The damn thing opened halfway, then stalled.
“Piece of shit.” Mumbling, I tried again. On the small screen I watched as the gate jerked closed.
“Sorry about that,” I spoke through the intercom. “Let’s try again.”
This time the gate swung about three-quarters open and immediately closed itself again.
“Fucking technology,” I said, loudly. “Piece of overpriced useless waste of money.”
Roslyn laughed through the speaker. “Should I hoof it over the fence?”
She’d heard my cursing because my finger still pressed the intercom button.
I rested my forehead on the wall, laughing at myself. “No, I’ll be right there.”
Still cursing, I opened the door to the garage and then pressed the opener for the fourth bay. I mumbled a few more expletives as I started up the Gator and drove at the lightning speed of fifteen miles per hour through the woods to the gate.
Roslyn sat in the driver’s seat texting on her phone when I pulled up and stopped a few feet from the fence.
I climbed out and hit the manual override release on the gate. I’d shoved it open before noticing Roslyn had rolled down her window and leaned out to watch me with a silly smile on her face. For most of the last hour, I’d thought about kissing her as soon as she arrived. Walking closer to her car, I leaned in and gave her a soft peck on the cheek.
“What are you smiling about?” I asked.
The expression in her eyes held amusement. “Cute little green golf cart you have there.”
“It’s a Gator.” I kissed her other cheek before she answered.
“It looks like a tractor mated with a golf cart. It’s so adorable.”
I frowned at her and then the Gator. “It’s a work vehicle. For hauling shit around the property. It’s not meant to be cute.”
She grinned at my grouchy comeback. “Well, it is. I like the little roof. You should drive it in a parade or something.”
I didn’t want to stand at my gate talking about parades. I wanted to be kissing her.
“Right. Next parade I’m asked to join, I’ll take your advice.” Stepping away, I grabbed a small boulder and set it in front of the gate. No point in trying to use the blasted thing until I got it serviced.
“Why do you even have a gate? Are you on the celebrity house tour of Whidbey?” She lowered her voice and swept her hand outside her window. “Through this impressive gate lives the local pizza man. I’ll slow down so you can snap a few selfies for the folks back home.”
I shot her a dirty look. “Ha ha. I’ll follow you back to the house. Park anywhere except in front of the open garage.”
“Should we race?” She revved her engine.
“Only if I get a head start and we’re going downhill. This bad boy is electric.”
Her laughter trailed behind her as she drove through the gate.
Once I parked the Gator, I joined her in the driveway. “So, this is my house.”
Her face held surprise. “It’s not a simple tree fort in the woods.”
She spun in a slow circle, taking in the four car garage attached at a right angle to the large main house, creating a small courtyard with the smaller guest house on the other side. All three Northwest Craftsman style buildings were covered in the same cedar shingles, accented with stone foundations and columns below dark roofs. A pair of cedar logs cut down and milled on the property framed the entry to the front door.
“It’s more beautiful than I imagined. I remember how excited you were about the plans.”
A bittersweet emotion washed over me as I led the way up the steps and inside. She’d been a part of my life when the dreams for this house had been different. I cleared my throat. “I made some changes. Wait until you see inside.”
The enormous stone fireplace flanked by oversized-windows anchored the open living room on the right of the entry. A thick wood log, also milled from one of my trees, created a mantle.
“It’s a lot of wood.” She barely held back her grin. My own smirk at her unintentionally dirty comment mirrored hers. From the hand-hewed hickory floors to exposed beams on the ceiling to the kitchen cabinets to the slab dining table, wood covered many surfaces.
“I wanted it to feel like a hobbit’s house, but with a view.” I pointed out the windows to the deck and water beyond.
She shrugged. “Eh, it’s okay. If you like panoramic vistas and unbridled natural beauty.”
“Come outside.” I felt the familiar sense of pride swell in my chest as she followed me through the French doors to the deck. I wanted to impress her.
“Wow.” I loved the way her eyes widened as she took in the view.
“What’s the water called?”
“Over there is Honeymoon Bay, and to the right is—”
She interrupted me. “Hold on. You’re a bachelor living across from Honeymoon Bay? Can you see the irony?”
“I didn’t think of that when I bought the land and built the house.” I lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
“Why is it called that?”
“No idea. I always think of it as Holmes Harbor. The harbor of Holmes, like Sherlock has a safe place here.”
“You read too many old books.” Her smile told me she approved.
No denying that fact. I’d turned what most people would’ve used as a guest bedroom into a library with floor to ceiling bookshelves.
“Speaking of books, shall we?” I gestured down the hall past the living room.
“Are you going to show me your library, Beast?”
I pointed at the door on our left. “Be my guest.”
“Wow.” She glanced over her shoulder at me from the middle of my book-filled sanctuary.
“Not bad for a recluse, huh?”
At the end of the hall she only peeked her head in my bedroom. Her feet never crossed the threshold.
“The en suite has a steam shower.” I indicated the opening next to the fireplace opposite my king size bed.
She nodded, but refused to enter the room. I began to wonder if I’d have to invite her inside like a vampire when she finally spoke. “Nice.”
I eyed her, trying to figure out her indifference. “Shall we continue?”
After we finished the inside tour with the screening room, gym, and storage room on the lower level, I walked through the kitchen to the hundred bottle wine fridge in the pantry.
“Do you think it’s strange you have a huge house with only one bedroom?” Roslyn perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island.
“No, I live alone.”
“What about guests?”
“I have a guest house with two bedrooms on the other side of the driveway.”
“Don’t you want your family and friends to stay in the same house with you?”
That was a terrible idea. “Why? They’re more comfortable with their own bathrooms and kitchen. I don’t have to worry about walking downstairs to find someone in a robe. Or worse, naked.”
I’d never found anyone naked in this house. Except me.
“You truly are a recluse.”
“I’m in the food service industry. I interact with people all the time.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“In my book, it does. And that’s all that matters.”
“No man is an island, Ashland.”
“I happen to love islands. Why is that even a saying? An island is surrounded by water teeming with creatures and interesting things. Even a deserted island probably has insects and reptiles. There’s nowhere on this planet where man can truly be isolated and alone. Except maybe in solitary confinement. I’m not willing to commit a crime to find out.”
She gave me a strange look. Or maybe her look was normal and I, as the recipient, was the strange part.
“Okay, solitude may be possible in Antarctica, but as far as islands go, all those penguins and scientists might make for odd bedfellows.” I ended my point with the soft pop of a bottle of pinot noir opening. �
�Wine?”
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“That’s not a no.” I filled a stemless glass with a small pour, not even halfway. Into the second glass I poured more. “Your choice. It’s from Willamette.”
She chose the smaller pour. I left the bottle in the middle of the counter in case she changed her mind. To ease the tension about my reclusive life, I volunteered more information.
“I play chess with a friend. We have a weekly standing date on Mondays.”
“Male or female?”
“Does it matter if they’re a friend?”
“Why won’t you say?”
“Why do you care? I have friends.” My inner circle was tiny. Happily so.
Folding her arms across her chest, she squinted at me. “You’re a man of mystery. Are you sure you’re not a spy?”
“If I were, I couldn’t say.” I tasted the wine and held up my glass. “You like it?”
She spun the bottle to see the label. “You remembered the wine I ordered at dinner.”
“I pay attention to the details.”
She sipped her wine. I noted the way her bottom lip pressed against the glass and how long her eyelashes were.
Both the devil and heaven were in the details.
“Let’s finish the tour outside while there’s still light. I’ll show you where I banish my guests.” With my glass in hand, I walked to the front door, knowing she’d follow.
“I didn’t realize you had a cat.”
“I don’t.” I didn’t have any pets.
She pointed at the gray tabby cat skulking across my lawn.
“It’s not mine.”
The cat darted across the open space and rounded the corner on the guest cottage before hopping up on the small bench next to the door.
“He seems to know the area well.”
“It’s a she and she’s a mooch. I’m surprised she hasn’t become an eagle’s meal.”
“That’s uplifting.”
“It would be if she gets caught by an eagle.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Happens all the time on the island. Circle of life. Eagles and coyotes are top of the food chain on land around here.”
Her forehead wrinkled and her mouth hung open a little. “Grim much?”
“It’s the truth of island living. You can’t be mad at an orca for eating a seal.”
She blinked, and a single eyelash settled on her cheekbone. “I can see why you did so well in corporate America.”
I barked out a quick laugh. “Until I understood I was a seal and not the orca. Then it was time to get out of the water.”
“Better than being a shark.
“Soulless killer?” I’d watched enough editions of Shark Week to know the stereotype was wrong, but tell that to my inner, impressionable nine-year-old who watched Jaws unsupervised.
“More like feared and misunderstood.” Her voice held a strange empathy.
“Do you think of yourself as a shark?” I asked.
A small crease reappeared between her eyes. “If we’re talking about business, then yes. According to my critics and clients.”
“Fuck the critics. You’re excellent at your job because you are able to disconnect your emotions.”
“Sometimes I think I’ve buried them so deep I’ve forgotten where to find them.”
Pausing, I turned to face her. “I don’t believe that.”
“You should. You of all people know what it takes to be successful. In fact, it was you who told me there’s no crying in the boardroom.”
“I did say that.” I ran my finger down her cheek. “And I was wrong. We’re not cogs in a machine.”
Something brushed my leg and I jumped. My cat—no I corrected myself—the local mooch, wove herself through my feet in a figure eight pattern before switching to repeat the pattern between Roslyn’s legs.
“She’s sweet. What’s her name?” Roslyn bent at the waist to pet the stray.
“I don’t know her name. She’s not mine.”
“Do you feed her?” I thought I heard a purr as Roslyn continued stroking the cat’s striped fur and I wasn’t sure who made the noise.
“She shows up at the kitchen door. Occasionally I give her something to eat.”
“Daniel, you have a cat.”
“No, I don’t. She not allowed inside.”
“Fine, you have an outdoor cat.”
“I have a stray who mooches food off of me. Look at her? Does she seem starving and homeless to you? She’s probably working a circuit of houses in the area, tricking suckers like me into feeding her. I’ve met my share of hustlers and grifters before. I recognize the type.”
Roslyn straightened up to stare at me. “Then don’t feed her.”
The cat batted at the laces on my boot before her yellow eyes met mine. “What if she starved?”
“You have a tender heart under all your cynicism.” With a soft laugh she bent to pick up the cat. “No sign of a collar. Maybe you should put up a flyer at Sal’s. See if anyone’s missing a cat. Or wants to give her a home. She’s very sweet.”
Cat nuzzled under Roslyn’s chin and blinked her eyes at me.
“You so have a cat.” Roslyn pressed her head against the cat’s.
Ignoring her smug smile, I pointed my thumb over my shoulder at the main house. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved. Are we having pizza?”
I cracked up at her joke. Until I realized she was serious. My laughter faded as I spoke, “Really? You want pizza?”
“Always.” The way the word ended with a small sigh, I couldn’t be sure if she meant the pizza or the man who made it.
“Then we have a problem. I don’t have any dough in the house.”
“Not even in the freezer?” Incredulous, she stopped walking a few feet behind me.
“Nope.” I paused and faced her.
“How is that possible?” She sounded stunned.
“If I want pizza, I make it at the restaurant. Less mess and the oven is better.”
“No, I meant you don’t have any dough in the house. None? At all?”
Slowly I realized the reason for her disbelief wasn’t about the pizza. “My lifetime supply ran out when I left the company.”
She closed her mouth and reopened it twice before speaking. “But, you’re the artisanal bread king.”
“Was. I abdicated when my kingdom was absorbed by a larger one.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me. It had been seven years since I accepted my golden goose as payment for my life’s work. I’d begun making bread with my grandfather and continued in college. After getting my highly employable degree in philosophy, I traveled the country and world, learning about bread baking techniques in small bakeries and family kitchens. I’d always loved the loaves and fishes story in the Bible.
I never imagined half-baked bread could make me millions. I heard Sal’s voice in my head. That’s a lot of dough.
“Come on, I think you’ll like what I’m making. There’s naan involved. That’s technically bread.” I gently pulled her forward by her forearm.
“Bye, kitty.” She waved at the gray cat curled up on the bench by the little house’s door.
“WHERE DID YOU learn to make Tikka Masala like this?” She dragged her finger through a puddle of sauce on her empty plate and licked it off. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
Turmeric tinted her fingertip. She sucked on her index finger, vainly attempting to remove the yellow from her skin. I wanted to sprinkle her naked body with the ochre powder and lick it off, leaving behind tattoos from my tongue.
“London. In my early twenties, I backpacked through the UK and ate a lot of curries. Cheap and delicious was my mantra given my limited funds. After loitering around one curry shop every day, the chef invited me into his kitchen and showed me his secrets.”
“I love Indian food, but it can be so messy. Look at me.” She gestured with her hands, pointing to a stain on her white blouse right above her hard
nipple. Either she teased me, knowingly calling attention to her breasts to torture me, or she was unaware of her body. Or she didn’t care if she affected me.
Given how my pulse quickened, I prayed it wasn’t the last possibility.
“Let me help.” I reached for her hand and kissed the ochre-stained tip of her finger before sucking her finger into my mouth. While dragging my tongue along the underside, I stared into her eyes, watching them darken as her pupils dilated.
I loved how her body responded to me in thousands of subtle ways.
In my head I kept a running list of each response and reaction, and I looked forward to updating it.
Her breath faltered as if she were holding it.
Beneath my fingers on her wrist, her pulse fluttered like a bird taking flight. A deep rose color splashed her cheeks. Other than the kiss I’d given her through the window of her car and a few casual brushes of my hand on her arm, we hadn’t touched since her arrival. And before that it had been a week since our dinner in Seattle.
Add those days to the years I’d only had memories and fantasies of her, I felt like I’d been waiting forever to touch her.
Way too fucking long.
Releasing her finger, I gently tugged on her wrist to bring her closer. She didn’t resist, leaning into me across the corner of the table. Without hesitation, I kissed her mouth.
Memories of a thousand kisses that came before this one flooded my mind. Dinners often ended with us making out or having sex, sometimes at the table or in the kitchen. Other evenings we crashed into bed after long days, making sleepy, slow love. Even the few times we fought, the make up sex had been incredible.
I wanted another chance to create more of these memories, including the make-up sex. Not that I’d pick fights, but I was wise enough to know fights and arguments happened in any healthy relationship. Show me the couple who said they never argued, and I’d spot the true issue: a lack of passion.
I’d never lacked passion.
Pressing my mouth against her full lips, I poured every memory of every prior kiss into this one. My tongue stroked hers, willing her to remember how good we were together.
A soft moan caught in her throat right before she cupped my cheek, her fingers threading into my short beard.
Better Love Page 9
