The Gift of Love

by Peggy Bird

  He was so tidy and neat, she wanted her place to at least appear on the surface to come up to his standard. So the morning was spent clearing away clutter then dusting, vacuuming, or scrubbing whatever she found underneath. She put clean towels out in the bathroom and, on an impulse, changed the sheets on her bed. She had no idea if they’d end the evening there—although if she had her way, they would—but she wanted to be prepared.

  When she was satisfied she had it all tidied up, she hit the grocery store. She planned a completely Cuban meal, everything from the Cuba Libres she’d serve if he wanted something to drink before dinner other than wine, to the ropa vieja over rice and her mother’s standby salad with avocados. She’d end the meal with flan. All were family favorites, and it made her happy to be making them for someone she thought would appreciate them.

  Once back at her apartment, she prepped the meal and set the table. Then she took a long, hot, bubble bath to relax her. It had been so long since she entertained a date where she lived, she was a bit nervous. In the two or so years she’d lived with her parents in Portland, it wouldn’t have been possible, even if she’d met someone, to invite him back to the house. In L.A., she’d shared an apartment with two college friends, making the logistics of arranging to have the space to herself complicated. Besides, most of the men she’d had over for drinks then had been more friends than potential lovers. The last time she’d had a serious boyfriend had been in college, and cooking for him meant trying to find a clean pot, dish, and fork in the old house he shared with three other guys who were as messy as he was.

  This evening felt like something momentous was happening. And it made her both excited and a bit apprehensive. Not scared exactly. But certainly not sure how it would all play out.

  She selected what she would wear with as much care and attention as she had paid to selecting the beef for the main dish and the avocados for the salad. Business dress wasn’t appropriate, but she didn’t want to be ripped-jeans-and-T-shirt casual either. She hadn’t realized how lacking her wardrobe was in date-night clothes until she started looking in her closet after her shower when it was too late to run to Nordie’s. She’d have to do with what was there. After trying on a half dozen possibilities, she settled on a black and white striped sweater with white skinny jeans and her black boots. With a chunky silver necklace and some small silver hoops, she thought it worked.

  A half hour before Taylor was due to arrive, she looked around the apartment and was pleased with what she saw, heard, and smelled. The simmering beef filled the apartment with a delicious, spicy aroma. The place was neater than it had been in weeks and the candles on the low table in front of her couch and on the dining table would lend a romantic glow when they were lit. Playing softly in the background was her favorite music, the Buena Vista Social Club. All she needed was the man, and the evening could begin.

  • • •

  As he shaved, Taylor went back and forth about what to take with him to dinner at Isabella’s. Even though the zoning issue had been resolved, his guilt at causing the problem for Break Up or Make Up was still nagging at him. Which led him to consider things like adding candy or a stuffed animal to the flowers and wine he’d already purchased to try to make up for what he’d done. But, of course, Isabella didn’t know what he’d done, did she? He’d have to tell her first, before explaining why he arrived laden with gifts. And he knew damn well that wasn’t the way he wanted to start off the evening.

  Then there were the condoms staring at him from the counter beside the sink. He’d bought a box while he was out scooping up romantic presents. Now, he wasn’t so sure he should take them. If he left them at home, he wouldn’t be tempted to take Isabella to bed. If he took them, it would mean he had every intention of acting on the chemistry that was as obvious to her as it was to him.

  But what was chemistry without trust? Didn’t she deserve someone more honest and trustworthy than he was? Everything between them so far had been great. But the secret he was hiding could undo it all.

  And then there was the warm and loving family she came from. Didn’t she deserve to be with someone who had a similar background? Someone who would know how to treat a woman so secure in the affection of her family she beamed joy and happiness with any little thing that happened to her. God knows, he wasn’t that guy. He knew how to plan, to prepare for the worst, work for the best, but expect it might fail. As much as he wished he could steal some of her glow, he didn’t think it would rub off on him no matter how close he held her or for how long.

  Rubbing against her. There it was again. All week long he’d thought about the implications of dinner at her apartment. Her tiny apartment where the bedroom was probably only feet away from the living room. Where even the couch would invite him to get horizontal with her, her arms and legs wrapped around him while he kissed her—everyplace.

  Shake it off, Jordan. You are seriously off the rails with this woman. Get back to your plan. Don’t let her get you so turned around. The reflection staring back at him from the mirror might have been nicely shaved, but the expression in his eyes said the pep talk hadn’t taken. He had to face it—all he wanted to do with his attraction to Isabella was to enjoy it, his plans be damned. Now, with her troubles with the city staff over, chemistry could gain an edge over guilt. If he’d let it.

  The upshot of his conversation with himself was a few condoms found their way into his wallet as he got ready to leave for Isabella’s. He told himself taking them didn’t mean he had to use them. But he knew he had every intention of returning home with at least one of them flushed away.

  • • •

  In his eagerness to see her, he got to Isabella’s apartment ten minutes early. He debated waiting in his car until the appointed time, but he couldn’t. Luckily, she looked happy to see him when she answered his knock.

  “I’m early. Do you mind?” he said. Then fully registering what he saw, he said, “You look beautiful.”

  “Early is fine. Come in. And thank you for the compliment. I think I’m supposed to say ‘oh, these old things’ and pretend I merely threw something on. But it would be a lie. It took me forever to decide what to wear.”

  He was unduly pleased she had spent some time deciding on her wardrobe for the evening. “I don’t know much about Cuban national dress, but I don’t think that’s what you’re wearing.”

  She laughed. “No, nothing I own qualifies, but my necklace was made for me by a Cuban jewelry designer in Miami, if that counts.”

  “It’s lovely.” He touched the largest of the silver circles on the necklace, felt the heat of her through her sweater, and heard her sudden intake of breath at his touch. He pulled his hand away quickly. “I, uh, brought some wine. And flowers.” He handed her his offerings. “I tried to find mariposa but ...”

  “You knew that’s the national flower of Cuba?” she interrupted as she took the flowers from him. “I’m amazed.”

  “No, I didn’t. But Mr. Google knew, and he’s always willing to share his information.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any in any florist shop I called.”

  As water filled a clear glass vase, she cut off the bottoms of the stems of the bouquet of Gerbera daisies. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any in the west, come to think of it. Last time I saw a mariposa was in Miami.” She arranged the flowers neatly and set the vase on the counter. “Now, can I get you a drink? To follow the theme of the evening, I can make Cuba Libres or we can open the bottle of wine you brought.”

  “Cuba Libres. That brings back memories. I haven’t had one since I was a teenager. My brother used to make them with the rum he stole from our parents. The Coke made the alcohol tolerable. Let’s have one of those and save the wine for dinner. I hope red works with what you’re serving.”

  “It’s ropa vieja—old clothes.”

  “Smells awfully good for something named after Goodwill donations.”

  “It’s shredded beef, but it’s supposed to look l
ike rags. The story goes, a poor man added old clothes to the meager meal he had for his children, and magically, it turned into beef. I think red works with either beef or rags, don’t you?” She opened a cabinet above the counter next to the sink and reached for glasses that were clearly too high for her to grab. “I guess I need a stool to get the glasses.”

  He came up behind her. “Which ones do you want?” Her scent flooded his brain with all sorts of erotic messages—not particularly difficult to do given his internal dialogue while he shaved.

  She leaned back a bit, her firm little butt brushing against him, and pointed at the top shelf. “Those, up there.” Her voice sounded tight, thick. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, and her breast brushed his arm. “Do you see which ones I mean?”

  “Which ones, where?” He knew exactly what she wanted, but what he wanted was more contact between their bodies.

  She responded by stretching a bit more and pulling his hand higher, both actions increasing the friction of her body against his. “There. The tall ones.”

  He tried to think of some way to keep the conversation about glasses going so she wouldn’t move away from him but knew that if he kept pretending he couldn’t see the row of highball glasses on the top shelf, she’d wonder if he’d lost his mind.

  “Got them.” He snagged two glasses and brought them down. But he didn’t move after he placed them on the counter. Instead he turned her around in the circle of his arms before touching her face with the palm of his hand. She leaned her cheek into his hand and sighed softly.

  He couldn’t stop himself. With his free hand, he drew her against him and lowered his head so he could kiss her.

  • • •

  Oh God, she’d wanted this since the minute she’d opened the door and seen him standing there. He looked so seriously delicious in his navy slacks and white Oxford cloth shirt. When he took off his leather jacket, she could see the golden hairs on his arms where he’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. She wanted to run her hand over them, find out if they were soft or crisp. Play with them. Nibble on them.

  She closed her eyes, ran her hands up his arms, and felt them now. His skin was warm, the hairs soft. Every nerve in her body was doing a happy dance as he gently touched her mouth with his, then nipped at her lower lip. When she moaned, he slicked his tongue over the little bites, as if to soothe her. She could taste his toothpaste, smell his aftershave. Feel his arousal against her.

  The fingers of one hand were spread along her jaw so he could tilt her head to give him a perfect fit for the kiss. The other hand slid down her bottom so he could press her hips against his. It was all she could do to keep herself from rubbing against him like a cat in heat.

  He broke the kiss and murmured something—her name, she thought. Whatever it was made her shiver with anticipation. When he came back for another kiss, it wasn’t soft or gentle this time. It was rougher, deeper, more passionate. She responded with all the pent-up attraction she’d felt for him since the first day she’d met him. Her nipples were in painful peaks squeezed against his chest. She knew it would only take a little encouragement, and they would be continuing this exploration in the comfort of her bedroom.

  Then the timer on the stove began to buzz. It was loud, harsh, and she knew it wouldn’t stop until she stopped it.

  She pulled out of his arms. “I’m so sorry. It’s the rice making that noise. The timer, I mean, reminding me to start the rice.” She punched the button on the stove with vehemence, annoyed they’d been interrupted.

  “It’s okay. At the rate we were going, your dinner would be ruined.” He looked around as if to find something to distract him, his gaze landing on the glasses he’d brought out of the cabinet. He grabbed them and filled them—overfilled them, really—with cubes from the icemaker. She knew how he felt. She needed something to cool her down, too. “I can finish making the drinks,” he said, “while you deal with the rice, if you’ll point me in the direction of your rum.”

  She showed him the cabinet where she kept a couple bottles of hard liquor before going about her task, grateful it didn’t take anything more complicated than boiling water because after that kiss, anything else would have been impossible to do.

  He kept her company in the kitchen, drinking his rum and Coke, while she finished preparing their dinner. Her ability to carry on a conversation returned, and she explained the food to him, giving him tastes of the meat and a sample of the salad dressing. The atmosphere didn’t cool off much, in spite of the ice cubes and cold drinks. Turned out, feeding him was almost as sexy as kissing him. Watching him lick the spoonful of dressing she was holding for him reminded her of what it felt like when he licked her lips. His touch when he steadied the fork laden with meat she offered him ignited the same sparks all over her that his hand always did. She could tell from the way his eyes darkened, he felt it, too.

  And not once did something happen to make him hide behind the mask he sometimes pulled over his face, which may have been the sexiest part of all.

  The meal was a success. The wine worked perfectly with the meat. When they were finished with dessert, during which he did everything but lick the dish to get the last little bits, he insisted on helping to clear the table and load the dishwasher. After everything was tidied up, they took the last of the bottle of wine and cups of coffee into the living area and settled on the couch.

  “You are an excellent cook. Everything was delicious.” He touched his wine glass to hers. “Another toast to the hostess. Thank you.”

  “I’m happy you liked it. It’s been a while since I cooked that meal. I haven’t had anyone to appreciate it since my father passed. It was his favorite.”

  He reached for her free hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I’m honored you made it for me.”

  She weighed the wisdom of saying what she wanted to say but, maybe on the strength of a bit of wine, maybe because of the kiss before dinner, finally said, “I must bore you with all my family talk. You don’t talk much about yours, do you?”

  He dropped her hand and looked away. “There’s really not much to talk about. I’m not close to them. My mother’s gone. My dad lives in Spokane, and I don’t see him often. I’ve lost touch with my brother. We weren’t a happy family like yours. You were fortunate.”

  She slid closer to him on the couch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up an uncomfortable subject.”

  “Not uncomfortable. It’s just the way things are. You had the support of a family to keep you safe all the years you grew up. My father’s idea of stability and planning was to make sure we had enough milk in the refrigerator at night for his coffee the next morning. Anything else was a bonus.”

  She could hear the hurt underneath the sarcasm. “It must have been tough on you and your brother.”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hands over his face. “I decided at a young age to get out of there as soon as I could and never look back. My brother left in another way—he escaped into a bottle.”

  She couldn’t help it. She put out her arms to hug him. He was tense at first, but eventually, he pulled her closer to him and returned the gesture. “You didn’t deserve so much stress. No kid does,” she said. Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, she added, “So that’s where all your skill at planning came from, is it?”

  “I don’t know about skill, but it’s probably where my determination to look ahead so I can avoid problems was born.”

  He didn’t say anything more, merely held her, his cheek resting on top of her head. She wanted to change the subject to something more comfortable for both of them. “What does your ability to look ahead tell you about the rest of this evening?” she asked.

  A curl had escaped the scrunchie she’d used to try to subdue her hair. He seemed more focused on the curl than on her question. “The rest of the evening? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “I thought I was pretty clear.” She repeated herself, slowly and carefully. “What’s going to happen for t
he rest of the evening, do you think? Between us, I mean.” She looked up at him, hoping she’d see the answer she wanted in his eyes.

  Instead, he asked, “What do you want to happen?”

  It was what her brothers would call “go big or go home” time.

  “I want you to kiss me again. Then I want to show you the rest of my apartment.”

  He looked puzzled. “A house tour? Have I missed something?”

  “Yes. My bedroom.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  For all her bravery in inviting him into her bedroom, Taylor could see Isabella was anxious when they got there. She pulled him into the room and stopped as they approached the bed. “I think I’ve run out of nerve. I don’t know what to do next,” she said as she patted the crimson blanket neatly folded on the foot of a white duvet, for the first time he could recall, avoiding looking at him.

  Everything about her was open and honest, and he loved her for it. Loved? Wait. What? No, not possible. He admired her. That was how he felt, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be love. Love wasn’t part of the plan. His mother had loved his father, at least at first, which had gotten her exactly nowhere.

  Before he could twist himself into any more knots over her, she stepped toward him, said, “Well, maybe I can do this,” and slipped her arms around his waist. With her body against him, he did the only thing he could. He tangled his fingers in her curls and drew her face to his. It was as hot and hard as the kiss in the kitchen had been, their tongues stroking intimately, tasting, exploring, deepening the passion between them.

  As the kiss went on and on, his hands found their way under her sweater, skating up her back then slipping around to cup her breasts, which he was surprised to find were not confined in a bra. Her nipples were already hard points before he tweaked them, eliciting a moan from her that made his cock harder than he thought possible.

  “I want you, Isabella,” he whispered as he nibbled and licked his way from her mouth to her ear. She shivered when he breathed on the spot behind her ear where he’d sucked to get one more taste of her, as though he were a starving man and she was the food.