Her Protector

by R. S. Lively

  A smile curves her nude-painted lips, and she looks around like she’s super-imposing a Victorian family strolling through the fresh grass of spring over the group of rowdy college-aged guys throwing snowballs as they ran past.

  "How long have you been part of the incredible ongoing history of New York?" she asks with a wider smile.

  Her long fingers dip into the container of olives I had just opened and pluck one from the glistening pile, slipping it between her perfect lips.

  "Since right after high school," I tell her.

  "I didn't think I heard enough grit in your voice," she says.

  I smile at her through a bite of bread that isn't anywhere near as good as the loaves Emma's mother sends over to my parent's house sometimes.

  "Not enough grit, but plenty of grits." She narrows her eyes at me. "My family is originally from North Carolina," I explain.

  "Are they still there?"

  "Some of them. My parents still live in the house that's been there for generations, but my brothers have spread out."

  "How many brothers?"

  "Four."

  She looks shocked.

  "You have four brothers?"

  “I do,” I tell her with a nod. “Technically I'm third, but only by a few minutes.”

  “You have a twin?”

  “Yes, but not identical. The first is a couple years older than us.”

  "So, you're the middle child."

  There is a hint of teasing in her voice and combined with the pink on her cheeks pricked up by the chill in the air and the occasional ice crystals in the wind, she looks as tempting as her dessert last night.

  "Technically," I chuckle.

  "Technically," she relents.

  "How about you?" I choose a wedge of cheese and pop it in my mouth, following it up with a grape. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

  Some of the light leaves her eyes, but she seems to struggle not to let her expression fall.

  "I had a brother," she says. "But he died a long time ago."

  I wish I could find the question wherever it is floating around in the air and shove it back in my mouth. That won't take away the touch of sadness that settled over her when she answered it though.

  "I'm sorry," I say.

  Alice shakes her head, her smile brightening again.

  "Thank you. But it's fine. It's been a really long time. I was just a little girl." Her eyes slide back out over the snow and she leans toward me, pointing toward a man performing some sort of exercise that looks like he's simultaneously jogging and jumping rope. "Now, that's a middle child."

  "What do you mean?"

  Another olive rolls over her tongue as she leans a little closer.

  "Look at him. Skin-tight jogging clothes, a reflective ear warmer, and both jogging and jumping rope... in the snow?"

  In Central Park…. in February.

  "Yeah, that's a man with some serious attention issues." I look around and point to a bright pink bubble coat I'm hoping has a woman somewhere in it because it's walking across the field. "How about her?"

  Chapter Eight

  Alice

  "Brittle bone syndrome," I say.

  Dean lets out a mock gasp.

  "Really?"

  "Mmmm-hmmm. That coat is completely full of bubble wrap and packing peanuts to buffer her if she falls. But it's all hypochondria. We could bounce her like a rubber ball, and it wouldn't do anything."

  The sparkle in Dean's sapphire eyes, and the rich, yet boyish sound of his laugh, sends a shiver through me. I want him to keep laughing. Every time he does, it takes away a little more of the pain that settled into my heart when I told him about my brother. He didn't know, of course. There's no reason for him to. Besides, getting to know me is like dancing through a minefield. Eventually he was going to land on something unpleasant. At least we got that one out of the way and he came through it relatively unscathed. We eat for a few minutes before he gestures slightly.

  "Alright. How about this couple coming up on the left?"

  I glance over and see a young couple walking through the snow, holding hands, but each looking at their own cell phone.

  "Conjoined twins," I say with a confident nod. "Connected at the palms. It used to be more of a pretzel situation, but the doctors were able to disconnect them at all points except the hands."

  "Male-female conjoined twins?" he asks with a playful glint in his eye.

  "Yes. It's rare. Very, very rare, but here you are, seeing it. A medical marvel."

  Dean nods, glancing around.

  "See that man?" he whispers, turning slightly so he can gesture subtly at a dignified-looking older man walking an equally dignified Scottish terrier.

  "Yes."

  "Spy."

  "Oh, really?"

  "Absolutely. One of the best in the business. He can get information out of anybody and has never been caught. That newspaper he's carrying under his arm is actually written in a secret code only a few select members of a specialized intelligence operation can read. He has to find a TIME magazine, a Wall Street Journal, and a weekly circular from the grocery store around the corner to piece the entire message together."

  "And the dog?"

  "Oh, don't underestimate him. He might look cuddly and well-groomed. All a ploy."

  "Really?"

  "Yep. Hardened assassin."

  "Good afternoon, Dean."

  My hand flies up to cover my mouth and muffle the new stream of laughter as the man waves. Dean waves back.

  "He also happens to be my CPA," he says through the gritted teeth of a wide forced smile.

  I laugh harder and turn into my shoulder to cover it. As soon as the man is no longer looking, Dean turns and buries his head against my back for a brief second. The touch makes my stomach jump.

  "You know, that's not a very good secret identity," I comment as I sit up and try to press a tear back into my eye, so it doesn't ruin my mascara. "CPA…. CIA. It's a little cut and paste."

  "That's true."

  "But I promise not to burn him. Your taxes are safe."

  Dean laughs.

  "Well, thank you. I know he'll appreciate that."

  Our eyes meet, and the immediate spark makes my breath catch in my throat. The laughter disappears and Dean leans toward me slightly, his eyes briefly flickering down to my lips. My heart is pounding in my chest, but I don't know how much of it is anticipation and how much is uncertainty. At the last second, the uncertainty wins over, and I look away, pretending to suddenly be intently interested in a strawberry that looks much too luscious for this time of year.

  Just like Dean is much too luscious for this time in my life.

  He watches me take a bite of the strawberry and I immediately regret the fruit choice. His eyes are hungry, the tip of his tongue touching his bottom lip. I have the compulsion to drip some of the juice onto that lip and suck it off, which is exactly the type of compulsion I should not have in this second. A gust of wind flicking the corner of the blanket up makes Dean turn away, and when he turns back, the strawberry is gone and I'm tucking empty food storage containers back into the basket. He helps me with the cleanup, and I climb off the blankets so he can roll them up.

  "Come on," he beckons, starting across the field.

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see."

  The words bring back that shiver, but before I can come up with another creative way to not let my body's response to him take over, Dean leads me to the stones in the center of Strawberry Fields. Someone has brushed away all the snow, leaving a thick wall around the black and white memorial.

  "Imagine," I whisper, looking down at the single, poignant word chiseled deep into the tile mosaic.

  "Another piece of New York history," Dean murmurs beside me. We meet eyes again, but a second later, he seems to hear something and a smile cracks across his face. "Let's go."

  He takes off, and I follow him, trying not to slip in the ice and snow. I've been in the state of N
ew York my entire life, and the city for most of it, and yet I'm over here flailing like the beginning of a bad underdog figure skating movie while Dean traipses through the park without a hint of hesitation or reliance on friction. Hopefully there is a skill-building montage coming up soon, or I might not make it through.

  "Where now?" I ask.

  "Do you hear that?"

  The blankets rolled up under his arm create a whoosh of cold air as he whips around excitedly to look at me. I listen for anything in the thin, cold air, other than the voices of people talking to keep their lips warm enough not to fall off. Somewhere there's a rhythmic clopping.

  "You mean the horses?"

  Wide eyes and a slow, deliberate nod tell me he has something up his sleeve other than the heavy gold watch that keeps peeking out from the cuff.

  "I mean the carriage."

  As if he has somehow wished it into being, a white carriage with red leather seats, drawn by a team of white horses, walks along the path in front of us. Dean throws up his hand to gesture to the driver, who slows the team to a stop.

  "Are you serious?" I ask, somewhere between annoyed and excited.

  "Of course. I already gave you one New York cliché today. Why don't we find a few more?"

  He reaches for my hand, and I give it to him, letting him pull me toward the carriage and help me up into it. His fingers fall away from mine as he follows me up the metal steps, and I immediately miss the warmth of them. Digging in my coat pocket, I pull out my gloves and stuff my hands into them. Dean sits beside me on the bench and grabs a folded blanket, draping it over us.

  "You couldn't use one of the blankets you just put down?" I ask.

  "No. Those are picnic blankets. This is a carriage ride blanket."

  "I don't think I've ever spent the afternoon with a blanket connoisseur."

  He smiles and I can see the kiss he tried to give me still waiting on his lips. I have to remind myself why I didn't take it. There's enough going on in my world right now. Trying to wedge a man into it, even a man with unbelievable blue eyes and the ability to look sexy even in a winter coat, is a complication I just don't want to fathom right now.

  But that doesn't mean I can't lean up against him and enjoy the carriage ride. Purely for warmth and irony, respectively, of course.

  A little girl stops in her tracks, her hand falling away from her mother's, as she watches the carriage jaunt by, and I feel a little part of me glow.

  Even real Barbie never had it this good.

  The driver weaves through the paths of the park until Dean calls up for him to stop. His hand dips into his pocket and then discreetly slips into the driver's palm. I can't see the bills he's giving him, but the subtle widening of the man's eyes is an indication Dean knows how to treat people. I hadn't realized where we are in the park until Dean hops down from the carriage and reaches up to help me down the steps. Taking my hand against his folded elbow, he guides me toward the elaborate fountain taking its winter nap beneath a thick blanket of snow and ice.

  During the spring and summer months, this area swarms with people, but the low temperatures have kept the crowds away and there is no one else in sight. The fountain looks like a still from a film noir. Depending on who is looking at it, it’s either tragic or hopeful. For me, it’s a backdrop for Dean himself.

  He lets my hand slide down his arm so he can take hold of my fingers again. Even through the thick gloves, the touch of his skin makes my thoughts swim more than I would want to admit. I send good thoughts to my sense of balance as he helps me up onto the rim of the fountain, and walk slowly along, holding my hand to keep me steady. It’s exactly what he promised me. Another cliché. But it's perfect.

  I'm almost halfway around the fountain before my feet betray me and I slip. Dean drops the basket and his arms swoop out to catch me. I slide down his body as he lowers me to my feet.

  Maybe those feet knew what they were doing all along.

  “Let's make a wish,” he says.

  “A wish?”

  “In the fountain.” He takes two coins from his pocket and presses one into my palm. “Toss it in and make a wish.”

  “The fountain is frozen and covered in snow. The coins won't get into the water.”

  “They will eventually. Once spring comes in and the snow thaws, they'll make their into the fountain.”

  “So, it's a slow-burn wish.”

  He makes an affirmative sound and his face leans just slightly closer to mine. There's that kiss, still waiting. Maybe I should take it just to put it out of its misery. Instead, I turn my back to the fountain and squeeze my eyes closed. The coin feels heavy in my hand, imbued with the weight of my deepest hopes. I know exactly what I'm wishing for, and I hope it doesn't take until the snow thaws to get it. I toss the coin back over my shoulder and the dull, muffled sounds tell me Dean threw his at the same time.

  “What did you wish for?”

  He places a finger across his lips.

  “Can't tell you.”

  The next morning…

  “I can't believe you had a date and you didn't even tell me,” Lee says with a distinct pout.

  For a grown man who I have seen hold his own against the likes of school bullies and clients trying to skirt their bills alike, Lee certainly has his pouting technique down.

  “It wasn't exactly a date. I mean, I guess it was, but you know how I feel about dating right now.”

  “Yes,” he says with a burdened sigh. “You can't possibly think about dating right now because we all know just how detrimental the effects of getting attention from a hot man and having fun can be on things like stress and depression.”

  “Lee.”

  “I'm sorry. Yes, I know. All your time and energy have to go into saving the theater. But that just makes it even more important for you to give me a heads up when you're going to go spend the afternoon with someone. I thought you were going on client meetings.”

  “I'm sorry. I just felt like if I told you, it would be harder to keep him at a distance, if that makes sense.”

  “It does. I am a pretty important element of your life.”

  His sigh is one of self-congratulation, and I laugh as I toss a lint remover wand at him. Swiping it furiously over the back of one of the seats only results in the removal of a small portion of the dog hairs clinging to the fabric.

  “I don't understand it. Do people just sneak their shedding dogs into the theater so they can shake them over the seats?” I ask.

  “Maybe it's some sort of new trend. Anyway, so what did you do for your non-date date?”

  “A ploughman's lunch.”

  Lee straightens and stares at me through narrowed eyes.

  “Is that the new afternoon drag show at that place across town?”

  “No. We had a picnic.”

  He thinks about this for a second to decide his reaction.

  “Well, that's kind of adorable. So, is he a good kisser?”

  “Is that all you think about?”

  “No. I have many other thoughts.”

  “Such as?”

  “The War on Drugs. Deforestation. Burgundy mascara and its place in contemporary daytime makeup application.”

  “Well, those are all good things to think about. But I'm sorry. I can't give you anything to think about when it comes to Dean's kissing.”

  "Dean? Dean the man who you cooked for last night? Which, again, thank you. You saved my life."

  "Yes, that Dean," I tell him casually.

  "Oh, my snap you're dating your boss."

  "He's not my boss and we're not dating."

  "The man brought you on a picnic," Lee says pointedly.

  "And a carriage ride through Central Park. And to Times Square. And for a couple of slices of pizza. He had a whole ‘I Heart New York’ theme happening. Incidentally, I now have at least six cheap souvenirs that do as well."

  "He did all of that for you in one day? After knowing you for less than five hours?"

  "Well.
I did make him cheesecake."

  "Is that a euphemism?"

  I shake my head.

  "No."

  "And you don't know how the man kisses? He didn't even try?"

  "He did."

  Lee watches open-mouthed as I tell him about the almost-kiss at Strawberry Fields and the very appropriate strawberry cover-up that almost turned naughty without my intention.

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I did what any logical girl in my position would do. I threw the strawberry as far as I possibly could.”

  “How could you do such a thing?” Lee asks, sounding deeply offended.

  “I told you. I'm not looking for anything serious right now. There's just not enough room in my brain to try to deal with saving my business and building a new relationship. There’s no point in getting all wrapped up in something and not being able to really put myself into it as much as I should. If I have to choose between a man and the theater, I'm going to choose Wonderland. It's my dream and my top priority. I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

  "So, there's this sweet, charming, I'm assuming gorgeous…"

  "Yes. Definitely."

  "Gorgeous man who wanted to lavish you with all kinds of attention just out there running loose, and you're not going to see him again?"

  I think of Dean walking me up to my door. I was positive he would try to kiss me again, but instead, his fingertips ran along the side of my cheek and along my jaw before softly brushing over my lips. He asked to see me again, then said goodnight.

  "I'm seeing him tomorrow night."

  Chapter Nine

  Alice

  The only thing that's harder to pick clothing for than a date when you want to look amazing, is for an outing with a man when you still want to look amazing, but don't want to tell yourself it's a date, because that would mean he's getting important to you. Especially when you don't know where you're going. That is the lesson I'm learning right now as I dig frantically through my drawers, trying to pick an outfit for the ambiguously-presented experience Dean is picking me up for in less than half an hour.