by Frankie Love
By the time Ansel knocks on the door I’ve changed my clothes four times. When Maggie came to pick up the kids a half hour ago she told me to chill the fuck out--which is easier said then done. Then she handed me a glass of Chardonnay, which helped with my nerves.
Last night’s fling was one thing--this is an actual date.
She convinced me that a simple black sweater with dark denim skinny jeans paired with my tall leather boots were a simple, sophisticated, and yet “me” ensemble. She said I was golden so long as I didn’t wear my clogs.
“You look beautiful,” Ansel says, walking in from the cold handing me a bouquet of flowers.
“You don’t look half bad yourself,” I say, letting him pull me in for a kiss. It’s so unexpected, to be kissed like this ... without reservation. But I give into it--into him. His kiss is offered without expectation and maybe that’s why it’s so appealing--why he is so appealing.
When we pull apart, I press a hand to my chest, feeling flustered and overwhelmed--in a good way.
“That was one hell of a hello, Greta,” he says, holding my gaze and cupping my face in his hand. I close my eyes, sinking into him, realizing how badly I want to be held. Held by him.
But then I remember myself--the million reasons why I’m acting on impulse and not with my brain. I shake my head, trying to brush the moment away, but Ansel doesn’t let me.
“Greta, do you want me to go?” he asks softly. “I know I kind of forced this date on you this morning, and I don’t want--”
I cut him off. “No, I’m glad you’re here. I want you.” Blushing, I add, “Want you here, I mean.”
“Last night you said you hadn’t been with anyone in ages--am I the first guy you’ve been with since your ex?”
I frown. “Ex?”
“Ex husband, or the father of your--”
I press a finger to his mouth. “There is no ex.” I bite my bottom lip. Why is it that when I’m with Ansel things are on hyper-speed? We haven’t even stepped from my foyer into my messy living room and we’re already discussing the fact that I’m a widow. I thought this conversation could be drawn out over the night ... or over a few days. Not a few minutes.
But that’s what Ansel does to me. Makes me forget all about restraint. Just like last night, when he pulled me to his bed, I wanted to go all in.
“I’m a widow, Ansel. My husband, Luke, died a few years ago. In an accident on the mountain.”
This is the moment that’s always scared me. I don’t want pity or apologies--because I don’t need them. I know what I had with Luke and I’ve mourned what we lost.
But Ansel doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he leans back, his head falling against the front door, and exhales. As if understanding that there are no words for the kind of loss I experienced.
Then he takes my hands and pulls me into his arms. Wrapping them around me so damn tight I think I might not be able to breathe. Still, he holds me tighter.
It’s the one thing I’ve been missing most for two long years, a man to hold me, to steady me. To be my anchor.
“Oh, Greta,” he whispers, pushing my hair from my ear. “You’re so strong.”
And then ... the tears come. I don’t feel strong at all. I couldn’t stop the tears if I tried.
I don’t know why I’m crying in the arms of a man I barely know. He’s holding me tenderly, as if he understands parts of my story that I still haven’t made sense of.
I don’t know why this is the most comforted I’ve felt since Luke died--but it is. And it makes me want to give Ansel everything I have left. All the love a woman could offer a man.
I look up and he uses his thumbs to wipe away my tears and his eyes hold mine so intently that my skin prickles, my core stirs, my heart pounds.
“Fuck, Greta, I want you so bad. And it feels like the most inappropriate thing to think at the moment, but I can’t help how I feel.”
My jaw drops. Over the last few years I’ve encountered all sorts of responses to my loss, but Ansel is the first person who has made me smile after hearing about Luke.
“Who are you?” I ask, laughing through tears. “And why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?”
Ansel holds my cheeks with both hands, then kisses my nose, my forehead, before looking deep into my eyes, a smile spreading across his handsome face.
“So you’re telling me you’re horny, too?”
It’s then that I know I’m in all sorts of life-altering trouble. Because with Ansel it’s no longer just about sex. Suddenly it feels like a whole lot more.
Suddenly, it feels like everything.
10
Ansel
When I met Greta last night, the last thing I expected was to fall for her in a real and deep way--but here I am--twenty-four hours later, my heart melting. It’s like she’s the person I’ve always dreamed of finding, but the sort of woman I didn’t believe was real.
The crazy truth is, she’s the kind of woman I wrote a book about. The kind of woman my friends tease me I’ll never find--this woman-on-a-pedestal. In my novel, Sarah was resilient and above all else, beautiful. So damn beautiful.
Just like Greta.
Except, of course, Greta is real, not just a dream. Which is what Sarah was, a character I dreamt about, the woman I wanted when I closed my eyes at night.
And so I wrote her story. It was a story of death and heartbreak and loss and love.
I want to tell Greta that ... but the idea scares me. Just how much can you know about someone in the space of a day?
Turns out, a hell of a lot.
“So you’re horny,” she says smiling. “But what else do I really know about you?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
I follow her through her house and am amazed at how much of a home this is. Couches filled with throw pillows and stacks of books--so many books. Children’s books, and cookbooks, and novels--bookshelves and end tables filled with them.
There’s also scented candles and Christmas decorations, and a basket of unfolded laundry. Dishes in the sink. There is kids’ artwork on the fridge and a fruit bowl is filled with actual fruit, and when she pulls open the fridge, revealing fully stocked shelves, I realize, in an entirely new way, just how incredible Greta is.
She’s doing all of this on her own--and sure, it’s clear she has a strong support system, but she isn’t just a character from a book--she is a living, breathing woman who is raising a family on her own. I am in awe of her.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at me and pulling out a bottle of white wine.
“You. This house. You have beautiful children and a beautiful life and somehow you are having dinner with me. I just don’t know why.”
She snorts, pouring the wine into two stemless glasses. “Remember the part about being the sexiest man Linesworth has ever seen?” She hands me a glass.
“So we’re back to that, this is just about screwing a hot piece of ass while he’s in town?”
She stares into her wine glass, her tight black sweater hugging her curves in the most tempting way. Finally she looks up, but I can hardly focus on her eyes. Her hard nipples show through the sweater, telling me she’s as wanting as I am.
“Ansel you aren’t just a piece of meat--you’re vulnerable yet still all man. Totally in charge … but also sensitive. You make me feel like there is life after death. Life beyond motherhood.…” She pauses, closing her eyes in a way that makes my heart beat hard, when her eyes close all I see is her. The woman I’ve dreamt about in the flesh.
“All that to say,” she says, opening her eyes and exhaling. “Would you want it to be more, Ansel? More than just sex with a stranger?”
I set down my glass without having taken a sip. My arms are around hers in a matter of seconds, the heat between us growing. This time there are no tears in her eyes, no pain--this time there is only desire.
“I want this to last more than a night, if tha
t’s what you mean?”
She nods. “I want that too,” she tells me.
I pull her mouth to mine, kissing her hard, with a growing need. And she must sense it--feel it--because her hand is on my groin, my hard cock pressing tight against my jeans. I run my hand over the curve of her ass. “Greta, you’re so fucking perfect.”
“Not perfect,” she whispers. “Maybe, just, flawed and --”
“Faithful,” I finish for her, the moment feeling too good to be true.
Her eyes are on mine, filled with wonder. “You’ve read Her Fragile Heart? It’s my favorite book.”
I want to say yes, that in fact I wrote it, but she is caught in a spell, a smile breaking across her face as she practically rips off my clothing, so turned on by the fact I know the words to her favorite novel.
“I could quote you more,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Really?” She unbuttons my flannel shirt, pressing her hands against my bare chest. “That’s hot, Ansel, really hot.”
“Her eyes were like full moons, bright and glowing against a dark night.”
She looks up at me, her hands on my belt, flying over the buckle and tugging at the buttons. “Keep going,” she begs.
In my mind, I flip through the story I’ve practically memorized, fixed on finding the right passage. “Her heart is strong, like beach glass found on the seashore. Beaten and bruised, but not broken. Stronger because of the storm. And colorful, so fucking colorful.”
“Oh my god,” she moans, dropping to her knees and pulling my jeans down. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is?”
My cock is hard and I know the moment she presses her mouth to me, I won’t last long. “Oh Greta,” I groan as her sweet mouth wraps around my length. “You feel so good.”
Her fingers gently massage my shaft, her hand cupping my tight balls, and her tongue swirling over my tip. Dammit, I’m so fucking close to coming.
“Keep talking,” she tells me, looking up from the floor, her eyes big saucers, her open mouth right on my cock. Fuck, she is amazing.
“Darling,” I grunt. “You’re the only sunrise I ever want to see; make me worthy of your dawn.”
I come then, unable to hold back, my hands on her head, steadying, and her hands reach around, grabbing my ass. Her mouth on my cock, deep throating me like it’s the only place she wants to be.
“Oh, yeah,” she moans, taking my ribbons of come in her mouth, swallowing me as I fill her up. When I finish, she slowly stops sucking, as if savoring every last thrust. She licks her lips, slow as fuck, getting me hard all over again as she wipes away a droplet of come.
I take her hands, pulling her to stand, and then kiss the top of her head. Her hand is on my cock, like she doesn’t want to let go, and my hands wrap around her waist, feeling the stretch of skin between the hem of her sweater and her jeans. I could spend the rest of my life touching that sliver of skin.
“How did you know all that?” she asks. And I know what she means. The quotes.
I don’t want to change the moment; the moment where everything in the world made sense--and sure, I’m the guy who just had his cock sucked--so of course I’d say that--but she seems perfectly happy right now. I don’t want to change that.
Still, it feels dishonest not to tell her.
“Actually.” I pause, clearing my throat. “I’m A. Stone.”
She pulls back, looking confused. “Wait, like the author?”
I twist my lips, then confirm with a nod.
“You wrote Sarah’s story?” she asks, her voice hushed.
I nod, scared to speak, scared of whether she is going to slap me or kiss me.
She swallows, her beautiful eyes filling with tears again. “You … your words ... they got me through the hardest ... the most impossible days. You saved me, Ansel.”
I shake my head. “It was a story--I’m no savior.”
She steps away, a hallowed look on her face. “No, Ansel, you are. How can I ever repay you?”
I give her a soft smile, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “You thanked me plenty with that blow job. Now let me do my part--show me your bedroom.”
She blushes, but leads me down the hall to the master bedroom.
“I haven’t been with anyone since Luke,” she confesses, standing in her doorway.
“If you don’t want me to come in, I totally understand.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not that I don’t.” She exhales. “It’s just, I get nervous that you might get halfway through … whatever … and look around my room and see stuffed animals littering the floor and half-empty sippy cups on my bedside table and rethink this evening. Because the thing is, Ansel, I really want to go out with you tonight. To smile and laugh and have fun with you. Hell, I even shaved.”
“And you think me seeing your real life is going to scare me away?”
“Well, doesn’t it? You’re this successful author, living the dream and I’m.…” She shakes her head, covering her face, like I could never understand.
I step toward her, pulling down her hands, and looking into her eyes. “I don’t know why this life of yours doesn’t scare me. But I look around this house and see a life that is being lived, that is full of joy. I’m just a guy living in a condo I never even liked, typing all day in a sterile Seattle coffee shop. My life is dull and redundant. Even if you don’t see it, Greta, you’re life is painted in watercolors. Bold and beautiful.”
“And messy.”
“A little chaos is good for the soul.”
She laughs, unable to resist giving me a smile. “You’re quoting your book again.”
I shrug. “I’m just trying to get in your pants. Is it working?”
She reaches for my belt, this time her eyes no longer nervous; suddenly she’s all warmed up.
“Yes, A. Stone, it’s working.”
Then she pulls me in her room, knowing we don’t need a trail of breadcrumbs to lead us anywhere.
We’re already exactly where we want to be.
11
Greta
Later, we walk down the street toward a small cafe that tourists frequent. I figure it is best to avoid as many locals as possible considering the fact no one’s seen me on a date in years.
Ansel holds my hand as we walk, and my stomach flutters, as if filled with butterflies--it’s like I’ve suddenly forgotten how to talk. I want to ask so many things at once.
When we get to Main Street, though, I pull out my gloves, wanting an excuse to let go of his hand.
“Too much, too soon?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
I nod, appreciating that he seems to understand. “It’s a small town, and people talk.”
“You got quiet since we left the house,” he says. “Everything okay?”
I bite my bottom lip, standing under the light of a street lamp. “It’s strange, you having written my favorite book. I feel like I know your deepest thoughts. The words you wrote were so bare, so raw.”
“Does that scare you?”
“I think I’m most scared of being hurt. Of falling for someone who won’t be there to catch me.”
“Are you saying that you’re falling for me after one day?” he asks, smiling down at me. His long hair falls in his eyes, and he brushes it away so our eyes can meet.
I feel heat rising to my cheeks because that is exactly what I mean. “Maybe I’m just infatuated with the idea that you’re a famous writer.”
He laughs, but it’s a sad laugh. “I hate leading with the truth--people hear I wrote that book and they see me differently.”
“I understand. That’s what happens when I tell people about Luke. They get this sad look in their eyes, which I understand--it is sad. But you, Ansel, didn’t act like everyone else when I told you.” I shake my head, not knowing if I’m making sense. “And the thing is, I do see you differently, and that makes me feel crappy, because I’m doing to you what I hate people doing to me.”
“Greta,” he says, rea
ching for my hand, small-town gossip be damned. “It’s not the same.”
“Why not? I want to ask you why you wrote Sarah the way you did--I want to ask what inspired you and what spoke to you ... a million things I’m sure you get asked all the time. I’m a cliché.” I close my eyes, feeling so basic all of a sudden.
“You’re not a cliché. And it feels different when you say you want to know those things, because I want to know all about you, too. It’s a two way street.”
“But Ansel, after a day, why do you care?”
He shakes his head, then exhales, looking up at the stars. “I wrote that book after dreaming of a woman, of her story.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking down at me. “Sarah experienced loss, and in order to understand that, I spent a lot of time interviewing people who had gone through really hard things to understand my character better. And I don’t know ... maybe it sounds crazy, but it makes me feel like I understand you better too. Like, maybe I could be enough for you. And I know that’s insane and that love at first sight is for dreamers--but dammit, that’s what I am. I’m a dreamer. What are you?”
How do you answer a man when they put it all out there like that? I’m not used to speeches and heart-to-hearts. Luke was many things; solid and my anchor, for sure, but he wasn’t eloquent, he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve.
And Ansel? He opened my heart up when it was most fragile, before he ever met me, the first time I read his book. That makes me trust him.
“I’ve spent the last few years being a survivor, Ansel. Dreaming seemed farfetched, heck, it wasn’t even on my radar. But I do know that I’m ready for more than just getting through my days--I want--” At that my voice cracks, and Ansel closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around me.
With my face pressed against his chest I finish my thought, “Ansel, I want more. I want another happily ever after.”
“Let me give it to you then,” he says. “Let me give you the ending you deserve.”
I breathe him in, and I know that cinnamon and sandalwood will forever remind me of this man holding me.
