Tall, Dark And Difficult

by Patricia Coughlin

  “I don’t know,” she countered with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Was it raw, unbridled lust you were reading?”

  He nodded, startled. “Yeah, that about covers it.”

  “Then, you weren’t misreading me.” Her smile faded suddenly. “Look, Griffin, if you think I kissed you because I’m still caught up in that people-pleasing mode, then you—”

  “That’s not it,” he interjected.

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t just…”

  She looked perplexed. “Faking it?”

  “Something like that.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just don’t want you kissing me or going to bed with me for some fool reason like you feel sorry for me, or because you were a friend of my aunt’s.”

  “Why should I feel sorry for you?”

  He grit his teeth, cursing himself for bringing it up. He had just wanted to be sure, to head off the doubts and second thoughts that were bound to settle in later, when he was alone.

  “You shouldn’t,” he assured her. “I was just afraid you might. It’s obvious you have a weakness for castoffs and I’m…hell, you must have noticed that I’m not in the greatest shape at present.”

  “Oh. You mean your leg.”

  “Yeah. My leg,” he shot back, irked by her nonchalance. “And the dizzy spells and the loss of peripheral vision in my left eye and how my balance is off and the inconvenient little fact that more than likely I’ll never fly again…which, for your information, is the only damn thing I’ve ever wanted to do or been any good at.”

  “I see. I hadn’t really been aware of all that, but it is quite a list, and I guess some people would feel sorry for you. But not me,” she added before he could respond. “In fact, I can honestly say that from the very first instant I set eyes on you, sorry is not among the emotions I’ve been feeling.” She broke into a grin. “Hell, Griffin, I slammed the door in your face the first time you tried to kiss me tonight.”

  “That’s right, you did.” The reminder cheered him instantaneously.

  “Furthermore, even if I were dumb enough to feel sorry for you, I’d be more likely to bring you an ice pack than let you stick your tongue in my mouth.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “It is?”

  He nodded. “I’m not into mercy sex.”

  “Then you can quit worrying,” she countered, her eyes gleaming darkly. “Because mercy sex is not what I have in mind for you.”

  Her candor pleased and amused him. Fascinating, he thought. The woman was absolutely fascinating, like a prism in sunlight. He couldn’t wait to see what would be revealed next.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said. “There’ll be only good, honest straight-up sex between us.”

  “Agreed,” she said, laughter tugging at her lips as she held out her hand to shake his.

  “And I understand why you need to take things slowly,” Griff told her. He slid his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders as he idly caressed a stray curl between one thumb and forefinger. “I don’t want to press you. You want time, you’ve got it. How much time?”

  “Hell, Griffin, I’d hate to see what it would be like if you did want to press me. How do you expect me to answer that?”

  “Directly. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours would be the time frame I’d prefer, but, hey, you’re in command here.”

  “You may not look much like a military man at the moment,” she muttered, “but you sure think like one. I hate to throw your spit-shined, well-ordered world off-kilter, but I don’t have an answer. Because there isn’t one. It’s just something I’ll know when the moment is right.”

  He frowned. That sounded a little vague for his liking. Not to mention the fact that his world had been off-kilter since he walked into her shop, and he was hoping this might help rectify that. “So what you’re saying is that you’ll let me know when we’re good to go?”

  She offered a salute so sloppy that it would have earned push-ups for even the rawest of recruits. “Aye, aye, sir.” She giggled and wrinkled her forehead. “Oops, wrong outfit. What’s Air Force for ‘aye, aye’?”

  “That’ll do. I’d say ‘at ease,’ but I’m afraid you’d pass out. You ought to be in bed…your own,” he added stoically, as her laughter turned into a yawn, followed by a little swaying motion that had him quickly taking her by the elbow. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  “Right, that officer-and-a-gentleman stuff. Very gallant, Griffin, but now that we’ve discovered this new hedgehog-in-a-pocket affiliation, I feel comfortable being totally honest with you. It’s like this—it’s late, I’m tired, and you’d only slow me down.”

  Surprisingly, the remark didn’t bother him at all. The thought of not seeing her safely to her door did, however. Could he trust her to stay put while he went upstairs for his shoes and cane?

  No.

  “For heaven’s sake, Griff, this is Wickford,” she exclaimed, as he stood vacillating. “And I’m only going next door.” “All right,” he conceded reluctantly. “But I’m going to watch from here. Flick your lights when you get inside.”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  He reached for her, bent his head and brushed her mouth with his. The touch was brief and light, but sufficient to reassure him that desire still smoldered just beneath the surface, in both of them.

  “I ought to warn you, Rose, I’m a patient man when I have to be, but not nearly as chivalrous as you seem to think. The next time you show up here and drag me out of bed, be prepared to be dragged back in.”

  He watched her slip into the night, then stood on the porch, grinning for no particular reason, until her kitchen light flashed three times.

  He slept soundly until the phone rang a few minutes before nine the next morning. Without opening his eyes, he reached for it and mumbled something into the receiver.

  “Griff?” enquired a familiar and welcome voice.

  “Rose.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, but I’m getting used to it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, a little.”

  “I’m not getting out of bed to go to yard sales with you.”

  “This is Sunday. Everyone knows there are no good yard sales on Sunday.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  “I’m rushing to get to church on time, then I have to go straight to work. I just called… What’s that noise? Are you snoring, Griffin?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, stop and pay attention. I called to tell you not to make plans for Wednesday night. I may have a lead on the birds.”

  “What sort of lead?” he asked.

  “It’s a little complicated. I’ll explain when I see you. If you can be at the shop by five on Wednesday, we can leave from there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Good.” She paused. “Well, then, I guess I’ll see you then.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been thinking…about something you said last night. About the scrapbooks you made when you were a kid.”

  “God, I really did get into all that,” she groaned into the phone. “I was sort of hoping it was only a bad dream.” In a brighter tone, she added, “How about if we just forget last night ever happened?”

  Forget? “Not a chance,” he retorted. “You said that you left out something very important when you were clipping pictures of your fantasy life. What was it?”

  “Oh, Griff, I said a lot of things…most of them nonsense.”

  “I don’t think so. You sounded especially serious when you said it, and very…sure. You were telling me how neither you nor your ex got what you bargained for—how he wanted a blank canvas. Remember? What was it you wanted that you didn’t put in the scrapbooks?”

  It was possible she might not remember, but something about the silence that followed assured him she did. And so he wai
ted.

  “It’s not so much something I didn’t put in,” she said at last, “as something I couldn’t have—not when I was nine. Heck, I was still struggling to figure it out when I was twenty-nine.”

  He recognized the self-directed wryness that crept into her tone, and knew precisely the expression he would see on her face at that moment. What did that mean? he wondered.

  “I guess it comes down to what I meant when I said it was a case of mistaken identity. I spent all those years dreaming of the ideal man, a man I could love truly, madly, deeply and all that. The man of dreams,” she added, and now there was self-consciousness in her voice. “I had no way of knowing that I’d have been far better off looking for just some ordinary guy on the street who could love me just as I am…a man who believed I was the woman of his dreams—gosh, will you look at the time?” she exclaimed without giving him a chance to respond.

  A good thing, since he was at a loss for something meaningful to say.

  “Gotta run. See you Wednesday,” she said lightly, and hung up.

  Griff rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling that slanted above his head.

  Wednesday, he thought, choosing to hold other thoughts at bay for the moment. He needed to think about this whole thing.

  Wednesday.

  Wednesday was three days away. Four, depending on when you started counting. He wanted to see Rose sooner than that. He wanted to see her now, he realized, his thoughts taking a turn of their own to the previous night and the way her body had felt against his. With a very predictable—and inconvenient—result.

  Damn, he thought, shifting restlessly, he really did have to think about this. It had been a long time since he’d woken up with a woman on his mind. Now here he was, hard and hungry, and doomed to frustration. And for how long? Rose needed time. And time, coming from a woman, could mean damn near anything.

  Once I give myself to a man, it can never be undone.

  And what the hell did that mean?

  He sighed, longing for the good old days when life had been simple. He flew, he ate, he slept, and when he had an itch he scratched it with whatever woman was WA. Willing and Available. A buddy of his had coined the term back in flight school and it had become an inside joke…one he hadn’t thought of in a while.

  Now he did. Was Rose willing? She’d been hot for him last night, he had no doubt of that. But when he thought about the word willing in connection with Rose, it took on new shades of meaning. And available? He wasn’t sure of that, either. Uncertainty, he discovered, took a lot of the humor out of that old joke.

  Hell, his life before the crash might not have been perfect, but at least where women were concerned it had come damn close. This thing with Rose was different. She had a way of making him feel…light-headed. And something else. Something like hunger pangs, only more intense, more focused—and more dangerous.

  He wasn’t sure how he knew that. He just did. It was as if some survival instinct encoded on the male chromosome ages ago had been triggered in him for the first time last night, warning that if he wasn’t careful, things could get way out of hand.

  Chapter Seven

  “How about these napkins?”

  Rose glanced across the shop at the faded red-plaid napkins Maryann was holding up, and wrinkled her nose. “Too casual, too…picnic-y,” she pronounced.

  “I thought that was the point,” her friend protested. “This is supposed to be a picnic basket, remember?”

  “A romantic picnic basket,” Rose reminded her. “You’re bringing this gift to a bridal shower, not a hoedown. Think lace and old silver.”

  “Here,” she exclaimed triumphantly as she found what she was looking for—a pair of creamy napkins with hand-crocheted edging. “These are perfect. Just feel—the cotton is so soft from washing it feels like silk, and this candlewick pattern ties in with the roses on the plates you chose.”

  “What’s candlewick?” Maryann enquired, fingering the napkin. “Ooh, that is soft.”

  “This—” Rose said and pointed at the rose design that had been worked in ivory thread on one corner of each napkin.

  “These little bumps?”

  “Actually, they’re French knots, each one worked by hand. These were done by an expert,” she added, inspecting the napkins closely. “See? The knots are all the same size and evenly spaced.”

  “I’m sold,” said Maryann, adding the napkins to her growing pile. “This was a great idea for a shower gift, Rose. Thanks for suggesting it…and for offering to put it all together.”

  “My pleasure. All that’s missing now is the food.”

  “Right. The old ‘a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and thee’ routine. I’ll run to Maxine’s,” she said, referring to a local gourmet shop, “and pick up champagne and a bunch of fancy-schmancy tidbits.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Instead of leaving, however, Maryann glanced at Lisa asleep in her stroller, adjusted the thin cotton blanket over the infant and made herself comfortable on Rose’s stool.

  “So, now that all that’s out of the way, you can concentrate on answering my question.”

  Rose groaned.

  “You didn’t really think I would forget, did you?”

  “I hoped you might,” admitted Rose.

  “Not in this lifetime. And don’t look so long-suffering. You’d think I was getting ready to stick pins under your fingernails.”

  “Is that an option? Because I really think I’d prefer that.”

  “Too bad…I left all my pins at home.”

  “I can wait.”

  “I can’t. I have been very patient up until now. You said you couldn’t concentrate on the basket and my nosy questions at the same time, and I respected that. But a woman has to know her limitations, and I know mine. I need an answer, Rose. Is Griffin a good kisser or not?”

  “What makes you so sure I would be in a position to know?”

  “Because I know these things, Rose. Sort of the way you know about old stuff. It’s a gift.”

  “I suppose that’s one interpretation.”

  “So how does he kiss? And don’t try that pass-fail crap. I insist on an official Love-o-meter rating.”

  Rose shook her head, laughing in spite of herself. “Maryann, for pity’s sake, we were twelve when we discovered that stupid game at the arcade, and you’ve been using it as a scale ever since.”

  “Because it works. It covers the full spectrum of male prowess, clearly and succinctly. You’ve got your Cold Wet Fish…” she said, raising her left hand. Then, raising her right, she continued. “And your Red Hot Lover. And eight levels in between. So…which is he?”

  Rose folded her arms, leaned back against the counter and looked at her friend. “Maryann…”

  “Yes?”

  “It kills me to have to tell you this, but…he’s off the dial.”

  “You did kiss him,” she crowed. “I knew it. I knew it.”

  “You tricked me. You said you already knew it. ‘I know these things.’ Isn’t that what you just said?”

  Maryann waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, but this makes it official. I’m so happ—” She broke off and frowned. “What do you mean he’s off the dial?”

  “The dial. You know, the dial—the wheel with all the little colored wedges that the arrow spins around when you squeeze the Love Handles?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know what the dial is.”

  “Well, I’ve actually given this a lot of thought—even before you asked—and Griff doesn’t fit into any of the wedges.”

  Now it was Maryann who groaned. “Please, Rose, don’t start. I beg you not to nitpick the poor guy to death without giving him half a chance. I mean, really, Rose, no one is off the dial. That’s the point of having a dial. Even Leonard…remember Leonard? Skinny? Cow eyes? Labrador ears? Even Leonard, as bad as he was, was not off the dial. Even that awful tuba player with the…”

  “Good,” said Rose.

  “…weird glasses and
—what did you say?”

  “I said good. Griff isn’t off the dial bad, Maryann, he’s off the dial good.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re in love with him.” Maryann could not have looked more astonished if Rose had just split an atom with dental floss.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “I barely know the man, and most of what I know I don’t like. At least, I didn’t think I did, at first, but I’ve gotten to know him a little more, more than he would like, I suspect, and I don’t dislike him nearly as much as I thought I did. I may even like him a little. Maybe more than a little. But that is a long, long way from being in love, for God’s sake.”

  She could feel her face growing warm and her mouth growing dry and her thoughts tying themselves up in knots the way they had been for days now…ever since that night on the porch.

  “It is definitely not love,” she said again, firmly. “But when he touched me and kissed me, I felt…I felt…”

  She looked helplessly at Maryann, who broke into a grin of pure, sweet, long-overdue delight and said, simply, “Oh. My. God.”

  She was not in love with Hollis Griffin.

  There was simply no way she could be in love with a man like him. For reasons too obvious and too numerous to list. Which is exactly what she’d told Maryann, who’d responded by laughing so hard she gave herself the hiccups.

  It was her own damn fault, Rose thought later, as she put the finishing touch of white silk roses on the bridal basket. She never should have opened her mouth about the fact that Griff was off the dial. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have. Ordinarily, she would have anticipated that Maryann would seize the information and use it as an excuse to jump to exactly this sort of insane conclusion. But all of a sudden, nothing about her life was ordinary. Not the smell of the morning or the color of the sky or the sound of the rest of the world going about its business all around her.

  Maybe it was some kind of hormonal fluke. Or an allergy. She’d once read that your entire body changes every seven years, making you sensitive to things that never bothered you previously. She hurriedly divided thirty-five by seven and realized she was right on schedule. Her cells were reinventing themselves. Or something. All she knew for sure was that it wasn’t love.