by Grouse, Lili
The howling wind and cold blowing in from the sea only made Ford appear more like a weathered man who’d trekked through snow to bring her supplies. It wasn’t snowing yet, but she had imagination enough to pixel in the snowflakes in his salt and pepper hair.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted rudely.
“I come bearing food and drinks,” he said, holding up a paper bag with unidentifiable content. “Can I come in? It’s a bit chilly out.”
“It’s a bit chilly inside, too, but yeah, come on in.” She stepped back, letting him pass. He almost filled the entire doorway. She and Mrs. Breezer must be tiny people for her never to have noticed how low the entrance was.
“Thanks,” he said and brushed himself off. Again, no snow in sight, so maybe he was just brushing off the cold. “You’re right, it is cold in here.”
“Furnace doesn’t work,” she shrugged. “Not much to do about it.”
“Is it broken?” he frowned. “Can I take a look?”
“Knock yourself out,” she jerked her head in the direction of the basement door.
“I’ll be back,” he said and disappeared, leaving her with the paper bag in her arms.
She peered into it and could spot several containers of food and another, slimmer, paper bag hinting that the content was alcoholic. She set the bag down on the kitchen table and fished out the bottle. Port. Yeah, that would warm just about anyone up real quick.
Warmth. Right. Kristen hurried up the stairs and shut the door to her room. No point in letting all the heat out, even if Ford could get the furnace working.
He returned after a few minutes, during which time Kristen had decided to act the gracious recipient and hostess and dug out a set of plates and glasses, which she’d put on a tray. It was too darn cold to be sitting in the kitchen, and she had a desk in her room. And a fan heater. And throw blankets.
“It should be generating heat within the hour,” he said, walking over to the sink to wash his hands clean of soot. “At least you won’t have to go to bed clattering your teeth.”
“Thanks. Do I have to do something with it?”
“You should add more wood just before you go to bed to make sure it holds up through the night.”
“Mm-hm,” Kristen managed. She definitely needed to get some food in her – she was starting to feel lightheaded.
“Well, I should get going… I just wanted to drop off some food for you, and…”
“You’re leaving?” Kristen was surprised at how disappointed she felt. Well, not really that surprised, given that she was bored stiff hanging out with just herself and the evil cats.
“I just figured you’d want to be alone.”
“You can stay if you want. I mean, I can’t eat all this on my own.”
“I’ve already had dinner. Those are leftovers. I doubt I’d be able to eat another bite.”
“Not even of the dessert?” she asked and held up the container with pumpkin pie like a piece of cheese in front of a mouse she hoped to lure into the house so that Frank Sinatra would shut up for five minutes.
“Well… I guess if I wait a little while, I might be able to squeeze some in. I didn’t eat any at the Crenshaws’, after all.”
“You missed out on dessert because you had to come over here with leftovers?”
“I wanted to bring you leftovers. It’s not like it was a big chore or anything.”
“Well… thanks. It’s only fair that you stay to enjoy it, then. Meanwhile, you can help me with the bottle. I doubt I should have fortified wine on an empty stomach.”
“Probably not,” he agreed.
“It’s too cold down here. Don’t take this the wrong way, but my room is the warmest, next to Mrs. Breezer’s. I have a fan in there. And no cats.”
“Okay. Show the way,” he said, grabbing the bottle and the glasses.
Kristen picked up the tray and headed for the stairs. She used her elbow to edge down the handle and her hip to push open the door.
“Tada!” she announced as she walked in and put the tray on the desk, putting her laptop on the floor to make room to unload the tray.
“Nice. Very… homey,” Ford commented as he walked into the room and looked around.
“Right. It’s a place to sleep, that’s it.”
“What’s your place like back in California?”
“Gorgeous,” Kristen sighed. “I have a kitchen/living room open floor plan, walnut paneling in the kitchen section, soft leather couches, a king size bed with fluffy covers and pillows, a balcony overlooking the Pacific...”
“I take it you miss it.”
“I miss being able to entertain. I miss going out late and coming back home to my amazing bed. I miss taking long baths in my Jacuzzi. I miss going out for brunch. Oh, I miss my bed,” she sighed again. Mrs. Breezer’s queen size bed with the quilted covers and the scratchy sheets couldn’t hold a candle to her Egyptian cotton sheets and soft pillows back home.
“You have a great view here, though,” he said, walking over to the French doors.
“Yup. Front row seats to when the waves roll in and drag this house out right along with them.”
“You’re a glass-half-full kind of girl, aren’t you?” Ford said, clearly amused.
“I didn’t use to be,” Kristen frowned, thinking it over as she cut a piece of turkey. “Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.”
“Hm. Well, what were you like before you landed on our shores, then?” Ford said and sat down on the edge of the bed, which creaked a little under his weight. He seemed to consider the risks of breaking old lady Breezer’s bed and having to pay the piper for it, and rose again, walking over to sit on the chair by the desk.
“I was…” Kristen bit her lip while pondering how much to reveal. She poured them each a glass of port to buy herself some time. “Are we talking college years or just before I flew out here?”
“Your choice.”
“Well…” Kristen started, sitting down on the spot on the bed Ford had vacated, “I liked to party. I would get dressed up and go out and I’d dance until my feet hurt, then I’d drink until my feet didn’t hurt anymore, and I’d keep on dancing. People liked me, so I got invited to all sorts of places. I had fun.”
“But?”
“Why do you assume there’s a ‘but’ coming on?”
“Isn’t there? Were you really happy all the time?”
“Not all the time. No-one is. But I had fun. I was popular. I didn’t want for anything.” Kristen took a large gulp of the fortified wine, disregarding the fact that she hadn’t yet swallowed any food. “What about you, Ford Hamm? What counts as fun in your book?”
“I don’t know much about ‘fun’. I’ve enjoyed life for the most part. I’ve experienced the joy of becoming a father. I’ve built a business I take pride in; I can come home from a day’s work and feel good about what I’ve achieved. I have friends to talk to, to spend time with.”
“You’re so… grown up,” Kristen sighed in frustration and took another gulp of her wine.
“I’m old, you mean,” Ford flashed a crooked smile.
Kristen shrugged.
“I thought you said you hadn’t eaten,” he said and grabbed a plate, filling it up with food.
“I haven’t.”
“Here.” He walked over and sat down next to her on the bed, dipping a piece of turkey in cranberry sauce before bringing it to her lips. “Have a taste.”
Kristen watched him with wide eyes, opening her mouth as if on cue. His fingers brushed against her lips as he fed her the little piece of meat and she felt her body rouse in awareness of how close he was and how nice he smelled.
“Now chew,” he instructed with a smile that said he knew he was making her all dazed and confused. She obliged, but only because she couldn’t object with her mouth full.
“Good, isn’t it? The perks of being friends with the best cook slash baker in town.”
While she chewed, he speared a piece of sweet potato pie with a fo
rk and dipped that in cranberry sauce, as well, and when she opened her mouth to speak, he slipped it in.
“Two more bites and you can have some more wine,” he said and her temper flared. She wasn’t a little girl that had to be force-fed. So, the next time he went to pick up a piece of turkey meat, she beat him to it and stuffed it in his mouth, smearing him with sauce in the process.
Ford coughed and grabbed a napkin to wipe his face clean. Amused, Kristen watched him while she dipped her finger in the sauce and provocatively licked it off.
“Mm. Tasty. Want some?”
Before he could formulate an answer, Kristen had dipped her finger in the bowl again and was painting his lips red with the sauce.
“Oops.”
Ford licked his lips and held her eyes. Any laughter died on her lips as he dipped his own finger in the bowl and brought it up to her lips. He hesitated, as if he couldn’t decide whether to return the favor or simply walk away, and Kristen decided to make it easy on him. She closed her hand around his finger and swirled her tongue around the tip before sucking lightly on it. When she met his eyes, they were darker than she’d ever seen them before. She let go of his hand and turned her face away.
“Sorry. I guess I’m not that much of a grown-up,” she mumbled and reached for her wine glass.
Ford’s hand stilled her movement and when she turned toward him, his hands travelled up her arms and cupped her face. His thumbs stroked her cheeks and brushed against her bottom lip. Spellbound, she watched him, her pulse pounding in her ears.
“Being a grown-up is overrated,” he said in a low voice just before he brought his face close to hers.
Kristen closed her eyes as his breath fanned her face and his lips brushed up against hers. He wasn’t claiming her or anything, more like testing the waters before diving in. She opened for him and her bottom lip was the first part of her to be tasted by him. He sucked on it gently, and then his tongue stroked the inside of it and found hers. Kristen moaned in approval and pressed herself closer. Or maybe he was the one pressing her close? One of his hands was on her back, after all. The other was stroking her hair.
It was a bad idea. A supremely bad idea, in fact. Next week, they would have to work together again and pretend like they’d never locked lips. She’d have to pretend she didn’t remember how good he tasted, or how his muscles flexed when she grabbed on to him.
But her body wasn’t paying attention to what her head was telling her was the right thing to do. Instead, she let her hands map out every inch of Ford’s strong chest, let them slip under his sweater and T-shirt to feel his burning flesh underneath her fingertips.
“You’re so hard,” she murmured in awe as he kissed her neck.
“Like you wouldn’t even believe,” he groaned in response and she realized he was referring to a different part of his anatomy than his abs. She didn’t feel the need to correct him, though. Instead, she pushed up his sweater and T-shirt, encouraging him to help her by lifting his arms. He got the message and complied.
“Wow. Just wow…” she breathed and pulled her hair back so she could feel his taut skin under her lips. She’d dated – or hooked up with – a couple of guys with washboard abs in the past, but those came from rigorous workouts at the gym and – sometimes – supplements. These muscles were all man, carved out by hard labor and a healthy, hearty diet. She gingerly traced the scars he had – one on his left side not far below his pectoral muscle and one further down on the opposite side.
Ford let her explore him, allowed her to push him back onto the bed and kiss her way across the vast expanse of muscle and bone. When her hands started to wander below the point of his hip bones, though, he caught them. She looked at him with confusion and lust clouding her eyes, but he gently eased her onto her back. She turned towards him so they were facing each other.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, his hand rubbing her hip gently.
“What? I just wanted to get a look at those scars you were teasing me about,” Kristen quipped. “Purely research going on here.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hm. Isn’t there some part of me you’d like to get a closer look at? For research purposes, of course.”
“Well…” Ford said and slipped a thumb under her sweatshirt, finding bare skin, “there is the issue of your bra size… that bears further investigation.”
“I agree,” Kristen nodded. “Here, let me help you with that.” She sat up, grabbed onto the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. At least she’d had the good sense to wear her black silk and lace-trimmed bra today.
“If you don’t mind me stealing the words out of your mouth, Miss Barnes… Wow. Just wow.”
Kristen grinned and pulled him in for a kiss. “I approve of your initial assessment, Mr. Hamm.”
They kneeled facing each other on the bed, their thighs connected as they explored one another. Kristen ran her fingers over Ford’s scalp as he kissed her breasts through the silk, and dug her nails into his shoulders as he nipped at her straining peaks. When he snapped the bra open and tasted the exposed flesh, she’d had enough teasing and tipped them both down onto the bed.
The structure clearly wasn’t supported enough for that kind of impact and there was a distinct crack in the bed frame. That, and a sputtering hiss that Kristen couldn’t place until a feral animal flung itself at them.
“Ah!” she shrieked and flew off the bed as Ford warded off the furry creature as best as he could. Kristen ran over to the French doors and ripped them open. “Out!”
The cat seemed to weigh clawing Ford to death against finding fresh kills outside, and with a sound she’d never before heard a cat make, darted outside. Kristen locked the door behind the beast.
“What the hell was that?!” Ford roared, brushing hair and blood off his chest and face.
“I’m guessing Humphrey Bogart,” Kristen said and shuddered. Had the cat been hiding under her bed all this time – or had he snuck in when she opened the door for Ford. Either way, the romantic spell was broken and Kristen just felt naked and embarrassed.
Keeping her arms wrapped around herself for modesty, Kristen headed for the closet and found a sweater to pull on before turning back to Ford.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’ve been through worse,” he muttered and got off the bed, pulling his T-shirt and sweater back on.
“Did it scratch you?” Kristen went to examine his face, but he backed away.
“It’ll heal. I should get going.”
“Ford…”
“If that wasn’t the universe sending us the biggest, most vicious, sign ever that this was a bad idea from the start, I don’t know what it was.”
“Are you serious?” Kristen scowled.
“Listen… this… us… it can’t happen again. I’m not saying I don’t want to, or that it’s not going to drive me insane working with you until next summer and not doing this, but…”
“Save it, Ford,” Kristen cut him off, turning away sharply. She wasn’t going to cry, and on the off chance that she did, he sure as hell wasn’t going to see it. “Just go.”
“Kristen… I’m sorry. I never should have…”
“What part of ‘get out’ don’t you understand?” she spun around on him, the harshest glare she could muster cloaking her eyes. “Leave.”
“Okay.” He backed away, holding his hands up as though she was another feline about to pounce on him. “I’m sorry. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Kristen didn’t say anything, because there wasn’t anything to say. She simply waited for the front door to close before she went downstairs and locked it. Then she returned to her room, slammed the door and checked for cats before throwing herself into bed and crying her eyes out.
Kristen didn’t leave the house over the next couple of days. She had leftovers to spare and no appetite, so that equation worked out well. She didn’t see Humphrey Bogart anywhere, either, which she only felt relief about. Frank Sinatra an
d Charlie Chaplin were growing on her though. At least they had the good sense to keep their paws and claws to themselves – or at least away from people.
Kristen was starting to think she might make a good cat lady one day – with sane, housebroken cats, of course – when Mrs. Breezer returned and she realized that status was not something to strive for. After an attempt at polite conversation with the old woman, Kristen retreated to her room and stayed there until it was time to go to work.
She ended up spending the day in paint shops and hardware stores, placing orders for the interior design part of her job, which was expected to kick in around… oh, say, five months from now. Still, it never hurts to be prepared, and the shops had the added bonus of being in a Ford-free zone. Win-win.
When she returned to the Breeze Inn, however, her winning streak was definitely up.
“Miss Barnes, may I have a moment,” Mrs. Breezer said as Kristen walked through the door. It should have been a question, but it didn’t sound like one. Obediently, Kristen walked over to the little sitting room where Mrs. Breezer was seated, Humphrey Bogart in her lap. The one-eyed cat looked up as she entered and she could have sworn he hissed ‘slut’ at her. Or maybe that was Mrs. Breezer…
“Have a seat.” The words were polite, the delivery was not. She was so screwed.
“How are you today, Mrs. Breezer?” Kristen asked politely, pretending she wasn’t facing judgment.
“Today is Monday. I clean the house on Mondays. I thought I was very clear about my rules, Miss Barnes.”
“Which rules were those again?” Kristen feigned ignorance. What you don’t know can’t kill you. Or, as it were, get you evicted.
“There were three of them. Not too many, is it? Even blondes should be able to remember them.”
Kristen felt her jaw go slack. The old bitty didn’t just insult her based on her hair color, did she? She wasn’t even that blonde right now!
