Man of My Dreams

by Faith Andrews

  “Hey! You said you loved the dress!”

  “I’m your best friend and this is your wedding. I would wear a clown suit if that’s what you wanted. But just wait until my day. I’m going with bonnets, parasols and a whole seventies inspired theme. You’re screwed.”

  The two of us laugh together, like so many times before. It’s crazy how Grace had the ability to make the nerves just vanish. I was moments from a panic attack, now I’m ready to conquer the world. Well, I’m ready to take this plunge. I’m sure I’ll need Grace in the future to talk me off many marriage related ledges. Like having kids. Thank God, that’s a looooong way off!

  “You know how much I love you, Grace?” I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.

  “Probably not as much as I love you.” She brings me in for a careful hug, not wanting to wrinkle my dress. When she backs away there are tears in her eyes. “You’re gorgeous, Mia. Are you ready to wow everyone out there?”

  I take another deep breath in. This time, once I close my eyes, I envision my handsome fiancé standing at the altar, waiting for me, and I feel the air fill my lungs and invigorate my being. He makes me happy. I make him happy. That’s all that matters. How could I have had any doubts? I am about to start the beginning of our happily ever after.

  “I’m ready now.” I pick up my bouquet, and smooth down my dress.

  Grace wipes her tears, checks herself in the mirror and unlocks the door.

  Outside, my father stands strumming his fingers nervously against his tuxedoed thigh. When the door swings open, he looks at me and smiles. “You ready, kid?”

  I exhale through my pink-glazed mouth. “I’m ready, Daddy. Are you?”

  He walks closer to me, taking my hand in his. Is he having the same memory right now? Father daughter dance 1988. I was eight and he was so proud, escorting me to the gymnasium with a wrist corsage. Back then, as little as I was, I thought about my wedding day—Daddy giving me away. Today, I wish I was that little girl again. I’m sure he does too.

  “What are you thinking about, Daddy?”

  “Memories, sweet pea. And we have so many more to make. Save a dance for me later?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re the first man I’ve ever loved. Declan has some crazy big shoes to fill.”

  Dad places the blusher over my face, an undeniable glisten of tears in his baby blue eyes. Grace returns with my mother and my bridal party lines up the way the wedding planner showed us at the rehearsal. Dad hooks his arm in mine and intertwines his fingers with mine.

  “I may be giving you away, but I’m never letting go. I love you.” He clears his throat, and swallows back what has to be a lump.

  My own lump has formed, making it hard to respond. “And I may grow up, but I’ll always be your little girl.”

  Dad tightens his grip on my hand.

  The procession starts and Dad and I inch a little closer to the doors at the back of the church. We stand together, waiting to be revealed to the crowd, to Declan, to my future.

  The music changes from Canon in D to the Wedding March. “That’s our cue, sweet pea. You ready?”

  The doors open, I catch a glimpse of Declan, Connor next to him, with his hands folded in front of him. Every single doubt is washed away the second I see him smile. He looks…breathtaking. A little nervous, but stunning all the same. He turns to Connor quickly and I can read his lips as he says, “my girl’s beautiful.”

  Connor nods with wide eyes.

  I make my way down the aisle, wanting nothing more than to bypass all the guests and skip down this white runner to kiss my almost husband. Crazy how I was contemplating divorce rates just a few moments ago. This is the happiest day of my life. The beginning of forever. It’s us against the world from here on out.

  “I’m stuffed.” I stop myself from licking my lips like a dog that’s just devoured a juicy steak, and instead, I stand up to clear the table.

  “Sit, Mia. I’ll take care of this. What kind of guy would I be to have his date clean up after dinner?” His hand covers mine now, keeping me in place. His eyes are locked on me, traveling to my lips.

  I pray I don’t have anything on my face, like a big glob of hollandaise sauce. Guess not, because he leans closer and plants a soft kiss on my lips. A hint of butter and lemon lingers, reminding me to compliment the chef on a very tasty dinner.

  “Noah, that was delicious. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal—well one that I haven’t prepared for myself—in years. You’re quite the chef.”

  He smiles, but it’s shady. “Can I make a confession?”

  I nod, curiously.

  “I can’t even boil water. I had it catered from my favorite restaurant and my housekeeper came to warm it up while I was on my way to get you.” Noah winces, gritting a beautiful, white smile.

  I ball up my napkin and throw it at him. “I knew you were too good to be true. But the gesture was sweet. You didn’t have to go through all the trouble for me. Pizza would’ve been fine.”

  “Pizza? On our first date? No way. I’ve waited a long time for this. You deserve...better.”

  Is that a subtle innuendo? Is he already trying to play himself up against Declan? I push the unsettling image of a love-triangle aside. I don’t need a reminder of the oddness of my situation. I want to treat this as I would any other first date, give it the regard it deserves. I focus on the part of the conversation that really grabbed my attention and made me giddy. “You’ve been waiting for this for a long time?”

  His grin is boyish now, divulging a hidden agenda. “Mmhmm.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers, leaning in for another tiny, but powerful peck. “Ready for dessert?”

  Please let him mean lemon meringue and not a cute little nickname for something sexual! “Um, actually, not yet.” I let it slip out as coolly as possible. That should cover both bases; I’m too stuffed to eat another morsel, even if it is lemon meringue. And even though this man does crazy things to my insides, I’m not ready to take this...whatever it is...to the next level.

  “How ‘bout another glass of wine, then?” He asks, as he brings our empty plates to the sink.

  “There’s always room for that.” I get up to help, making my way to the center island with the platters of leftover food. His kitchen is a dream. I imagine myself maneuvering around it effortlessly. Sure, my own kitchen was custom built to mine and Declan’s likings, but this is right out of a staged Food Network episode.

  “Are you sure you don’t cook? Your kitchen is Rachel Ray’s dream come true.”

  He laughs, loading the top-of-the line dishwasher that can probably complete its cycle in four minutes, silently. “I swear. I don’t even know how to use half of this stuff. But when I designed the kitchen, I had a certain someone in mind.”

  “Oh. Mind me asking who?”

  “My wife.” He says it so plainly, as if I should have known what he meant before he said it.

  I’m taken aback, completely confused. “But you said you’d never been married before.”

  He laughs again, this time filling my glass with the delicious burgundy wine we drank with dinner. “I meant it figuratively, Mia. I built the kitchen to be every domestic woman’s fantasy. Problem is, I haven’t been able to snag my very own domestic goddess...just yet. I love this house. I poured my heart and soul into it and, one day, I want to share it with my future wife.”

  Why, oh why, does he choose this moment to stare at my ring finger? You know, the one that is still covered by the rings from Declan, my husband. The ones that scream out “taken, married, unavailable, not supposed to be on a date!” Embarrassed, I pull my hand behind my back, leaning up against the island.

  “Come on. We’re done in here. Let me show you the rest of the house.” He must sense my sudden apprehension and drops the subject of marriage and the future. “We can relax in the game room.”

  I nod; a game room sounds innocent enough. I take my wine glass in one hand and Noah places his hand around the other. He enta
ngles his thick, rough fingers in mine as he guides me on the tour of his house. I walk around gaping at his impeccable, and very eclectic, decorating taste. He’s managed to make me feel as if I’ve traveled around the world by visiting the rooms of his home. I’ve gotten a taste of Tuscany, Morocco, and Greece all in a matter of minutes.

  But the game room is totally All-American. Sports memorabilia lines the walls. I walk over to a floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet filled with autographed baseballs. As I try to read the names off the bruised, dinged-up balls, Noah comes up behind me, resting both hands at my hips. It surprises me how comfortable this feels already.

  “Amongst your man-treasures there must be at least one signed by Mickey Mantle or Babe Ruth. Am I right?” At this moment, I wish I knew more about baseball. That was his thing. It’s obviously still his thing. When I’d go watch Noah and the team play in high school, I wasn’t paying attention to the rules of the sport. I went to those games for the view, not for the love of the game.

  His body envelops mine and he leans down, resting his head on my shoulder. “I wish.” He says against my ear. “There’s some impressive stuff in there, but nothing like the Babe. I’m working on it though.” His hands move from my hips to splay across my stomach. Yeah, he’s working on it. Working on getting me all hot and bothered.

  I close my eyes to calm my nerves, which feel a lot like Mexican jumping beans right now, and when I reopen them I spot the jukebox on the opposite end of the room. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. It’s large and colorful, its neon lights illuminating part of the ping pong table in front of it.

  I break free of Noah’s warm embrace and dart over to it. “You have a jukebox? Oh my God, this is like the one at...”

  “The Room. I know. That’s why I got it. I loved that place when we were kids. Lots of good memories.”

  I wonder if he’s talking about that time we ran into each other there. Was that a good memory for him?

  I stand in front of the machine with my face practically pushed up against the glass. “What’ve you got in here? Anything good? Or is it filled with the typical doo-wop and fifties crap?”

  Noah takes a sip of his wine, licking a drop from his lips. I get distracted watching his tongue, and turn away abruptly. That tongue is unnerving. He comes over to me and uses his denim-clad ass to playfully push me aside.

  “No doo-wop, just some exceptionally excellent music.”

  I look over his shoulder to find out exactly what his ‘exceptionally excellent music’ consists of. Damn! He wasn’t playing around. I recognize album covers from Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers and even some Monster Ballads. His fingers punch in a series of four digit numbers too quickly for me to read.

  “What are you up to there? Huh?”

  “Come. Let’s sit. You won’t be disappointed.”

  The jukebox simulates the sound of a record being set into place and a needle hitting the vinyl. I know it’s not authentic, but it still sets a certain mood. As I turn to join Noah on the leather sectional I stop and smile.

  “You’re kidding, right?” The opening chords of Killing Me Softly hit me with a twinge of reminiscence. It’s like feeling homesick. Homesick for the days of being young and carefree.

  “Good choice?”

  “Excellent choice.” I sip my wine as I saunter on over to the guy I wish I was dancing with when this song played at Lisa’s house almost ten years ago.

  He pats the cushion next to him, inviting me to sit. Inviting me into the damn lion’s den, that’s what he’s doing. And between the music, the wine and the intoxication this man oozes, I am just about offering myself up as a sacrificial lamb.

  I decide to give in to the nostalgia, the mood, and all these feelings to see where it’ll take me. “What does this song remind you of?”

  He looks up to the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “One thing?”

  I nod.

  “That’s hard. We played this song out so bad senior year...it’s hard to pick one.”

  “I can name one.” I blurt out, not caring that I’m about to sell myself out. It was years ago. What’s the harm in confessing now?

  “Enlighten me, oh, nostalgic one.”

  I nudge him on his brawny shoulder. It’s like nudging a wall. “Lisa’s house party. End of senior year.”

  Noah rolls his eyes. It’s adorable. “What a shocker. I think Lisa was responsible for making half the senior class loathe this song. Denks sent hate mail to Lauryn Hill because of her.”

  I bust out laughing, holding in the mouthful of wine that threatens to explode from my mouth. When I’ve swallowed and stopped holding my side I continue. “You called me beautiful that night.”

  “You are beautiful.” He places his hand on my thigh.

  I stare at it for a long time before I go on. “Why didn’t you say goodbye to me that night? I mean, I know I was a foolish teenager, thinking way too much into things, but what you said...why didn’t you come find me? Say goodbye?”

  He looks puzzled. A strong, deep line set between his thick brows.

  “Noah, I had the craziest crush on you. I went to that party hoping you’d finally see me that night. Praying I’d get my chance. You called me beautiful and then disappeared and my chance went to shit. Every time I hear this song, I think about that night.” Feeling like that teenage girl all over again, I look down into my almost empty wine glass. There! I got that off my chest. Seems a little past due, considering I’m here.

  On a date with said crush.

  Ten years later.

  Noah inches closer to me on the couch, our knees touching, his hand cupping my flush-warmed cheek. “Better late than never? We got a second chance right here.”

  The song ends and a new one begins. Something sensual, intense. This guy is slick. I almost writhe in agony, my panties feel like a wicked constraint just hearing the lyrics—come my lady come, come my lady.

  I’m pretty sure he could make me come, just by looking at me like that. I don’t have time to overthink. Noah’s hands are in my hair, pulling me closer. His lips graze mine. Once, softly. Twice, a little rougher. Third time, ready to pounce. As his tongue parts my already eager lips, I let my own slide against his. Noah’s lips devour mine like he’s making up for lost time.

  I bring my hands up behind his neck, playing with the soft stubble at the nape. Noah’s hands travel more freely, roaming the heated terrain of my needy body. Before I know it, I’m in his lap, straddling a rather impressive—rather hard—bulge of denim. Noah tilts his head back. I follow him, my lips still connected to his.

  His calloused hands graze the skin on my back, trailing prickles from the waist of my jeans to the clasp of my bra. Underneath my shirt, his hands trek around to the front of me, cupping my satin covered breasts. He’d be a fool—no he’d have to be dead—not to know how turned on I am right now. Regardless of the cool, smooth material of my bra, my nipples ache as they bead against it, painfully, wanting freedom. If I wasn’t in my right mind, I would beg him to rip off my shirt. Rip it all off, fulfill every single one of my overdue fantasies and recurring dreams combined. But I am in my right mind, so I break away, panting.

  “Stop.” I whisper against his heaving chest. I rest my head where his heart is galloping like a stampede of wildebeests escaping a hungry lion. I lift my head and cup his beautiful, flawless face. “We have to stop.”

  After a long pause, Noah lifts his head, his emerald green eyes penetrating through me. “You’re killing me, Mia.” He whimpers a sigh of resignation. “But you’re right.” He brings his hands to my hips and lifts me off him, placing me next to him on the couch. He rakes a hand through his now messy hair, scrubs his hand down his face and gnaws on his bottom lip. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just got caught up.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...”

  Noah shoots me a worrisome glare. “Please don’t say you shouldn’t have come here tonight, Mia. I get it. It’s all too fast. I’m sorry. We can take it
slow.”

  I stare at him in astonishment. Can I really expect him to wait until I iron out all my personal—and complicated—qualms? “Really? You mean that?”

  He gets up off the couch, trying to conceal his hand in his pants, readjusting himself. What I wouldn’t give...

  “Yes, Mia. I don’t want to screw this up. I know this isn’t conventional, and I know you have things to think about...your kids, your...” I don’t think he actually wants to say the word ‘husband.’ “We have all the time in the world. We’ll take it slow. It might kill me, but I can respect that you might not be ready for a while.”

  I feel a little ridiculous. I’m a grown woman, not some adolescent virgin. Women my age probably have double digits under their belt. Noah might have even more than that, for all I know. Am I ridiculous for not being ready?

  “God I feel so dumb.” I hide my head in my hands.

  Noah sits down next to me, removing my hands from my mortified eyes. “You’re not dumb. You’re far from it. In fact, you’d be dumb if you let it go any further. You’re a good woman, Mia. A good wife and mother. It takes a strong woman to think with her brain in a moment like that.” I liked what happened in that moment. I wasn’t ready for it to go further, but that was one fine moment.

  “That was quite a moment. Wasn’t it?” I arch my brow and bite my lower lip.

  Noah flops back against his couch, gripping fistfuls of his dark blond hair now. No doubt, reverting back to the idea of me on his lap.

  I have a momentary lapse of all that’s right and just. “Would I be a total cock tease if I asked you to just make-out again?”

  Noah sits up, stiff. His eyes wide and concentrated. “Is this some kind of test, woman?”

  I giggle, resting my head against his rock hard chest again. His heart beat has steadied, no longer rapid and thundering. “You’re a good kisser, Noah. And if we’re going to date, ease our way into this, we’ve got to do this the way we would have done this if you hadn’t ignored me back then.”