needed to do so her body could release the tension that held her captive and tortured.

  Connie’s head slowly rotated to the side, his forehead pressing down against the top of her thigh, as a long grating sigh groaned out of him. His hot breath ghosted over her skin, leaving her feeling chilled, as he finally pulled back, sitting on his haunches. His eyes met hers, only briefly, and she could not read them. They were steely and distant, lost somewhere beyond, and as she tried to will herself to ask what was wrong, they were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell.

  “Bollocks,” the man swore, his voice tight and volatile.

  Evie watched him grab his sweater, pulling it quickly on as he left her. The passion they had shared in those few prolonged moments dissipated along with his presence. It made her head and chest ache. She laid there only a moment longer, before nabbing clothes. She quickly dressed, setting everything back in its place with a feeling of forfeit that she knew in the back of her brain was unwarranted.

  Evie heard Connie open the door, the visitor earning a grating groan of protest from the man that the girl thought was comically overexaggerated. “Och, it’s you.”

  A feminine voice returned a comment, which Connie rebuked with a snap, “What the bloody hell do you want?”

  The way Connie forced out the word ‘you’ instead of his usual carefree ‘ya’ intrigued the girl. Evie snuck closer to the open doorway, knowing full well it was wrong to eavesdrop, satisfied to feel guilty about it later. She wished to know who the female visitor was but obeyed Connie’s request to stay put. A cold scathing response came unmistakably from Mara, “Oh, like you have somewhere else to be right now.”

  Evie felt a stabbing fear pierce her belly, as she heard Connie’s cross huff.

  The tone changed, suddenly purring with sardonic innuendo, “Are those lady's shoes? I hope I haven’t interrupted anything, Coinneach?”

  “Mmm,” the girl heard the man muse, with a stifled chuckle that covered the rage she could sense was roiling beneath the surface, “Just say yer peace and be off. I haven’t the strength to deal with yer devilry today, Mara.”

  The optometrist gave a light-hearted laugh that was full of triumph, despite the deprecating bite of her ex’s response. Evie wondered why and how the woman could keep such a calm resolve under the pressure of such disgruntled comments.

  There was the crinkle of papers.

  “I tried the civil route first: I texted, I even tried calling, but you have been…” she paused, humming to herself in an irksome tone of false-pleasantry, before she finished, “…engaged elsewhere, I see.” Mara’s volume left nothing in doubt. She had intended for his guest to hear, and she let the comment settle and fester for a bit, before she acridly added, “This couldn’t wait. So sign it, and we can be done with this.”

  “Ya finally managed to close on the house, have ya?”

  “No thanks to you.” Mara snapped acrimoniously.

  The redhead could hear footsteps and the click of heels on the laminate flooring, accompanied by more rifling of papers. She assumed that Connie must be signing them now. “Well, even so,” Connie chuckled, his tone matching hers, the underlying current just as caustic, “this should make you happy.”

  “Happy?” Mara reproached in a loud hiss, “You bloody bastard, that was my home.”

  “Don’t-cha mean…‘our home’?” he prodded the wound, with a well-delivered scathe, “It really is a shame that ya were’nae able to buy me out.”

  “It was,” the woman bit out waspishly.

  The girl heard what sounded like a pen being put down, rather forcefully, and then the crinkling of papers once more, followed by footsteps leading to the door. “Ya know, you really didn’t have to come by. I could have signed the copies electronically.” He added as she heard the door being opened.

  “And if I had allowed that, who knows when you would have gotten them done.” She volleyed back. Then that sickly sweet tone came back into her voice, as she sardonically added, “I’m only sorry that you haven’t introduced me to your new hen.”

  “Who I entertain,” Connie coolly replied, “is none of yer mind.”

  “I suppose you are very thankful for that,”

  The woman must have finally left, for there was a mighty slam that the redhead assumed was the door.

  Evie did not want to appear eavesdropping. She silently tip-toed away from the door and became aware that the room appeared slightly fuzzy—her glasses!

  What had happened to her glasses? She was still wearing the demo frame! Evie scanned the frame cases that still lay open, coming across nothing thick and black.

  An audible groan escaped her.

  Connie came into the room as her hands were moving through the dark navy duvet cover.

  “Sorry about that…What’s the matter, Evie?”

  With a triumphant gasp, she picked them up, lifting them towards her face. As she opened the arm, the hinge groaned its last protest, before snapping off.

  “Oh,” she heard Connie behind her.

  The Scot came to where she stood bent over the bed, his large hands rubbing the back of her shoulders, as he offered, unhelpfully, “But you’re an optician, aye? Surely you have another pair.” As if proud of his surmise, he added hastily, “Or two?”

  “No,” the girl sighed, her voice lacklustre, as she admitted, “The plane lost my luggage and my extra pair with it.”

  Evie stood up, drawing the separated parts closer to her face so she could better assess the damage.

  Connie gave her shoulders a squeeze and offered, “I have some glue. We’ll get ya sorted until ya can get another.”

  They found up the glue and a pair of plyers, managing to get the arm back in place.

  “There,” he said, as he slid the frame onto her nose, “as good as new.”

  The frame sat crooked on her face, the floppy arm unable to hold it straight.

  “Well, not new, but better than nothing.” Evie sighed again, adjusting the glasses.

  Connie watched her, teeth grit, as he quickly ascertained, “That’s not going ta make it for long, lass. You better get into the contacts at work.”

  Evie shook her head, drawing her hair over her shoulder as she flopped back into the fluffy cushions on his low backed couch. “I can’t w
ear contacts. I have too much astigmatism.”

  “Ah,” he sighed, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands separated in a placating gesture, as he suggested, “You’ll have to pick something out downstairs and order yourself lenses then. We can’t have our only optician blind on the job.”

  Evie agreed with a bob of her head. “I can make up a work order and pay the store for them after I get the lenses cut.”

  “Och, no!” Connie snapped, waving a hand at her to dismiss the comment, “I won’t have ya payin’ for it.”

  “I’ll pay the cost on the frame and the lenses.”

  “That shouldn’t rise Mara’s hackles.” Connie bitterly agreed.

  With the romance successfully fizzled from their evening, Evie wanted to head home. Connie insisted on walking her, and the two enjoyed the evening air as they meandered arm in arm, discussing more particulars about his frames and the potential for beginning to sell the stock they had in store.

  He left her at the building’s front door with a gentle kiss that lingered too long but lacked the need of their previous entanglement. It rekindled those cooled desires within her, like the stirred ashes of a low fire, spreading a warmth within her that she tried desperately to ignore. She certainly could not entertain him in the bedroom she shared with Serena and the guests would give a negative review if they were caught pawing one another on the couch, all handsy and needy as they were.

  Evie thanked him for the lovely evening, and Connie gave the tips of her fingers a squeeze as they parted ways, letting her know that he dreaded it as much as she did.

  10

  Connie came down to the store Tuesday morning before Mara, and after much arguing, Evie convinced the stubborn Scot that she wasn’t going accept any frame other than his designs. Together, they picked out two frames from his collection. She stood in front of the mirror with an aqua plastic frame that was slightly deeper than hers had been and extended out towards the temple, not quite a cat-eye shape. He showed her how easy it was to take the temples off and switch them out for something else. They decided that pale shade of lime green—the same colour as Rockstar Roy’s modern clubmaster—would work nicely, and when he slipped the glasses onto her nose, she was delighted with what she saw.