by Jane Porter
I want his skin against my skin.
I want.
And like that, I’m dizzy and breathless, and the desire I feel is a very grown-up desire, one that doesn’t need small talk or a timid, tentative touch. No, this desire says, I’m all woman and I need a grown-up man.
We head to Kirkland for dinner, but our reservation at 21 Central isn’t until seven-thirty, which gives us time to wander through the downtown art galleries.
It’s a perfect night for wandering around downtown Kirkland, a city that always reminds me of Laguna Beach dropped at Lake Tahoe. We stop in at all of the galleries but save my favorite, the Patricia Rovzar, for last because it’s just across from the restaurant.
Nothing grabs my eye tonight, but the gallery owner greets me warmly and offers us a glass of wine. “It’s a Willamette Valley red,” she says, referring to the Oregon wine region south.
Luke and I pass on the wine. I haven’t eaten anything since morning and don’t want to drink on an empty stomach, and Luke says he prefers a good amber beer over wine.
We stand in front of a huge murky canvas that neither of us pays attention to.
“I know nothing about you, other than the obvious,” I tell him, sliding one hand into my pocket.
His eyes have that flicker of heat again. “What’s the obvious?”
“You’re tall.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he answers, and when I say nothing more he adds, “That’s it?”
I smile crookedly, face flushing. “You want more?”
His upper lip barely lifts. “Sure.”
I stare at that upper lip that snakes ever so slightly. What a talented mouth to do things to me without even touching mine. I push my hand deeper into my pocket. “You’re . . . attractive.”
“Ah.”
Heat surges through me. “You’re confident.”
“Think so?”
“Yeah.” I grow hotter. “You said at Back-to-School Night that you’re not married, you have no kids, and you sponsor a Little Brother.”
“You remembered.”
“That wasn’t very much to remember.” I look at him sideways. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind, and I’m thirty-eight. I came close to marriage once, about four years ago, but in the end, it didn’t work.”
“Why?”
“She lived in Charleston, and I live here.”
“You wouldn’t move.”
“My work wouldn’t let me move.”
“What do you do?” I ask.
“Management,” he answers, “sales.”
“And she wouldn’t move here?” I ask, thinking of the huge move I made to Seattle to further my career.
He shrugs. “She grew up close to her family and didn’t want to raise children so far from them.”
I nod. It makes sense in a terribly realistic sort of way.
“And your husband?” Luke asks, neatly turning the focus on me, and his blue eyes hold mine. “Where is he?”
I steel myself inwardly. “There never was one.”
“You two—”
“There was no two,” I interrupt. “Eva’s never known a father. I had her, made her, on my own. I used an anonymous sperm donor.”
Luke’s surprised. I can see it in his expression. But even I’m surprised that I was so blunt with him. Usually I dance around the subject, but for some reason I don’t want to dance around it with him. I am who I am. I like who I am. I’m not going to apologize.
“That took guts,” he says after a moment.
My shoulders lift and fall. “I wanted to be a mom. I knew I’d be a good mother.”
“But you weren’t interested in being a wife?”
“I’m not planning on getting married, no.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t see it in the cards.”
He looks increasingly perplexed. “You don’t like men?”
I smile as heat surges to my cheeks, making my face too warm. He’s so rugged and so beautiful. Even women who like women would like this man. “I’m straight, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s more the whole marriage thing that I have a problem with.”
“Why?” he demands bluntly.
Again I shrug. “I just don’t think marriage works. Love doesn’t last—”
“Yet you love your daughter.”
“With all my heart.”
“But you don’t think you can love a man that way?”
My breath catches and my eyes sting, and I turn to face the huge dark murky canvas behind me. His question felt like a sucker punch. It caught me by surprise, and it hurt.
I don’t quite know how to answer him, as it’s not that I don’t think I can love a man that way.
It’s that I don’t think a man can love a woman that way.
And I don’t think a man can love me that way.
I believe women fall in love and begin relationships with great hope and expectations, but then we somehow go wrong. Women end up giving too much, yielding and bending and compromising until we’re worn out, worn down. My mother spent much of her life trying to please my father. As a child and teenager, I did everything I could to get my father’s approval. A decade ago, I wanted nothing more than to make Scott happy.
But for what purpose? And to what end?
Why did my father get to dictate the mood and tone of our home? Why was he the king? The ruler? The head of state?
Why was it so important to me to make sure Scott was always happy, and happy with me?
Truthfully, it was a relief when Scott went back to his wife and children. It freed me. It allowed me to bury my last lingering illusions of romantic love and move on to mature love. Maternal love.
“I think lots of people get married for the wrong reasons,” I say at last. “They get married because they hear a biological clock ticking or they want someone’s financial support or they need love, crave acceptance.”
Luke gazes down at me, his lips curving faintly, mockingly. “And you don’t?”
I think for a moment, then shake my head. “No.”
He studies me now. I can feel his gaze search my face, lingering on my eyes and lips. “So you believe in living with a man, just not marrying him?”
“I’m not against marriage, and I’m not about to tell someone to live, or not live, with their partner. I’m just not planning on having a . . . partner.” I stumble over the last few words even as an uncomfortable heat rushes through me. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this topic. I don’t talk about this with anyone, much less sexy single men.
A small muscle pulls between Luke’s brows. “And how do men you date handle this? They’re okay with it?”
My mouth opens, shuts. I struggle to think of an appropriate answer, one that won’t scare either of us. “I don’t date.”
“Don’t as in . . .?”
“Ever.” I shove my hands deeper into my jeans pockets, shoulders rising higher. “You’re the first date in . . . um . . .” I swallow. “Since Eva was born.”
He stares down at me, his expression part perplexed, part sardonic. “So why are you here with me tonight?”
I meet his gaze levelly, smile bravely back. “I honestly don’t know.” And dang it, it’s the blasted truth.
Leaving the art gallery, we cross Central and get seated in the dim restaurant with the dark wood-paneled walls with the faux leopard fabric on the booths. We both order beers, appetizers, and entrées.
When the appetizers arrive, I eagerly sample one of the crab-and-lobster wontons. “I love food,” I say half-apologetically when I realize Luke’s watching me, suddenly feeling defensive.
“So do I,” he counters.
“But you’re a man, and big. You’re expected to eat.”
“That sounds rather sexist.”
“I think men like women slim.”
“Men do, or women say men do?”
The corners of my mouth twitch. He’s smart, very smart, and he�
�s not who I thought he was. He’s more. “Where did you go to school?” I ask.
“Harvard.”
Harvard. Right. “And what did you study?”
“My area was primarily business, government, and international economy.”
I want to believe him, but it’s almost too good to be true. He’s built like a Turbo Power Ranger and has a Harvard brain?
He must be able to read my mind, because he lifts his beer in a mock salute. “Would you feel better if I told you that I earned a football and basketball scholarship and that’s how I got in?” The soft light from our little shaded wall sconce reflects off Luke’s beer and the hard glint in his eye.
“No. The first time I saw you, you were running and you looked like an athlete, and I liked that about you.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just sips his beer and looks at me.
I just look right back, too.
He’s so different from what I expected, so much more interesting, so much more complex.
There’s nothing wrong with the men in Bellevue, but after eighteen months here, so many seem the same. They drive pretty prestige cars and work out at fancy gyms and clubs and seem to like to let their possessions do the talking: Look at my house. Check out my wheels. And oh yeah, what do you think of my wife?
These guys ski, water-ski, drive boats, pilot their own planes. They’re accomplished in every sense of the word, yet for some reason they’ve left me cold.
If I don’t feel comfortable in the 7 for All Mankind jeans and can’t shop during Nordstrom’s semiannual sale because the crowds nauseate me, how the hell would I fit into one of these men’s pampered and well-orchestrated lives?
“Football’s a great sport,” I say. I don’t know if it’s because my dad watched it while I was growing up or so many of my guy friends in high school played, but football’s one of my favorite sports to watch, whether in person or on TV.
“Who’s your favorite team?”
“The Bears, and they’re having a great year. They did last year, too.”
“Who’s the coach?” he quizzes me.
“You don’t think I know my Bears?”
“Da Bears,” he corrects.
I roll my eyes. “The Bears, 2006’s NFC division champion, is led by head coach Lovie Smith, who is now in his fourth season with them and is the Bears’ thirteenth coach. An aggressive defense is Lovie’s trademark. He came to the Bears in January 2004 from the Rams, where he was the defensive coach, and before that he was the linebacker coach in Tampa Bay.” I stop, smile prettily. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Where’d Lovie go to school?”
“Tulsa.”
“Is he married?”
“To MaryAnne, and they have three sons.”
“Favorite charities?”
“The American Diabetes Association.” I reach for my beer. “Anything else you’re interested in, son?”
Luke just laughs, that deep rumble of sound that booms from his chest. “You’re for real.”
I nod and find myself hoping, wishing, that Luke is for real, too.
My first date in ten years is over, and I don’t know if he’ll ever call again.
And I want him to call, almost as much as I pray that he doesn’t call.
I’m honestly that conflicted.
I’m not one of those people who know how to play the field, just dabble with dates and men. I have this horrifying habit of no, thank you; no, thank you; no, thank you—and then wham! I fall. Hard. Impossibly hard.
I haven’t dated after Scott because I was too ashamed of what I felt, what I went through. I’m brave—nearly reckless—in every other area, but when it comes to my heart . . .
I shift restlessly on the couch and kick off one clog and then the other.
Luke was right at the walk-a-thon when he called me chicken. I am chicken, and what frightens me is me.
Chicken? Hell, yeah. You might as well call me a poultry farm.
But when I stop panicking and think of dinner, all I can see—think of—is Luke. His huge frame, his grace, his intelligence, his intensity.
And then there’s that face.
Forgive me for being shallow, but he is really nice to look at, particularly across a dinner table.
Even better was when, during the meal, I stopped worrying so much, dropped my guard a little, and started having fun.
Luke knew how to have fun, and he made dinner fun by bantering with me, coming up with word games, brain games, things that seduced the mind and then the senses.
When he started talking about his family, his childhood on his farm in Iowa, it was all over for me. Despite the bike and tattoo, I have a huge soft spot for country music and life before everything became so harried.
As he talked about the fields of corn, I could hear the young stalks whistle in the wind. I could feel the heat of the sun and smell the rich, pungent soil.
I loved that he was raised on a farm, had learned to drive by driving tractors and then the farm trucks. I didn’t want him to stop talking. I wanted to hear the stories, all of them, but he shared only a few.
His parents are still married after forty-seven years. He’s never heard his dad say a harsh word to his mother. He believes marriage is forever, which is why this Mountain of a Man has decided he’d rather never marry than marry the wrong woman.
“You don’t want kids?” I asked during coffee.
“Not if there’s a risk their mom and dad will split and not raise them together.”
“You don’t think children can survive in single-parent families?”
“I want my kids with two parents. In the same house. With everyone treated equally—with respect. And love.”
As I shift on the couch, it crosses my mind that I’d never make his short list. Woman lives with a man. Loses man. Gets inseminated with some stranger’s swimmers.
Not that I want to be on his short list. Not that we’ll ever go out again.
But as Luke talked, I found myself watching his eyes, his mouth, his hands, thinking, Yes, yes, yes.
I sat there amazed. Awed. Here was the whole package, the package I’d somehow begun to doubt really existed. Smart, strong, successful, sexy, and yet relaxed. Comfortable. Normal. If six feet seven and gladiatorlike strength is normal.
The date ended without a kiss. I didn’t expect him to kiss me, not after everything I’d said, and he’d said, but that didn’t diminish my attraction, any of that raw physical awareness that rippled through me in waves.
Seeing him again would be dangerous. But not seeing him again seems even worse.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t sleep well that night, not with dreams of Luke, lust, and sex turning my internal thermostat up, up, up. The dreams felt way too real, too, as though Luke were actually in bed with me, heating me up.
Even after my dad and mom drop Eva off the next morning, I stumble through the day, grateful it’s Sunday and not Monday, particularly when I snap at Eva over something that wouldn’t normally get a rise out of me.
All day I feel out of step, though. Even when I’m at my desk for part of the afternoon to catch up on work, I can’t focus. My thoughts are chaotic, disorganized, drifting again and again back to last night, and Luke. I feel slightly obsessive at the moment, and it annoys me.
Impulsively I pick up the phone, dial Tiana’s number. I need to hear her voice, even if it’s just her voice mail.
But I don’t get Tiana’s voice mail, she answers. “Marta,” she says happily. “How are you, girl?”
“Crazy,” I answer bluntly. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
“Shey said you’ve been worried about Eva.”
“But this isn’t about Eva, it’s about me. I’m . . . I’ve . . .” I search for the right words, seeing Luke and yet not knowing how to describe him. “I’m confused.”
She laughs. “You, confused? Since when?”
“Ha, ha,” I fake laugh back before getting serious. “Tiana, I
think I’m going crazy. I’m thinking crazy thoughts, and they’re not going away, they’re just getting worse.”
She stops laughing abruptly. “You’re not thinking about suicide, are you?”
Her voice has dropped so low and sounds so concerned that I groan. “No. I’m not depressed. It’s a man. I’m thinking about a man.”
For a moment Tiana says nothing, and then she giggles. “Ta, that’s normal. You’re a woman.”
“But I don’t want to think about a man, and I don’t want to be attracted to anyone, and I don’t understand why I’m so damn attracted to this one.” I take a small breath. “But I am. Distractingly so. And I want to stop it. Now.”
“He’s really got you hot and bothered, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I answer grumpily. “But why? Why him? And why now?”
“I think your mating impulse has taken over.”
“What?”
Tiana laughs. “I just did a segment on a fascinating book called The Female Brain, and the author, Dr. Louann Brizendine, would say that your brain biology has been hardwired to recognize this guy as a suitable partner.”
“A partner for what? The waltz? Bowling? Wine tasting?”
“How about reproduction?”
“I’m going to hang up on you.”
“I’m not making this up, Marta. There is extensive scientific evidence behind Dr. Brizendine’s book, and she says that the intense attraction you’re feeling—that sizzling chemistry—is literally chemicals flooding the brain. The euphoria and excitement can be traced to a rush of dopamine, and the dopamine is bolstered by a shot of testosterone, which heightens sexual desire.”
I’ve heard enough about the chemistry of our brains to recognize some of what she’s saying as true, but I’m not ready to give myself over to a dopamine, testosterone rush. “I don’t want to be attracted to Luke, at least not this attracted. It was never my intention to fall for him, or anyone, not while Eva is still living at home.”
“You might have consciously chosen to live the single life, but your unconscious mind recognizes a potential reproductive partner in this Luke and is doing everything it can to get you in bed with him.”
“To reproduce.”
“To reproduce,” she echoes. “Dr. Brizendine would say it’s because your brain sized up Luke as a potential partner, a healthy mate who could give you children—”
