by Jill Winters
This was crazy. He hadn't seen her or even thought much about her in two years, and now he was burning.
"All right, I think we're finally done!" Reese's mom announced. Ally heaved a dramatic sigh and flopped back onto Ben's shoulder as if exhausted. Angela muttered, "Thank you, God," and her husband said nothing. Mr. Brock had fallen asleep on the recliner.
Everyone stood up and headed out of the family room. Brian and Reese slowly got to their feet as well, not making eye contact. Brian was too aroused to think straight, preoccupied with a fierce urge to take her right there, against the wall.
As people filed out the front door, bidding their good-byes, Brian said, "Bye, Reese. It was good seeing you again."
She smiled a little shyly as her face turned a rosy kind of color that brought out the light green of her eyes. "Yeah, um, thanks for understanding, you know, about the cafe." Brian watched her lick her lower lip. Then he watched her bite it, and hold it under her teeth too long to be anything but suggestive.
Chapter 11
Brian stripped down and stepped into the shower. Lathering the soap, he rubbed it up and down his body in quick movements, eager to get finished so he could fall into bed. He picked up the shampoo bottle, threw a glob on his head, and scrubbed roughly. Then, with his chin tipped down, he took the brunt of hot, beating spray, and thought about Reese.
The whole night had been so unexpected. The Brocks were really a charming family. Ally had been her usual free-spirited self, and the older sister, Angela, was also sweet. Her husband seemed like a good guy, too. And Reese... there was obviously something about her that excited him on his most basic gut level.
Closing his eyes, he replayed one of his fantasies until his nostrils were flaring and his chest was tight. Bracing one hand on the shower wall, he used the other to soap and squeeze the hard, swollen part of him that was aching.
After his shower, Brian carelessly towel-dried his hair, shoved on some clean boxers, and fell into bed in exhaustion. When he heard his phone ring, he almost groaned. There was no way he was getting up. No. Way.
But what if it was an emergency?
He cocked his ear as his answering machine picked up.
"Hi, Bri, it's me." Veronica. "Well... I just called to talk. I hope you're having a good night. Where are you? Well, just give me a call at work tomorrow, okay? Sweet dreams."
Now he did groan—and roll onto his back to stare at the ceiling and think things through. He and Veronica weren't back together yet, but it looked like they were heading in that direction. She'd made it very clear what she wanted, and that was to resurrect the eight-year relationship they had ended two years before.
He'd met Veronica when he was nineteen, and they were both undergraduates at Ithaca College. They'd dated through college and graduate school. Brian had moved back to Boston to get his master's degree in structural engineering, while Veronica had stayed in upstate New York and tried to pursue ballet dancing. She'd pursued it on a very small, local scale, but it was her passion, so Brian had always been supportive despite the pain she was constantly in, and all the obsessing she did about her weight during their long-distance phone calls.
When he'd finished graduate school, he'd gotten a job at a small engineering firm in New York City. Shortly after, he and Veronica got engaged and moved in together.
He never in a million years thought they wouldn't end up together—he never could've predicted that he'd be lying here alone at thirty, unmarried and lost. Not to mention overworked and sometimes nearly miserable. But the two years they'd spent engaged had been by far the worst in their relationship. Veronica, who'd gotten a job teaching ballet at a high-priced dancing school, had always complained that Brian worked too much.
Of course, looking back, he knew that he'd thrown himself into his work partly as an excuse not to face how their relationship was dying—how they'd drifted apart, both having changed so much since college—but since they hadn't lived in the same city for so long, they'd never stopped to notice.
Ultimately, their breakup was mutual. A little over two years ago, right after Brian had started working for Manhattan C&S, he and Veronica decided to call off their engagement.
Then a few months ago, she had e-mailed him, and suddenly they were communicating again. If Brian had had someone special in his life, it would've been another story; he never would have encouraged her. But he hadn't been involved with anyone at the time—in fact, he'd been so swamped with other things that he hadn't had a real date in months.
The e-mails had begun very casually, but they soon progressed to semi-daily messages, and then to phone calls. Brian hadn't really analyzed it, until two weeks ago when Veronica had confessed to him that she wanted very much for them to get back together. In fact, she had told him flat-out that she hoped they would get married. Her argument involved being older and wiser and realizing what really matters in life.
Still... he had doubts. Veronica had always complained that he took on too much. It had been a source of considerable tension then; he failed to see why it wouldn't be now. Especially when he was taking on the financial responsibility of his entire family. He'd told her about Danny's predicament, but only briefly; she had no idea how invested he was. He honestly didn't know how supportive she would be. He hadn't made any promises to her, though—he'd said that he would need time to think and for them to get to know each other again. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it might not be that simple.
Now Brian sighed and tried to will his head to stop the pounding it'd just started. He had no idea what to do. Part of him was so tempted to fall back into a relationship with Veronica. It would be so nice to have someone to talk to again—to really talk to—to have someone to sleep next to, someone to be warm and soft and comforting.
And it would be really great if... hell, if life would just work itself out. Hah.
* * *
The next morning, Reese found herself suffocated by the all too familiar walls of the Crewlyn College history department. They were mustard yellow, which was set off by the dark tan carpet as luxurious as burlap.
She adjusted the left strap of her bookbag, wherein lay the famous chapter eight of Kimble's book. After eking out as much baloney as she could, she managed to come up with only twenty pages. Kimble wanted forty; oh, well, he was in for a reality check.
Making her way down to Kimble's office, she passed the claustrophobic conference room where all graduate classes were held; the kitchen station where you needed a key to use the microwave, and only tenured professors got keys; and the pseudo-homey lounge where students got together to sling their daily bull.
When she got to Kimble's door, she was flooded by the usual ambivalence—dread, yes, but also a sense of anticipated freedom, because after the meeting, Kimble might be pacified for a while. She knocked. There was no response but she knew he was in there because she could hear the clicking of keys from inside his office. "Professor?" she called quietly, "it's me, Reese."
The clicking continued. So Kimble was typing—undoubtedly deluding himself that he was on a roll and couldn't afford to stop. Realizing she had a little time to kill before she had to be at Roland & Fisk, she rounded the corner, and held her nose as she passed the perpetually smelly men's room that was next to her office.
As soon as she opened the door, it slammed into the corner of her desk. Professors' offices were small, but grad assistants' were microscopic, and windows were generally frowned upon. Of course, this office was a particularly tight fit because she was sharing it with Kenneth, and between them they had two desks, a hundred books, and a lot of paperwork.
Squeezing through the narrow space between the door and the jamb, Reese let out a strained groan and sucked in her tummy. Once she cleared, she plopped her bookbag on top of her desk, which was already a cluttered mess of folders and homework. Kenneth's desk was opposite hers, and literally, the opposite of hers. It was as pristinely neat as a battered, third hand desk could be, with only a tape dispenser,
a blotter, and a dim lamp. He had books neatly lined along the windowsill.
But Reese liked her desk clutter. She'd rather look at that than petrified wood with termite holes.
She dropped into her creaky chair with torn cushions, and spun around to face out. As she cringed at the sharp screech of the hinges, she spotted something peeking out from behind Kenneth's tape dispenser. Hmm... she was just bored enough to investigate.
She wheeled the short distance from her desk to Kenneth's, and picked it up. How odd. It was a hair clip—one of those old-fashioned tortoiseshell barrettes. It definitely wasn't hers... had someone left it in their office?
Oh, well. She couldn't spare the time to analyze it, after all—the sooner she met with Kimble, the sooner she could scoot her butt to Roland & Fisk. She headed back down the hall.
If Kimble ignored her knock this time, she'd just slide the chapter under his door. Lord knew it was skinny enough to fit.
She knocked, and Kimble told her to come in. As soon as she entered, she spotted the minirecorder he had poised in his hand. "Yes, good morning," he said, "I'll be with you in a moment; I'm just dictating some new thoughts before they escape me."
She nodded, and took a seat in the weathered chair in front of his desk. She shrugged off her bookbag and brought it around to lie on the floor by her feet.
"Now, where was I?" Kimble said to himself. "Oh, yes." He depressed the record button, and spoke slowly into the device: "Revisionists will often try to suppress the discovery of historical documents, but we must not let them encumber our pursuit of history. And was it not Karl Marx who once said: 'Never let them see you sweat'? Full stop."
He stopped the recorder and swiveled to face Reese. "Now, I assume you have my chapter?"
"Yeah," she said, managing a friendly smile. She retrieved it from her bookbag. "Here you go."
He weighed it in his hand, not appearing too thrilled with its lightness. He said, "Well, once you incorporate the new ideas I just dictated, it will be more substantial." He rose to his feet. "Now, if you'll just stand over there..." He pointed toward the left-hand wall.
"Wha...?" she said, confused, and rising slowly and moving over. "Over here?"
"Yes, yes." He came out from behind his desk to stand a few feet away, facing her. "Now when I say 'lift'—"
"Professor, I'm sorry... what are you talking about?"
He blinked. "My bookshelves. We're readjusting their height this morning. I mentioned that to you on the telephone yesterday."
She nearly snapped that no, he hadn't mentioned it, damn it! But, ultimately, what would be the point? He would still expect her to do it now, and she'd just end up looking like a complainer. "Um... okay," she said, "but shouldn't we take the books off first?"
"No. Then I'll have to put them all back. Unless..."
Unless she would put them all back—and today. No, that wasn't going to happen. "You're right," she said quickly. "This will be much faster. Plus, I have another job I'm supposed to be at soon."
He did not acknowledge what she'd said, but merely gripped his end of the shelf, and shouted, "Lift!"
She did, and tried not to pass out from the immense weight, as well as the fact that she was clearly doing all of the work. Kimble's end was dipped so low, in fact, that once she set hers on the runners, she had to skirt to the other side, sliding her hands under the roughened wood, and lift Kimble's end up before all the books slid off. Kimble merely stepped aside.
"Good," he stated unemotionally when she'd finished. Her triceps were aching, her fingers were throbbing, and her palms were raw. "Now let's do the other five."
Let's. Interesting choice of words.
By the time Reese got out of there, her entire upper body was aching. And she couldn't help noticing that Crewlyn College got more unappealing with each visit.
* * *
"Good tarts, Brock."
"Oh, thanks," Reese said, as she watched Tina polish off two deformed cranberry tarts that she'd otherwise have to throw out.
"Did you do something special to the recipe? The cinnamon's not as overpowering as usual," Tina said, as she stood barrel-stanced, gripping her cell holster.
Then Reese realized. "Um... no, I didn't do anything." Except forget to put in cinnamon.
"Listen, I'm gonna go back and finish the freezer inventory," Tina said, hitching up her utilitarian white pants. "You gonna be okay out here for a while?"
Reese nodded, "Sure, no problem."
"Thanks, Brock. You're one in a million." The compliment was oddly touching. After Tina descended into kitchen, Reese switched the breakfast blend to the house blend, and pressed "brew." She hummed along with the Sundays CD playing overhead, and started wiping the counter down, when she heard a familiar voice.
"Hi, Reese," Rhoda said with apathy. Clay, who was also on break, stood next to her, and added his own aloof greeting.
"Hey, guys, what's up?" Reese tossed the rag to the side, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to take their order. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Hmm..." Rhoda began, fiddling with the edges of her turban and scrutinizing the menu, as she always did. As if she hadn't seen it a million times—as if she didn't take her break there every single day of her life. As if she didn't know it backward and forward, and as if she weren't going to order the veggie sandwich on a soy-nut pita, with extra hummus, and green tea with a twist of lime. Too bad they were out of lime the last Reese had looked.
After thoroughly surveying the menu, Rhoda finally settled on—shock—her usual order. Then Reese broke the news about the lime. Rhoda responded with an overblown sigh. "Then I guess I'll just have nothing to drink."
"Okay, sorry about that," Reese said, and turned to Clay to take his order.
"Hi, Reese," he said, donning an artificial smile that curved up toward his Nana glasses. "I'll have a honeydew scone with a filtered water. Thanks," he finished with a closemouthed smile, drawing attention to his lips, which were shiny and freshly balmed. As Reese got jumping on their order, Rhoda talked about the acting company she was putting together, and Clay insisted that she star in the play he was currently writing.
Right.
"By the way," Rhoda said to Reese, "you and I are training a new girl tomorrow."
"Oh, really?" Reese said, surprised. "Darcy didn't mention anything to me about it."
Rhoda shrugged, and Clay handed Reese an employee debit card. After she swiped it through and returned it to him, he and Rhoda brought their lunch to their usual table. Grabbing the rag she'd been using before, Reese turned to wipe down the sink.
Just as she was scrubbing in time to "Bright as Yellow," she heard a low, purringly sexy voice address her from behind.
"Uh, can I get a little help over here, or what?"
Her heart banged against the wall of her chest because she knew who it was. Clutching the rag, she swallowed and turned around.
This day was looking up already.
Chapter 12
"Hi, Brian," Reese said.
"Hey," he said, grinning. "How are you?"
For a second, she was tempted to tell him exactly how she was—infatuated, curious, and still reeling from the night before. She'd dreamed about him again. Although she couldn't remember the dream with any real clarity, she knew that she'd woken up hot and horny and twisted in the Victorian sheets.
"I'm okay," she said. "How about you? What are you up to?"
"I'm on my lunch hour. I work around the corner, actually. I usually come here."
"Oh," she said, and fixed her gaze on his mouth. It looked so soft, especially compared to the hard line of his jaw. How could Angela say that Brian was "sort of cute"? The man was so ruggedly sexy, Reese was barely containing an urge to dive over the counter right now.
She leaned against it instead, and grinned. "So I guess today you'll take lunch without the barrage of personal insults?"
"Please," he said. His eyes were gleaming. And just like that, a moment zapped between them. R
eese thought so, anyway, but then Brian quickly looked away and up at the menu board.
She watched him as he surveyed his choices. His neck was arched, giving her no choice but to imagine what it would be like to rim her tongue down his throat. To pull off his tie, pop the buttons off his shirt, and blaze a hot, wet trial down his chest and stomach.
But why stop there? She wasn't a quitter, after all.
"Reese?"
"Oh... what? I'm sorry," she said, pushing some hair back from her face.
He smiled. "No problem. I just asked for a bowl of beef mushroom soup."
"Sure." She turned around to the cabinet and reached up to grab him a bowl. For some reason, bowls were kept on the top shelf, but Reese would never presume to mess with Tina's system. As she went up on tiptoe, she braced herself with one hand on the counter and stretched. Yay, she got it—too bad she'd also been bent just enough to thrust out her bottom, undoubtedly drawing Brian's attention to her ample rear end.
"Would you like something to drink with that?" she called over her shoulder.
"Uh... what?"
When she turned to face him, he looked preoccupied, maybe borderline dazed, but he snapped out of it quickly. "Oh, right, a double espresso. Please."
She nodded and brought his soup over. "So you're one of those?" she said, grinning.
"One of what?"
"You know, people who have hot drinks with soup." She set the bowl down on a tray. "I don't get that."
"Oh, yeah, I know...." His voice trailed off as their gazes locked. Reese's smile faded and a nervous lump took shape in her throat. Then Brian looked down as he took his wallet from his pants and poised himself to pay.
"Hold on," she said lightly, "I've still gotta make your coffee." Skirting over to the espresso machine, she pleaded with her nerves to calm.
"So... I've never seen you in here before. Did you just get the job?"
"No, I've worked here about six months, but I usually work nights. Also, I don't usually work in the cafe." Simultaneously, she dumped two shots of espresso into a small mug.
