by Jean Joachim
"Lunch? I'm leaving early tomorrow, so taking lunch today wouldn't go over well. But I have to eat."
"I brought a sandwich. Come hide in my office and we'll eat," Rosie offered.
Carrie agreed, returned to her office and pulled up Country Lane project number 112 on her computer.
****
At one o'clock on Friday she packed up her briefcase to work at home on Sunday. A piece of paper slipped out of her agenda book and fell on the floor, right under her feet. She picked it up. It read it: "Mom's Beef Bourguinon Short Cut Recipe."
She tucked the recipe into her pocket and walked out. It was overcast with rain threatening, a chilly late September day in New York. She wrapped her raincoat around herself and walked to the subway.
The wind whipped down west 78th Street, blowing Carrie's hair in front of her face as she approached the brownstone that housed her apartment. Loaded down with groceries, Carrie could barely make it up the three flights to apartment. She dropped everything inside her front door and ran to shut the windows as the apartment was chilly. She put on music, unpacked the groceries and pulled the paper with the recipe on it out of her pocket.
"Okay, Mom, here I go," she said to herself as her favorite Michael Bublé song, "Haven't Met You Yet" came on.
The pre-heating oven warmed the whole apartment. Carrie undressed down to a comfortable shift and began to cook, sing and dance to the music. Cooking was fun for her, especially with her mother before the family got fractured with her parent becoming obsessed with making tons of money and working twenty-four seven.
Her mother and father had started a catering business together when they were both unemployed and Carrie was only ten. The business had taken off because her parents worked night and day to make it a success. Carrie was raised mainly by her grandmother as her parents were always cooking, supervising events and selling their services, especially during holidays. The more successful they became, the more driven they became, terrified of losing all they had acquired. At first, Carrie missed them terribly but soon got used to being alone. She never quite adjusted to being on her own during holidays and those days remained difficult for her even now.
Her one-bedroom apartment had a tiny fireplace in the living room and a balcony with French doors. The small kitchen, tucked between the living room and bedroom was well-equipped. She laid out the meat, chopped mushrooms, cooked the bacon and opened wine, pouring a generous glass for herself.
At five o'clock she put the dish in the oven and sat down with her glass of wine to put her feet up. She was already feeling better. Then she realized Grey was expecting to take her out to eat on Saturday and she had cooked. She picked up the phone.
"Hi there," she said, when he answered before she took another sip of wine.
"Carrie? Saturday… You're not canceling on me, are you?" His tone became urgent and questioning.
"A change of plans," she corrected, sitting up straight putting her feet back on the floor.
"No dinner?"
"Dinner here. Okay?" She chewed her lip.
"Your place?"
"I found an old recipe of my mom's and decided to make it. It's in the oven cooking now…smells great."
"Hmmm. What is it?"
"Boeuf Bourguinon."
"I'm impressed and salivating already."
"Keep your pants on, handsome…" Carrie smiled and sat back on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table.
"What made you think…"
"Tuesday night?"
"I'm salivating in that department, too."
She laughed. "Are you assuming we'll…"
"Not assuming anything here…but a guy can hope, can't he?"
"Tomorrow will be our third date." Carrie picked up her wine glass and took a sip.
"Our fourth."
"The first one was business," she corrected him.
"That's what you think."
"It was a date? You didn't even kiss me goodnight!" She put her feet down and sat up.
"Checking you out before puckering up."
She laughed.
"Same time tomorrow? Or do you want me to come over tonight and…uh…stay until tomorrow…then I'm sure to be on time," he chuckled.
"Good try. Six o'clock like we said and don't be late or I'll start without you…"
"Start what without me…oh…the food! I see."
She giggled, shook her head, hung up the phone, and got up to check the oven.
Chapter Eight
By five thirty on Saturday, Carrie put finishing touches on her makeup, and then she was ready. She wore a long-sleeved, cream-colored cotton sweater, low cut over skin-tight, stretchy jeans. Around her neck was an amethyst pendant that hung down almost to her breasts. She added the matching earrings and fluffed her hair.
The Beouf Bourguinon was in the oven, warming up. The aroma filled the apartment and seeped out from under the door, wafting down the stairs to fill the narrow hallways and tiny vestibule. The table was set with her best dishes, white with tiny butterflies and flowers in shades of lavender and light green. The small round table was covered with a lavender cloth to the floor, topped by a shorter one in darker purple layering the setting. The crystal wine and water glasses were shining and there was one silver candlestick with a light green candle perched in the middle of the table. Pretty romantic, he might get ideas. He's already got ideas, I have to make up my mind what I want to happen.
Carrie dabbed a little lilac perfume on her wrists and between her breasts. Just as she was putting the stopper back on the perfume, the buzzer to the outside door sounded. She looked at her watch, two minutes of six. She giggled to herself as she walked over to the outer door release button, surprised by the excitement bubbling up inside her.
****
As soon as he opened the wrought iron front door to the brownstone, Grey smelled the French stew cooking. I hope that's coming from Carrie's place. As he climbed the two flights of stairs, the aroma grew stronger and he felt his stomach rumble in response. He held an expensive bottle of red wine in one hand and a dozen red roses in the other. A smile grew on his face as he was pretty confident he'd get the chance to make love to her. He'd been thinking about Carrie all week, the taste of her lips, the feel of her breasts, the firmness of her butt. Being able to enjoy a baseball game together was icing on the cake. Unlike other women, she had crawled under his skin quickly, inching closer to his well-protected heart.
When she opened the door, she looked beautiful and he was right, the wonderful cooking smell came from her apartment. He kissed her lightly, handed her the flowers and stepped inside. Expecting to find, like every other woman her age, an apartment sparsely furnished in cheap furniture, his mouth fell open at what he saw. He walked into the living room and was struck by the beautiful red and orange striped matching loveseats on either side of the fireplace. An old cobbler's bench served as a coffee table between the sofas. An antique pine corner cabinet, shined to a gloss, hugged the corner while tan burlap curtains moved in the slight breeze that entered even when the windows were closed.
"Your apartment is beautiful. Did you do this?" His gaze traveled through the living room to the kitchen and down the long hallway to her bedroom.
"Do you mean, did I hire a decorator? Hell no, why would I?" she asked.
"Some people prefer to leave decorating to someone else."
"This is my home. I want it the way I want it. My taste. Can't leave that to someone else." Carrie handed him a corkscrew.
"I agree." He went to work on the bottle of cabernet sauvignon he brought.
"Did you decorate your own place?"
He shook his head. "I hired help. I didn't know where to begin," he said, embarrassed.
A timer went off in the kitchen, calling Carrie before she had a chance to respond. He noticed the round table romantically set for two and the French doors with gauzy white curtains. There was a straw rug, early American lamps, two throw pillows and some small pieces of art on the white marble mantle. A narrow
credenza fit behind one of the sofas and held a beautiful basket filled with fruit. There was a small bowl of nuts on the cobbler's bench. He never expected to see such an enchanting apartment when she opened the door. He glanced down the short hallway toward the bedroom.
"Off limits for now…" she said, her eyes following his gaze.
"Can't I get a tour? I love what you've done, can I see the rest?"
"Sure, come on," she led him to the terrace which had a small dark gray wrought iron table and two with peacock-blue-cushioned chairs, also wrought iron. Then she took him down the long hallway turned into a mini-gallery for the original art hung there. There was an impressionistic pen-and-ink sailboat, two decorative plates in red with gold and turquoise highlights, a large mountain scene oil painting and several others he didn't have time to examine closely on his swift walk back to the bedroom. Carrie's bedroom walls were painted light sky blue paint on the walls, trimmed in soft yellow. The bedspread was a country print in shades of blue, yellow and white. She had a small country French antique pine chest of drawers and white lamps on either side of the bed. He noticed the queen-sized bed and smiled.
"What's that for?"
"What?" Grey tried to change his smile to one of innocence but failed.
"The wicked grin on your face."
"Nothing, nothing, admiring your bedroom. It's a great room, nicely done. Can't I do that without an ulterior motive?"
"What do you like about it?" Carrie narrowed her eyes and turned to face him squarely.
"The décor…the colors…to be honest, the size of the bed tells me a lot about you."
"How so?"
"If it were a twin-sized bed, then I could be pretty certain we wouldn't be sharing it any time soon…a double bed means I have a 50/50 chance, but a queen-sized bed means…" he blushed, suddenly aware he was giving away too much.
"Means?" She prodded.
"Never mind," he said, moving toward the door.
She pulled on his arm and he turned.
"Means what?" She insisted. She blocked his path to the door and put her hand on her hips.
"Means you're interested in…spending some time with someone else in a bed big enough for two, especially a man my size."
"I see. Leaping to some pretty big conclusions here aren't you?" She put her hand over her mouth to cover a smile.
"Hope is speaking again," he said, pulling her closer for a kiss.
"Gotta get the dinner," she said, pulling out of his arms and moving down the hall.
Grey followed behind her, watching her sway as she walked, his desire growing. His heart began to beat more rapidly as he realized Carrie might be the one woman who met all three criteria on his list.
She arranged the roses he brought in a vase and put them on the coffee table, then stopped to give him a quick "thank you" kiss and returned to the kitchen. He stood in the living room looking around at the pieces of original artwork on her walls, each perfectly framed and artfully arranged, until he heard a scream, then a clatter. He ran into the kitchen to find Carrie clutching her hand, tears in her eyes.
"What happened?"
"Sometimes I forget…I picked up the pan without the mitt," she said.
Grey quickly and calmly reached into the freezer and grabbed a few pieces of ice. He took her hand, gently placed the ice on the burned skin and held it there with one hand. With the other, he took a small bowl out of the cabinet and filled it with cold water. Then he plunked the ice in the water and led her to the dinner table. She sat down and he put her hand in the ice water.
"Keep it there. I'll get the food," he said, kissing the damaged area before putting it in the bowl, wiping away a tear on her cheek with his thumb.
Carrie sat back, keeping her hand in the icy water. She watched Grey handle the casserole adeptly and get the noodles and salad to the table.
"You have experience, I see," she said, trying to light the candle with one hand.
"In a big family, everyone helps at mealtimes," he replied, removing the matches from her hand and lighting the candle with one sweep.
"Where did you grow up?"
"Upstate New York, in a small town…you've probably never heard of it, Pine Grove."
She shook her head.
"Country boy, eh?" Carrie put her burned hand back in the ice water.
"Easily transplanted to the big city." He returned to the kitchen.
"Ever get back home?"
"For every holiday." He raised his voice so she could hear him as he turned off the over and put away the oven mitts.
"You're lucky."
"Don't you visit your parents?" He asked, sitting down at the table.
"They have busy lives. Sometimes I go at Christmas, but traveling then is such a zoo."
"What about your brother?"
"He spends time with them, it's not as far for him and he's a teacher, so he has the time."
He heard a tinge of sadness in her voice. A woman with all these talents and she wasn't married or engaged…or was she?
"You're not involved with anyone, are you?" He poured more wine.
"Would I be dating you if I was?" She looked up at him.
"I hope not."
"I'm available, if that's your question. I'm not seeing anyone…anyone regularly." She took a sip of the wine he brought and smiled her approval.
"To the cook, long life and much happiness," he said, bringing the glass to his lips.
She smiled and drank, too.
"Then there is someone else?" His head jerked up slightly as his eyes gaze made contact with hers.
"Not really. There were…uh…was. You didn't think I was sitting at home every night waiting for your call, do you? I had one or two men in my life when you came along."
"And now?"
"Now?" She blushed.
"Are you still seeing them?" He shook out the cloth napkin and spread it on his lap.
"Actually…well…"
"Well what?" He demanded, staring into her eyes.
"I'm not," she admitted, dropping her gaze to her plate.
"Good. I don't share," he said, taking his first bite.
"And you?" she asked, eyeing him keenly.
"You're my one and only now." Yesterday he'd decided not to call Monica again. Or Louisa either. He had no interest in either of them, or any other woman since he met Carrie.
"Now? I don't share either," She stated, raising an eyebrow.
Whew! Close call. Never thought about her having another guy.
"This is amazing," he said, closing his eyes, rolling the food around in his mouth for a few seconds.
"It's good, isn't it?" She cut the tender meat with the side of her fork, avoiding using her injured hand.
"God, it's more than good, it's incredible. You made this?"
"From mom's secret recipe." Her smile grew wide.
She's got the first two on the list nailed, cold.
He felt nervous and giddy, watching her come closer to fulfilling his dreams. No one else had come this close in a long time. It seemed finding a woman who could cook and create a tasteful home was like finding a four-leaf clover. He dug into the food, savoring every bite.
They ate in silence for a while, until Carrie swiped her tongue across her bottom lip to lick off some gravy. Grey watched her tongue and felt his pulse climb. She looked at his eyes, then dropped her gaze to his lips. She blushed when he smiled knowingly at her and focused on her food again.
When they finished, Grey got up to clear the table.
"How's your hand?"
"Much better, thanks." She said, looking at the red spots on the inside of her fingers.
"Stay there. I'll clear. Do you want me to stack them?"
Chapter Nine
As she watched Grey move back and forth between the kitchen and the dining table, she couldn't take her eyes off his trim body clad in a simple sports shirt and gray slacks. His camel jacket was hung behind the front door. Her heart melted. No one had made a physical hurt b
etter for her in so long she couldn't remember. He was sneaking into her heart too fast. With the stress and craziness at work, the last thing she needed was a love affair. Love took effort, energy, shaving your legs on a regular basis, time and attention she didn't have while her job was in jeopardy.
Try as she might, she couldn't resist Grey Andrews. Forget the chemistry, his sweetness, his generosity and his sense of humor were beyond resisting. Can't forget the chemistry. Once he got near her, touched her again, she knew she'd fall into his arms, giving herself to him enthusiastically. Okay, I want him. This is crazy, insane. There's no time for him…but I want him.
"We have lemon sorbet for dessert," she said, getting up as he sat down after clearing the table. "Want coffee, too?"
When she walked by, he stopped her by putting his hands on her waist, and pulled her into his lap.
"All I want for dessert is you," he whispered in her ear, sliding his hand under her hair, gently urging her face closer to his. His lips closed over hers in a sweet kiss. She put her arms around his neck. His tongue found hers and they played for a little bit. Carrie's breathing quickened as his left hand moved up over her sweater to capture her breast. She groaned softly, wanting more.
He massaged her breast, finding her nipple and ran his thumb over it, making it hard. Carrie softened against him, urging him on. His right hand reached around behind her and slipped under her sweater. He released her bra with one hand, then returned to her waist while the other hand dove under her sweater, under her bra to make contact with her naked breast. She gasped as his cool hand covered her warm flesh.
"Sorry," he muttered, removing his lips from hers for a quick second.
His hand continued to fondle her breast. He caressed it, squeezed it…thumbed and circled her nipple. His lips left hers and headed for her neck. His nibbled his way down her neck and down her chest, while he slowly slipped the shoulder of her sweater down until her breast was exposed to his lips, which devoured it eagerly.
Carrie was panting slightly, running her hand through his hair, closing her eyes. Heat filled her body, wetness pooled between her legs.
