Drawn to You

by Natalie Vivien

  Ash, astride her sexy new bike and dressed all in black, beckons me with one crooked finger and one raised brow to follow her to the cottage.

  “Wait,” I whisper, but she doesn’t wait; she rides into the thick evening fog, and I hurry after her. When I step over the threshold, passing through the cottage’s open doorway, I find myself in a lush, shimmering landscape: jewel tones and canopies and overstuffed pillows. Illuminated lanterns hang down from the ceiling, warm yellow glowing from within stained glass. Softly resonant drum music from somewhere far off keeps time with my heart’s beat and with each step I take.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Ash says, a dark, lithe shadow beside me. I turn to face her, and she pins me down with her grey-eyed gaze. As she reaches out an arm for me, her fingertips graze my hand with an electric jolt, and she tugs me toward her, closer and closer, until I’m warm against her chest, breathing in her wildflower perfume…

  “Ash,” I say, daring to trace the line of her jaw with one finger, “I’m afraid.”

  “Of me?” Her mouth draws nearer; we breathe the same sparking, lightning-charged air.

  “I don’t know. What if…” I stare at her, and I see my own reflection in her eyes. But I don’t recognize myself, this woman with such certainty, such knowing in her brave green gaze. “Who… Who is that?” I ask, drawing back, confused.

  Ash pulls me close again, her mouth slanting softly, inclining toward my ear. “You, Molly,” she whispers. “You know what you want. Who you are. Why don’t you take it? Why can’t you be it?”

  Then Ash presses something hard and slender into my hand. I glance down at my palm and find the smooth wooden handle of a paintbrush, its horsehair tipped with a daub of violet paint.

  The music stops. My heart stops. The world, I think, for a moment, stops turning. I look at Ash fully and see a world of Impressionistic shapes whirling behind her: hazy trees and oceans and rising stars… Stars like the ones in Ash’s tattoo, swirling up from the undulating waves.

  “Yes,” I say, and the world moves beneath my feet.

  When we kiss, stars—red and blue and yellow stars—explode inside of me in brilliant, confetti-like bursts—

  “Knock, knock,” Terry says, rapping his knuckles gently on the top of my head.

  “Wha—what?” I sit up, wiping a saliva stream away from my mouth and smoothing back loose strands of my hair. “Oh, God. God. I’m sorry. I fell asleep. I fell asleep?” I wince and scrub my hands over my face, groaning. “Terry—”

  “Hey, no judgment here. Sometimes I steal a nap after a carbolicious lunch. Though…” Terry taps his watch face, frowning, and then gazes down at me with open concern. “It’s 9:00 a.m., Mol. Did you have a rough night? You weren’t stressing over the grant, were you? That’s my job.”

  “Uh…” Honestly, I wish I had been stressing over the grant, because the grant is something concrete, something I can—for better or for worse—control. But my sleepless night had nothing to do with work and everything to do with my gorgeous, sly-smiling, bike-riding, knee-weakening new tenant. Apparently my subconscious has decided to run amok with inappropriate Ash-centric fantasies. I slept in fits and starts last night, tearing myself out of one hot-and-heavy scene only to fall back into another dream of Ash’s strong, tattooed arms wrapped around me…

  “God,” I say again, raking both of my hands through my hair before exhaling heavily and offering Terry a sheepish grin. “I had a restless night. That’s all.”

  Shrewd eyes narrowed, Terry perches on the edge of my desk and crosses his arms across his chest, tilting his chin down toward me. His messy black hair shines blue beneath the fluorescent lights. “That’s all? Really?”

  “No,” I smile, and then slump in my chair.

  “Nightmares?” he asks.

  I remember the dream-sensation of Ash’s lips on mine and flush, my thumb absentmindedly clicking the pen in my hand. “Not…exactly.”

  Not at all.

  I had felt so embarrassed by my mind’s nocturnal adventures that I was unable to make eye contact with Ash this morning when she waved goodbye from the driveway. So I engaged in quick, awkward conversation—Nice day, isn’t it? Those clouds are so fluffy and…cloud-like! Have fun riding Xena! Er, I mean…your bike—while staring at her mostly bare, short shorts-clad legs.

  Which, of course, did nothing to alleviate my shame.

  “Hey, Mol.” Terry takes the pen away from me and lays it down on the desk, out of my reach. “Do you need to talk? Is it…” He glances away, sighing softly. “Georgie told me about the flowers. Are you worrying about—”

  “Juliette?” The name tastes foreign; I speak it aloud so rarely now. I’m a little startled to hear it, to have said it, and I stare at Terry for a moment before shaking my head vaguely. “No. I mean, I won’t lie. Those flowers set me back a couple of notches. But I’m okay. Really.”

  “Sure?”

  I laugh lightly. “I’m not sure of anything. You know…” I lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “I ran over a woman with my car yesterday—and now she’s living with me. Isn’t that funny? I mean, who could’ve predicted it?”

  Terry sits up straight and blinks several times, his long lashes brushing against the lenses of his glasses, his mouth twisting up and down, as if it isn’t certain whether it ought to smile or frown. “Uh…what?”

  “Well, she’s not living with me, obviously, but living in the cottage behind my house. She’s renting the place—or will be, as soon as I get all the paperwork together.” And get my hormones under control, I add silently, grimacing. I start to reach for the pen again, anxious to release some nervous energy, but Terry slams his hand down on it and lifts a single black brow.

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” he asks me.

  “What, to casually wield a Bic?”

  His other brow lifts. I cower. Clearly, his patience with me is running out—and I can hardly blame him. I lost patience with myself ages ago. “No, Molly. I mean, do you think it’s a good idea to enter into a legal contract with someone right now, when you’re in such a…” He eyes me carefully. “Well, such a, shall we say, delicate emotional state?”

  “Delicate?” I rise and, fists balled, stomp over to the windowsill, where I keep a chipped Garfield mug full of pens. Triumphantly, I choose two of the pens and hold one in each hand, clicking them in sync as Terry, again, sighs and throws his hands up in the air. “I am not delicate. And what’s this mumbo-jumbo about ‘legal contracts’? It’s not like I’m marrying Ash. I’m just letting her live in the cottage for a while so that I can afford Juliette’s share of the bills. It’s perfectly practical.”

  “Then why do you sound perfectly hysterical?”

  “I am not hysterical!” I screech, and then I drop the pens and cover my mouth with my palm. “Oh, God. Am I? Am I hysterical?”

  “My guess is you’re probably just exhausted, Mol.”

  I stagger back to my chair and fall into it, pillowing my head on my desk and gazing up at Terry through watery eyes. “Yeah. Probably.”

  He gives my head a fond pat. “Everything’ll turn out fine, champ. Just give it time.”

  “No offense, but coming from you, Mr. Pessimist, that doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

  He chuckles, nodding his head amiably. “Yeah, well… I’m a personal pessimist and a public optimist.”

  “Meaning?”

  He rises from the desk and holds up a finger, assuming a scholarly expression. “I live my life according to a strict code: Things tend to work out all right in the end—for everyone except me.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.” I sit up and punch him playfully in the kneecap. “Hey. I know things will get better—for me and you and this sad little museum of ours—but sometimes I just need a good wallow, you know?”

  Terry regards me thoughtfully for a long, silent moment. Then he gives me another two-brow raise, but his bespectacled eyes twinkle with mischief. “What do you say we treat each
other to ice cream for lunch?”

  I brighten and bump my fist against his, laughing. “You just spoke the magic words, my friend.”

  “Awesome.” He checks his watch. “Three hours until sugar shock. Let the countdown begin.”

  I heave the pile of mail and the grant-writing book up from the floor and consider them with a frown. “Suppose I’ll try to get some work done, then. If you hear snoring emanating from this general direction, feel free to barge back in and shake me awake.”

  “I never took you for a snorer.”

  “I’m more of a sleep-talker, really. My college girlfriend told me I recited the Pledge of Allegiance in my sleep once.”

  “You’re adorable, Mol.”

  I bat my lashes sarcastically. “Hey, why’d you come in here, anyway?”

  Terry draws a brochure out of the inside pocket of his sport coat and slides it across the desk to me. “My cousin has this fancy catering business. I met up with him last night, and he said he’d give us a discount if we decide to follow through with your gala idea.”

  I pick up the glossy paper, adorned with mouthwatering photographs of dishes whose names I can’t even begin to pronounce, and widen my eyes appreciatively. “Holy yum.”

  “Right? He stopped by our apartment last weekend and whipped up some orgasmic crepes. Rachel’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, I swear. Said they were almost better than sex.”

  “That’s an important almost.”

  “And quite the compliment, because, seriously, Mol, those crepes!” He presses a hand to his heart and closes his eyes. “I think I had my first religious experience.”

  “Well, I’m sold. Let’s book him. As soon as we iron out, you know…the date, the time, how we’re going to fund this mad venture...”

  “Details, details,” Terry smirks, though his faux nonchalance is fooling no one. He begins to back toward the door. “Catch some Zs if you need to, Molly. We’ll talk about the gala over sundaes later.”

  I scoff. “Forget sundaes. I’m going for the Big One.”

  “Oh, no. Mol, you got so sick the last time you—”

  I hold up a silencing hand. “Desperate times, Terry, call for unreasonable amounts of ice cream.”

  ---

  The guy behind the counter slides the mountainous confection through the window and gives me an encouraging smile. “Good luck, ma’am. If you finish it, bring up your empty dish and we’ll take your picture.” He gestures behind him to the display of Big One All-Stars: printed-out paper photos of queasy-looking customers taped to the wall.

  I smile weakly, eying the already melting mounds of ice cream in my hands. “I’ll give it the old college try.”

  He salutes and then turns his gaze to the person in line behind me. Instead of talking to him, though, she—strangely enough—addresses me: “You’re a girl after my own heart. Ma’am.”

  “What?” I whirl and blink as hot fudge begins to drip stickily over my fingers. “Uh… Ash?” I tilt dangerously, and more sauce oozes out of the overfull dish. “What—what are you doing here?”

  She laughs her low, throaty laugh, and heat pulses through me, despite the cold ice cream in, and increasingly on, my hands. “Same thing you’re doing, I guess.” Her eyes regard my gluttonous dessert teasingly. “You know, I figured you for the ambitious type. And judging by your taste in ice cream…” She nods meaningfully toward the melty mess between us. “Reckon I was right.”

  I blush—partly from embarrassment, because I’ve been caught hot fudge-handed, holding enough ice cream to feed a whole kindergarten class; and partly from my body’s reaction to Ash’s out-of-the-blue nearness.

  I had never thought of reckon as a sexy word before.

  I do now.

  I take a step back, watching my peaks of ice cream drip down to the pavement. One of the five cherries gloops over a vanilla mound to plop almost soundlessly onto my open-toed shoe far below.

  “Ugh. Sorry. This is so gross. Um…”

  “Let me.” Ash draws a napkin from the dispenser on the counter and kneels down to administer to my sticky foot.

  “Oh, God, you don’t have to—”

  “It’s my pleasure, Molly.” Ash tilts her head back to gaze up at me, and her smile makes my legs feel as if they’re made of soft-serve. While I try in vain to catch my breath, Ash turns back to her work, rubbing at my shoe with the napkin until she’s satisfied with the somewhat less sticky results. Then she rises and tosses the used napkin into the trashcan nearby.

  “Thanks,” I whisper shamefacedly. “I’m not even that hungry. I just… You know how sometimes you have a really bad day? And the only remedy you can think of involves consuming far more sugar than any dietitian could ever, in good conscience, recommend?”

  Ash rests her hands on her hips and smiles softly at me. “It’s one of those days, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But if it makes you feel any better, I was about to order myself one of those Big One things, too.”

  I gape at her. “You were? Really? You aren’t just saying that to make me feel like less of an ice cream hog?”

  The guy behind the counter sighs pointedly in our direction. “Would you like me to ring up a Big One for you, then, ma’am?” There are three people waiting in line behind Ash, and all of them look thoroughly unamused by my awkward small talk and clumsy shenanigans.

  “Yeah. That’d be great,” Ash tells the ice cream scooper, grinning at me. Without breaking eye contact, she pulls another napkin from the dispenser and begins to gently wipe the hot fudge from my hands. “Hey, like I told you at the house, I’ve never met a frozen dairy product I didn’t want to devour. And I always like to sample the native culture.”

  “Well, this is the best Normal, Michigan, has to offer, sadly enough.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” After throwing away the second napkin, Ash digs some dollar bills out of her shorts pocket and puts them on the counter, her eyes flicking from my eyes to my mouth and back to my eyes again. I shiver, not because my hands are freezing from the Big One but because Ash’s gaze is intense, electric—just like it was in my dream. “I have to say… I’ve seen some lovely sights here.”

  My heart skips a beat, and I almost drop my ice cream in a paroxysm of shuddery delight, but a quick and ungainly maneuver prevents the dish from crashing to the ground. It does not, however, prevent Ash from laughing in her rich, husky voice and angling a smile, somehow teasing and smoldering at the same time, directly at me.

  God, am I seriously crushing on my tenant? The same tenant I nearly killed with my car? Am I destined to not only inspire a ripped-from-the-tabloids Lifetime movie but also win the Worst Landlady of the Year award?

  Maybe Ash is right: I am ambitious—in very wrong, misguided ways.

  “Need some help hefting that monster over to our table?” Terry comes up beside me and eyes my melting dessert with unconcealed disgust. “Um, Mol, you going to eat that or drink it? I could grab you a straw.”

  “Ha.” I bump against his shoulder with mine. “No, I’ll try to salvage what’s left with the spoon.” I glance at Ash shyly then and incline my head. “Terry, this is Ash—the woman I told you about earlier. She’s renting my cottage.”

  “Ahhhh.” He nods repeatedly and for far too long. “I see.” Perceptive as always, Terry looks from Ash to me with a knowing gleam in his eyes before extending his hand.

  Ash takes it, smiling faintly. “Nice to meet you,” she says in a low tone.

  “Terry and I work together,” I explain quickly, lest Ash assume that Terry and I are dating. I could be bisexual, after all. I’m not dating him, and somehow it is of critical importance that Ash knows that I’m not, even though I just spent the last few minutes berating myself for being attracted to her—and all morning mentally revisiting my dreams…

  “Putting down roots in Normal, are you, Ash?” Terry lifts a brow at her, his mouth slanted to the side.

  “W
ell…” She bows her head, laughing softly. “I’m not really sure I have roots to put down. But I figured I’d stay for a while, focus on my painting in a quiet place.”

  Now both of Terry’s brows are arched as high as his hairline. He widens his eyes at me, crossing his arms over his button-down shirt, before turning back to Ash and offering her his best salesman smile. “So…you’re an artist?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You know, Molly and I are putting on this gala thing at the museum in a month or two and need to hunt down talent. Would you be interested in submitting some work for review?”

  Ash takes a step back, shaking her head slightly and looking bemused. “Oh, I’m not sure that my paintings would be a good fit for—” Her mouth curves up into that sly grin, eyes flashing hotly at me. “—a town like this.”

  Terry chuckles. “If by a town like this you mean Bible-wielding, gun-toting, as red as Santa Claus on Christmas morning—”

  “Redder,” I grimace.

  “Then you’ve got a pretty solid picture of our little burg.” He grins sardonically and sighs. “But the Normal Art Museum is a separate entity, really. No one who lives in Normal ever steps through the museum’s doors. Our patrons tend to be open-minded cityfolk, believe it or not, out for a breath of country air and some unfortunately located art. So anything goes.”

  “Anything, huh?” Ash grins mischievously. “Can I think it over and get back to you?”

  “Absolutely!” Terry claps his hands together, which makes me jump, which makes my ice cream glide out of my grasp, but with a grace that I have—to my eternal frustration—never possessed, Terry catches the Big One expertly and begins to carry it toward our picnic table.

  “Thanks,” I call after him. “Be there in a minute.”

  Then the guy behind the counter mumbles, “Order up,” pushing Ash’s dish toward her brusquely, along with her change. “Finish the whole thing and we’ll take your picture,” he tells her with a bored smile, pointing halfheartedly to the Big One All-Stars wall behind him.

  “I like a challenge,” Ash laughs, taking up her dish and eying the available seating as we move aside to make room for the next people in line.