by Nancy Warren
“I’m Julia.”
“I thought you’d stood me up,” he said.
“No. Sorry, I guess I’m running a couple of minutes late.” She glanced down at his half-finished coffee. “Were you early?”
“I like to be on time,” he said.
“Oh.” This is going well. She took a step toward the coffee bar, Hailey’s suggestion of a quick espresso in her mind when he said, “What can I get you?”
“Oh, thanks. Tall, skinny latte.”
“Coming right up.”
He walked to the bar and she had a chance to study him. He was on the slim side but tall with muscular shoulders. There was something almost cowboy about him with his weathered skin, two deep lines running down lean cheeks, deep blue eyes and a prominent nose and chin. But who dressed him? That blue plaid shirt, faded from washing, was older than some of her friends. The jeans were the most unflattering she’d ever seen and had to be from a discount store, and when he’d stepped into a pair of truly ugly work shoe/boot things, he’d caught the back hems of the denim in them.
If he’d paid more than six dollars for that haircut he’d been ripped off since she suspected the barber learned his trade in an abattoir.
When John put in her drink order, Bruno glanced over and waved.
John sauntered back to her reminding her again oddly of a cowboy. All he needed was a Stetson and a way nicer pair of jeans. He set the mugs carefully on the table and she thanked him politely. Then almost choked.
Bruno’s latte art topping her brew today was a question mark.
She gulped her coffee quickly, hoping John hadn’t noticed. If she ever did this again she’d meet in an anonymous coffee chain store. One that served to-go cups in case she needed to make a quick exit.
They both sipped coffee and then he said, “This is a nice place. I haven’t been here before.”
“I like it. The coffee’s good.”
Silence. Oh, man, this was tougher than she’d imagined. She loved new people. Always prided herself on being able to talk to anyone, and here she was acting like a self-conscious fool. She had to get a grip.
So many of her friends and family were getting married, having kids, moving on with their lives. Was she becoming desperate? She hated the thought.
She tried to recall John’s profile so she could at least start some kind of conversation. “So, you like ethnic restaurants?”
“I do,” he nodded. “One thing we have in common.”
“Do you have favorites?”
He shook his head, looking grim. “My ex only liked fancy high-end places. I didn’t get much chance to try out smaller, ethnic places.” Then he winced. “Sorry. Great start to a first date. Talk about your angry, bitter divorce.”
“Was it?”
“Angry and bitter?” he shrugged. “Is there another kind?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been married.”
They both took refuge in another sip of coffee.
“How ’bout you? I bet you eat out a lot?”
What? Was he suggesting she was so overweight she must spend all her free time grazing at all-you-can-eat buffets?
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
“Oh. You seem really cosmopolitan, as though you know all the good places.” He seemed a little disappointed to find out she wasn’t that person.
But she was that person. She supposed she’d become so freaked out by the scammer that she wasn’t giving a perfectly nice man a chance.
She glanced up and caught his gaze, realizing he was as uncomfortable as she. All of a sudden Bruno’s caffeinated question mark, the pressure of too many friends’ marriages and babies, the scammer, all of it seemed so ridiculous, she started to laugh. “I don’t know about you but I’d really like to start over.”
He nodded. “Can we consider that bitter-divorce comment deleted?”
“Done.”
He let out a sigh of relief, and leaned back in his chair. And it was better. For no reason except that they’d been honest for a moment, it was better.
“Your profile said you work in computers?”
“That’s right. I’m a programmer. My team works on software for the construction industry.”
“Oh. I’m a home stager. That’s sort of related to the construction industry.”
“The way high fashion is connected to the silkworm.”
“Okay. You made me smile. That’s good.”
So they talked about their respective businesses and she realized her coffee mug was empty and she hadn’t had a terrible time.
“Well?” he asked, and she was reminded of Bruno’s question mark.
“Well?” she asked back.
“You seem like a nice woman. I’d like to see you again if you’re interested. Maybe we could try out one of those ethnic restaurants we both like.”
Her silence dragged on a second too long while she processed the bad hair, bad clothes, and tried to imagine herself showing up to a decent restaurant with him at her side.
“I’m not sure we’d be a fit,” she finally said, as honestly as she could without hurting his feelings, she hoped.
He didn’t seem crushed. He merely nodded. “Tell you what, I’m not a big fan of emailing through a dating site. Here’s my card with my personal email and my cell phone. If you ever want a friend to have dinner with or somebody to take in a movie or something, go ahead and call me.”
She took the card and tucked it into her bag. “Thanks.”
He rose and shook her hand again. “You heading out?” he motioned to the door.
She couldn’t stand the idea of making small talk as they headed outside to their vehicles so she shook her head. “I’ll have another coffee and check my email.”
He nodded. “I enjoyed meeting you. Good luck.” And was gone.
Since Bruno currently had nothing more pressing to do than fill the canisters with sugar, she walked up to him and said, “Well? What did you think?”
When Bruno turned to her he was wearing a T-shirt sporting a cup of coffee with these words printed on the surface: Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love. Talleyrand.
“Seemed like a nice guy. He a new squeeze?”
“No. I don’t think so. We met online. This was the first time we’d seen each other in person.”
“He’s tall.”
“Dresses badly.”
“Mmm.”
“He told me to call him if I want to go to dinner or a movie. I didn’t feel much chemistry, but he seems like an okay guy. What do you think? Should I call him?”
Bruno neatened the packages on top of a silver canister. “Depends how desperate you get, I guess.”
* * *
THE STATUE OF LENIN had been standing in the middle of Fremont for almost twenty years now, Rob supposed, as he wandered killing time, while strangers toured his grandmother’s house.
He scowled at Lenin.
Lenin scowled back.
Rob still remembered the fuss when a local businessman bought the huge bronze statue and transported it to Seattle with the help of the original sculptor. Designed and installed in Czechoslovakia, the piece had fallen victim to the Velvet Revolution and would have been sold for scrap had not an English teacher from Washington agreed to buy it, perceiving it not as propaganda but as a work of art. He wondered how poor old Vladimir would feel if he could see the way Fremont treated his likeness.
He’d been decorated with Christmas lights, dressed up to resemble John Lennon and even dressed in drag for Gay Pride week. Today he was standing fairly peacefully, his revolutionary torch before him, Western capitalism surrounding him in the form of stores and restaurants, and trees blushing red as autumn deepened.
Rob had his camera bag slung over his shoulder, more out of habit than because he’d had any real intention of snapping photos. He’d learned long ago that a working photographer is always on. If a giant meteor fell out of the sky and crushed Lenin, he’d kill himself if he’d b
een right here, an eyewitness, and had missed documenting the event.
Not that any meteors seemed to be in sight. The sky was clear and sunny, unusual for fall in Seattle. The mild weather had brought people out to walk and chat and stroll.
Apart from tourists, nobody paid much attention to the formidable statue, all going about their business, living their lives. Once again he experienced that odd feeling of the similarity of most people’s lives and concerns no matter where they live. Here came a mother chastising her son for something. The kid’s expression was so bored as he slouched along at her side, Rob had his camera out before he realized his intention.
He forgot the pain in his leg, forgot his enforced exile from work, forgot the annoyance of two bossy women trying to sell his grandmother’s house with the maximum disturbance to him, forgot even the inconvenience of his strong attraction to his uppity Realtor.
He snapped photos, tiny frozen moments in time, knowing the best ones would tell a story, evoke an emotion, bring strangers together in one fleeting moment of recognition. Maybe it was good for him to have this time. He discovered that without the heat of conflict, which was usually the environment in which he worked, he had more time to frame and set up shots, wait for the perfect moment.
The wobble of the chocolate gelato balanced precariously on a toddler’s cone while mom and an older woman, maybe grandma, chatted together, the lick that sent the scoop tumbling, the splat, the wail of grief and despair.
The fussing women, the kid’s tears.
He’d seen enough of kids’ tears that he couldn’t do anything about but report whatever conflict the innocents had been caught in. This he could fix.
He quickly walked into the ice-cream store, paid for a replacement cone and made the teenage boy working behind the counter in a striped apron deliver it so there’d be no misunderstandings. No embarrassing gratitude.
He got his reward when the little kid stopped crying and took the brand-new cone with a hiccup and a lisped thanks, his heartbreak melting faster than the lump of ice cream on the pavement.
When Rob next checked the time, the sun was setting and he saw on his watch that two hours had passed with the speed of minutes. He packed up his bag, gripped his grandmother’s cane and made his slow way to his grandmother’s old Buick which he’d jump-started since the battery had gone dead.
He had no idea what he was going to do with the images he’d captured today, but he had the pleasant sensation of a good day’s work.
He decided to reward himself with a good meal of the freshest Pacific Northwest ingredients. If he bought enough food for two, that was his business.
And since he was in town only for a short time, he carefully drove his grandmother’s Buick to Pike Place Market. The place was bustling as usual and smelled of spices mixed with coffee mixed with the scents of artisanal cheeses and fresh flowers, all flowing around him and interweaving with memories of souks and farmer’s markets all over the world.
His camera trigger finger began to itch until he gave in and once more pulled out his equipment. The personality of Pike’s was as individual as the souks of Marrakech and yet...
He spent a happy thirty minutes or so loading up on fresh ingredients for dinner. Because he was an optimist, he even bought wine. Which he would never drink alone.
* * *
WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME, Rob was pleased to see the lights were still on in the house. That meant Hailey was probably waiting for him.
Sure enough when he opened the front door and limped inside she came out of the kitchen with her suit jacket on and her bag in her hand.
“I was waiting for you,” she said.
“So I see.” He lifted the sack of groceries. “I’m cooking if you want to stay for dinner.”
She fiddled with the button on her jacket. Glanced up at him, blushed and glanced back down. He was cold, tired and his leg throbbed but one glance from those blue-gray eyes and he was transported back to their steamy session in the bedroom.
“I—um— Maybe we should talk,” she said.
“Uh-huh?” He put down his bags, slipped off his jacket and hung it on the old oak coat tree she’d stripped bare before the customers arrived, though if you asked him, a coat tree with no coats on it looked a damned sight stranger than one with a coat or two hanging from it.
“Dinner is, uh, unexpected.”
“Not when it’s dinnertime.”
She gripped the handle of her briefcase. “What happened...” She stumbled to a halt and for some reason, he began to enjoy himself.
“You mean the kissing?”
He leaned against the wall, partly so he could take the weight off his injured leg and partly so he could watch her face.
“Yes. Yes. The kissing.” She looked adorable, sexy, unsure, confused, a little irritated. “It was very unprofessional.” She fiddled with that button some more. “It won’t happen again.”
Good. That was excellent news. Whatever crazy bug had bitten the pair of them, they’d both obviously come to their senses. Getting involved with a high-strung Realtor who was attempting to sell his house was a terrible idea. He’d had some bad ones, and this was up there with the worst.
So why did he have to be perverse? Why couldn’t he simply agree it was a bad idea, shake her hand and promise to keep his distance if she kept hers?
Because he was a born fool, that’s why. And kissing her again might be a bad idea, but not kissing her again seemed infinitely worse. “It won’t happen again?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“But what if I want it to happen again?”
Her lips quirked at that, and he could see her trying to reel in the smile. “I’m your Realtor. Our relationship has to be strictly professional.”
“I see.”
He regarded her for a moment, crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I suppose I could fire you.”
8
“FIRE ME?” Hailey could not believe the words she’d just heard. It was the last thing she’d expected to come out of his mouth. In fact, she’d expected that he’d be as eager as she to put that unfortunate incident behind them.
At least she knew she would if she could only stop thinking about it.
It wasn’t fair. She had plans. Two agendas keeping her life and her future on track. And nowhere, not in the electronic minder and not in the paper backup did she have time slotted in for a personal relationship.
Okay, she knew that these things happened in their own time. Of course she did. But her attraction to Rob wasn’t only inconvenient in its timing, it was horrible on every level. Even if she could stand the idea of a relationship with a man when she really didn’t have time for it, she would never choose a guy like Rob. Never. Not in a million years. He was everything she didn’t want in a man. Restless. A wanderer. She’d had enough of wandering men.
With a father who’d moved his family twelve years out of thirteen she understood her need for stability. The very notion of being with a man who had those same itchy feet was inconceivable.
Her ideal man was a stay-put kind of guy—the kind whose idea of fun was puttering in the garden, working on home-building projects. A thrilling Saturday date would be wandering around a home-improvement store hand in hand, good-naturedly arguing about Brazilian cherrywood for the foyer as opposed to reclaiming the original oak. Naturally, they’d end up reclaiming the oak. She loved old houses that kept their original features. In her mind, Brazilian cherrywood should grace the homes of Brazilians.
Rob’s idea of a Saturday afternoon was shooting footage of rebels in a country most people couldn’t find on a map, never mind pronounce, and then getting shot himself.
So, in spite of the fact that one steamy kiss had disordered her plans, and intruded on her daydreams—and, okay, her night dreams, too, she had to be clear that it couldn’t happen again. Once she’d told him that there’d be no future physical contact between the two of them, she was certain she’d stop thinking about it herself.
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All he had to do was agree with her, maybe even apologize for getting carried away, though she knew perfectly well she’d been as crazed as he had. She blushed even to recall her own actions.
And did he make it easy for her?
Did he agree there’d be no future contact?
Did he apologize?
Hell no. He threatened to fire her. And with the most foolish, sexy grin on his face while he did it.
“You can’t fire me.”
“I believe I can.”
“But—” Even though she knew he was toying with her she still felt irritation pound through her veins. Why couldn’t he make this easy for her? “But—” She shook her head. “You’re not going to fire me.”
He seemed to consider her words carefully. “No. But I probably want to kiss you again. Assuming you want to kiss me again, too, I don’t think we should let a dumb thing like business get in the way.”
“I don’t want to kiss you again,” she blurted, feeling more ridiculous by the second as this absurd conversation continued.
“Then we don’t have a problem.”
“Good. Okay.”
He didn’t argue, didn’t fight for the opportunity to kiss her so senseless she could barely see straight. That was good. That was excellent.
“I still think you should have dinner with me.”
She was so busy thinking of all the scorching kissing they weren’t going to be doing that his request threw her. “What?”
He grinned at her. Leaning against the wall looking sexier than any man should.
“Have dinner with me.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“You’re asking me for a date? Didn’t you hear a single word I just said?”
“I’m not asking you for a date. I stopped at Pike Place Market and bought fresh sockeye, asparagus and potatoes. Seems like too nice a meal to eat alone.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t know how to cook, do you? You want me to make you dinner.”
“I happen to be an excellent cook.”
“I’m not—”
“And you can tell me all about your showing today.”
