Fed Up

by Kathleen Duhamel

  “Did you know that holly comes in both male and female versions?” I asked, trying to make interesting small talk. Where in the bloody hell did that come from?

  Shelby removed her sunglasses, assessed me coolly and replied, “Yes, I did. I planted this hedge row. You have to have a male and female near each other if you want to get berries.”

  Why was this innocent little conversation making my head spin?

  We passed through a side gate into her front yard, where there were more holly shrubs near the house, along with some climbing rose bushes covered in scarlet blooms that she paused to examine.

  “I need to do some pruning,” she noted. “Maybe next weekend, if it doesn’t rain.”

  She turned toward me and asked, “How do you know so much about plants?”

  “I was a horticulture major at university. I intended to become a landscape architect until I was seduced by the Dark Side and ended up as a disreputable actor.”

  Her sunglasses came off again, and she looked me over as though she was seeing me for the first time.

  “Really?” Her voice was barely audible. Then, she spotted the Mercedes parked in front of her house and stifled a cough. Her mouth dropped open.

  “That’s your car?”

  “It’s a rental. Quite sporty, wouldn’t you say?” And definitely not stodgy.

  After I opened the passenger door, she slid onto the seat while I walked around to the driver’s side and got in. She fastened her seat harness and said, “Believe it or not, I’ve never ridden in a Mercedes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Shelby

  My heart was pounding so loudly that I worried Ian might hear it. Who would’ve thought that small town chef Shelby Faith Durand would be enjoying a leisurely Saturday outing with drop-dead handsome TV star Ian James, being driven in a gleaming white Mercedes sports car to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, of all places? I couldn’t have made up this stuff if I’d tried.

  While waiting for Ian to pick me up, I changed clothes three times before settling on the violet tank top and tiered skirt, after determining it looked appropriately casual for a day trip during the peak of a sweltering summer. I didn’t want to look as though I tried too hard or give Ian any indication that I was available for anything more than a daytime date. I might’ve been interested in “more” if I thought I could trust him, but I hadn’t yet made that decision.

  Ian had the route programmed into his smart phone and was following Siri’s directions, having changed her voice to the British version. This morning, he exuded cool West Coast style, dressed in khaki shorts that revealed long, well-muscled legs, a pastel plaid short-sleeved shirt, worn untucked, and high-tech hiking shoes that looked almost weightless.

  As we headed east out of town, catching Highway 340 north across rolling, wooded hillsides toward West Virginia, I was far less interested in the roadside scenery than in my companion’s strong jawline, which was covered in a salt-and-pepper scruff. His eyes were concealed behind dark lenses; his longish hair partially hidden underneath a straw fedora. If the man had a physical flaw, I hadn’t been able to detect it. When he took off the hat and raked his hair back with one hand, the now-familiar gesture produced a pounding pulse and a knot in my stomach.

  Had I become so superficial that I would go out with a man based on his looks and the type of car he drove? No, you’re not like that, I reassured myself. Besides, you didn’t know about the Mercedes until today.

  “What music would you like?”

  Ian turned on the radio and began pushing buttons while keeping his eyes on the highway.

  “I like old school rock, blues, and jazz. Not the New-Age pseudo stuff, but the classics. Coltrane, Monk, Miles Davis.”

  From the corner of my eye I could glimpse his little smirk, and I knew I’d made a comment he found amusing. He tuned the digital dial to a satellite station playing a vintage Sarah Vaughn tune.

  “I should have pegged you for a jazz fan,” he said. “It’s a bit like cooking, isn’t it? Once you’ve mastered the recipe, you’re free to improvise.”

  Despite my misgivings about the man, I was beginning to believe he might be more than just a pretty face.

  ***

  High on the hill above us, a white church spire towered over the picturesque town of Harpers Ferry, set on a steep incline near the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers. Ian remarked that it reminded him of an English country village, replete with its own High Street. After he parked the car, we walked to a visitor center to join a line of tourists waiting for the park service shuttle, which deposited us outside the “lower town,” a collection of store front museums and exhibits. Except for the modern concessions of paved streets, electric lights, and indoor plumbing, this part of town had been restored to its pre-Civil War era, before the armory buildings that once fueled the town’s economy were destroyed and floods ravaged the area.

  Harpers Ferry was overflowing with summer vacationers who crowded its narrow sidewalks, pedestrian streets, and a portion of the famed Appalachian Trail that followed the river alongside town. After we stepped off the bus, I was drawn into an outdoor heirloom seed market set up under a canvas tent top. Searching through the herb packets, I gathered a few while Ian watched with his usual half-smile.

  “Get some lavender,” he suggested. “It should do well in your garden as long as you amend the soil. You compost, don’t you?”

  Of course, I composted. What serious gardener didn’t?

  I glanced in his direction over the top of my sunglasses.

  “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you studied horticulture.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he responded in a smooth southern drawl, before tapping the side of his forehead with an index finger.

  “This brain is a veritable repository of trivial plant-related information.”

  He turned a beaming smile toward me while the seed market proprietor, a young woman dressed in period clothing, continued to gawk at him.

  “Lord, have mercy,” I heard her mutter when we walked away

  We continued down historic Shenandoah Street to the John Brown Museum, which recounted the still-controversial abolitionist’s life and failed rebellion that ended with him being hanged for treason. Afterward, we crossed the street to the restored brick armory building, scene of Brown’s last stand against federal troops.

  “I finished reading the book about his life,” Ian told me, “but the story is so much more compelling when you see where it happened.”

  Next, we wandered up High Street, ducking into a few tourist shops and boutiques before we took a break for lunch.

  The Hilltop Grill, which in my opinion offered the best outdoor seating in town, was a popular spot I’d visited before. After a short wait, we were led outside onto an upper deck and seated at an umbrella-topped table that overlooked the town’s restored train depot. A stiff breeze blew off the river, making the meltingly hot July afternoon a little more tolerable.

  Ian removed his shades and studied the menu for a moment before turning his eyes to me.

  “What do you recommend, Chef?”

  When he smiled, a spear of heat tore through my stomach, ending in a delicious tingle between my legs.

  “I’m going to have a burger and the pale ale.”

  One eyebrow arched upward.

  “Not exactly gourmet fare, is it?”

  “No, but I’m not a food snob, either. Some of the best things I’ve eaten came from street vendors in Paris.” Then, not being able to leave well enough alone, I added, “Maybe some time I’ll tell you about my guilty food pleasures.”

  The eyebrow rose higher.

  “I look forward to that conversation,” he said.

  ***

  “So…” I asked, after we’d ordered lunch. “Tell me what it’s like being you. Did you catch that girl at the seed market staring at you? Do you enjoy the attention, or does it become exhausting?”

  He grimaced.

  �
�I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but mostly it’s a pain in the arse. Believe it or not, I’d like to be able to go through a day or two without anyone noticing me.” He sighed.

  “Life is all about tradeoffs,” he said, before hiding his eyes once more behind his sunglasses. “I also realize I wouldn’t have an acting career without this face.”

  His gorgeous face. For a moment I wondered what his parents must’ve looked like to have produced such a beautiful child.

  The waiter returned with my ale and a mug of dark lager for Ian.

  “How does a college horticulture student wind up becoming the Time Traveler?” I asked.

  His face lit up at the mention of his hit series.

  “Oh, you watched that show too?”

  “No, but Danielle and her roommates were big fans. She said you had a cult following on college campuses.”

  “It has been the high point of my career so far.” He shrugged. “I haven’t done anything that successful since.

  “Let me tell you a story that could well be the perfect made-for-TV movie,” he went on. “University student Ian James Andrews is coerced into trying out as an extra on a BBC period drama. When the casting director sees him wearing nineteenth century attire, she says he looks as though he stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. He gets a small speaking role that leads to a larger role in another historical drama.

  “When the parts keep coming, he shortens his name—so as not to embarrass his skeptical family—and drops out of school to pursue acting full-time. Later, he is cast as the Time Traveler and achieves a certain level of international recognition.

  “But while his star was rising, his first marriage was falling apart, and he allowed it to happen.”

  He chugged the rest of his beer and requested another round when our server returned with the burgers.

  “You see, Shelby, I’m a bit of a fraud. For years I made my living based strictly on my looks. Later, I hired an acting coach and got better at delivering my lines, but I know my limitations.

  “I’ve also come to realize that physical attractiveness is nothing but mathematics. The length of a person’s nose and chin compared to the spacing of his eyes forms some ideal ratio that human beings find appealing. That’s all it is.

  “However,” he continued, ignoring the burger and fries on his plate, “you might not like me if I looked like a beast, and that would be a shame.”

  His grin fired a heat-seeking missile that lodged deep in my chest.

  “I’m certainly not as noble as my character, and, for the record, my current ex found me to be stodgy.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I replied, which made him laugh.

  Ian bit into his burger and chewed thoughtfully before proclaiming it “beyond average, although I’ll wager you could do even better.” He removed his sunglasses again. From across the table, his eyes found mine.

  “I’ve another confession to make,” he said. “I’ve been drawn to you since the day we met. You’re an outstanding cook…and a beautiful woman.”

  Those few words, spoken in his precise British accent, made my heart thump out of control, while warning signals exploded in my brain. Don’t believe everything he tells you.

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Fifty-four last month. I know I’m older than you. So, whatever you do, don’t dare call me the c-word.”

  He opened his mouth to speak and immediately closed it before giving me a look of utter confusion. I realized we might not be thinking along the same lines.

  “I’m not a cougar,” I added for clarification. “They are predators, not like me at all.”

  Ian pushed his plate away. He folded his hands on the table while his amber eyes studied my face, eliciting another wave of internal warmth.

  “I prefer to think of you as a rare silver lynx with unfathomable blue eyes. Sleek, graceful, and a bit mysterious. You could lure me to my doom and I’d go willingly.”

  Wow. Just wow. No one had ever compared me to a gorgeous wild creature. As the Brits might say, I quite liked it, as long as I remembered to pay attention to the annoying little voice that repeated in my head. Don’t take him too seriously. He’s an actor, after all.

  After lunch, we descended the hill on a series of stone steps, making our way to the street below, headed toward The Point to observe the river confluence. In the early 1800s, the two waterways would’ve been crowded with boat and barge traffic, but this afternoon there was not a single craft to disturb our tranquil scene, only a throng of tourists milling around the water’s edge, taking photos and browsing a series of interpretive plaques. Ian snapped a selfie of us with the river in the background.

  I couldn’t determine if I was a little buzzed from the beer, or light-headed from being the subject of his undivided attention. As we turned to go, a sudden, sharp pain stabbed the bottom of my foot, causing me to stumble and pitch forward. I was on my way to doing a face plant into the gravel when Ian’s arm encircled my waist, yanking me upright. I made an awkward turn toward him, smashing my face into his chest, knocking my sunglasses off, and leaving both of us breathless. I was conscious of his hand on my body, and the fact that he held on for a few seconds longer than necessary. I quite liked that too.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, before releasing me.

  He retrieved my sunglasses from the ground and handed them to me. I didn’t know how to respond to his question. My heart was thumping, not so much from my near-fall as from the electricity in his touch. I shoved the shades back on my head, hoping they would mask any raw emotion that my eyes might give away.

  “I think there’s a rock in my shoe,” I finally sputtered.

  Chapter Ten

  Ian

  Something passed between the two of us, and this time I was quite certain it was not my imagination. For an instant, I glimpsed the light in Shelby’s eyes, and I knew she felt it—the insistent pull of sexual attraction that happens every time we’re together. When I stopped her fall, drawing her close for a moment, the nearness of her body sent a tremor of lust straight to my cock. A normal physical reaction, I rationalized, brought about by my loneliness and self-imposed celibacy. I hadn’t held a woman in my arms, apart from my unlikeable co-star, since Monica left me.

  “Come with me, ma’am.”

  Lapsing into my affected southern accent, I offered her my arm to lean on, as a mannered southern gentleman like John Sutherland would have done. She limped forward a few steps to rest on a long concrete bench, empty except for a young couple at the far end who were sucking face in a passionate PDA. I had to look away before I was overcome with envy.

  Shelby unfastened her sandal, releasing a sharp-edged stone that had lodged itself beneath her instep.

  “Let me take a look,” I offered.

  She crossed her legs at the same moment a breeze lifted her skirt, offering a tantalizing flash of pale thigh, which looked even better than it had in my dream. I swallowed hard. Being this close to her was unnerving, although I was attempting to show some tasteful restraint instead of behaving like a randy old fool.

  Taking her injured foot in both my hands, I rubbed the underside with my thumb while noticing her pale lavender toenail polish and the tiny dragonfly embellishment that adorned her big toe. She let out a low moan while I continued the light massage.

  “You might have a bruise, but no real damage done,” I said, before reluctantly letting go.

  Shelby slipped her injured foot back into the sandal and stared at me for a moment from behind her sunglasses. Was I imagining things again, or did I feel her tremble under my touch?

  Think carefully, man. With your big head, not the little one. This is a woman of class and intelligence. You will need to earn her trust instead of trying to rush her into bed.

  “You think you can hobble to the shuttle stop?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  Taking her hand in mine, I laced our fingers and pulled her up fr
om the bench. We strolled down the street together, ducking into a bookstore where I purchased two more volumes on American history and a copy of Southern Traditional Recipes from the 1800s for my chef.

  “I devour cookbooks the way some women read romance novels,” she informed me while we waited for the shuttle to arrive.

  “Does this mean you’re not into romance?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She tilted her head and regarded me solemnly for a moment.

  “I said I wasn’t into romance novels. As I used to tell Danielle, life isn’t a fairy tale and there is no happily ever after. We get to experience a few moments of pure joy throughout our lives if we’re lucky.”

  When it came to love and emotional entanglements, I might have met my skeptical match.

  ***

  After the bus returned us to the parking area, we made our way back to the Mercedes. I stowed our purchases in the car’s boot while Shelby slid into the passenger seat, managing to look composed despite the afternoon heat. My heart raced whenever I gazed in her direction. With her classic looks, sleek ponytail, and oversized sunglasses, she could have been at home on the Italian Riviera or strolling along the Rive Gauche in Paris. My mind began to wander, envisioning the two of us ducking into bohemian boutiques or tiny, hidden restaurants before returning to a romantic garret apartment where we would fall onto the bed, laugh, and make love like newlyweds.

  What straight man in his right mind wouldn’t be attracted to a warm, lovely woman like her? I didn’t give a damn about her age, either. I liked the fact that we were from the same generation and had some similar interests.

  I turned on the ignition and adjusted the rear-view mirror.

  “Would you like me to put the top down for the drive home?” I asked, fully expecting her to say no. Monica never would have consented to ride in a convertible. She claimed the wind ruined her hair.