The Foxe & the Hound

by R.S. Grey

  I squeeze my eyes closed as warning bells start to ring in my head. I’m going to cry. The tears are forming, and if I cry right now, in front of him, there will be no going back. I’ll have to go hike the Appalachian Trail.

  “Madeleine, listen to me,” he implores, his voice so soft and comforting.

  He thinks he will be able to explain away my anger, but what he doesn’t understand is that I get it: he isn’t in a place to date, he doesn’t want to lead me on, and he respects me too much to use me to get over Olivia.

  I repeat all of that out loud to him, just to verify.

  “Do I have it right?”

  He shakes his head. “I am over Olivia, but that doesn’t mean I want to jump right into another serious relationship.”

  “I get it.”

  I really, really do.

  He groans, and there he goes again, tugging his damn hand through his hair. Each time he does it, it gets a little more messy, a little more irresistible.

  “Let me leave, Adam.”

  “No.”

  I try to scroll through the few self-defense moves I know from the action movies I’ve seen over the years. I could go for the jugular, maybe stomp on his foot, but that seems too cruel, even in this situation.

  Adam tugs Mouse’s leash out of my hand and tosses it to the ground. Mouse, for all of his dog instincts, walks a few feet away and goes back to lying down and ignoring us. I sear him with my gaze. What if I was in real danger, Mouse? Some dog you are.

  I step to the left, right, left again and I think I’ve outsmarted Adam, but then he grips my shoulders and spins me until my back is to the door. I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, literally. Adam’s thigh is pressed between my legs and his hands hold both of my arms captive against the cold metal door, like two goal posts. This exact pose has happened in a dream before, but it was Michael Fassbender standing where Adam is, and Michael didn’t have quite as much emotion in his eyes.

  “I told you I didn’t want to date,” Adam says, his hands tightening on my arms enough that I don’t even think of trying to break his grip.

  “Yes you did,” I bite out. “And then you proceeded to flirt with me incessantly. Sorry your signals got crossed! Usually guys who aren’t interested in dating don’t eye me like I’ve been dipped in chocolate sauce!”

  His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What?”

  “Nothing. Ugh.” I try to jerk free, but it’s no use. I should have been doing Insanity Yoga for months leading up this standoff; maybe then I’d have enough strength to break free. “Just let me go so I can salvage what’s left of my dignity.”

  Who am I kidding? There is none left. This gymnasium now contains my last remaining ounces. I might as well march down to the local salon and tell them to give me ‘the Lori’ because there is no hope for me.

  “I feel bad,” he says, bending closer.

  You should, I want to say. You made me like you. Why did you have to make me like you?

  Instead, I look away and say in a monotone voice, “You’re hurting me.”

  I think that will be the end of it. No guy wants to hurt a woman; it’s engrained in their twenty-first century brains to respect women. That said, Adam doesn’t budge. Worse, he argues. He must have been raised by wolves—it’s why he wanted to become a vet.

  “No, I’m not hurting you. I’m barely holding you.”

  “I have weak wrists.”

  He laughs.

  LAUGHS.

  I jerk my head back and glare at him. “You’re holding me against my will. I think this is called assault.”

  His gaze drops to my lips. “Assault?”

  It’s like I’ve just given him a brilliant idea. He inches closer, and his body wash tortures me a little bit more.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? You aren’t ready to date, remember?”

  He nods. “I know.”

  He’s still studying my lips, and there’s fire lighting up his green gaze, fire and…lust.

  “Adam?” I say on a shaky breath.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he announces.

  “Don’t!” I snap. “Adam Foxe, do NOT under any circumstance—”

  He kills the rest of my sentence with his lips.

  He kisses me, and for a second or two, I refuse to cooperate. He can move those lips all he wants. He can grip my wrists tighter and hold me hostage, but I will not play along, not even when he takes my bottom lip between his teeth and bites down ever so gently. Well, maybe then…but I only moan and kiss him back because it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Anyone would do the same, really.

  The second I give him an inch, he takes a mile. He runs his tongue across the seam of my mouth, demanding entry, and I open up for him because I’m helpless. I’ve never been kissed like this before.

  One of his hands releases my wrist so he can move down and grip my waist between his fingers. He draws me right up against him and I sink my hand through his hair, finally weaving my fingers into the silky strands I’ve been eyeing for the last few weeks. They’re short and soft, easy to tug. He tilts his head, taking the kiss deeper. There are groans and thrusts, and what’s worse is that they aren’t just coming from him.

  Soon there’s not a single millimeter between our bodies. His leg is still between my thighs and we’re rolling our hips, trying to grind our bones down to dust. I feel feverish, hot. I think my knees would give out if he weren’t holding me up. This has got to stop, but I trail my fingers down his neck and hang on for dear life.

  “Madeleine,” he groans against my lips.

  I think I have a mini orgasm just from the way he says my name, like he’s coming apart at the seams.

  Take me. Take me here and be done with it.

  His hand snakes up from my waist and he drags his palm up my body, over my stomach and then over my breast, slowly…painfully. I shiver and he does it again, this time a little slower than before. Goose bumps bloom along the trail he makes and I’m thankful my clothes keep his hand from my skin. I feel raw and sensitive just from this. If he were touching me skin to skin, I think I’d do something embarrassing like break out in a sob.

  His lips leave my mouth and descend down to my jawline, to my neck. My head falls back against the door—the same one I was attempting to flee through just moments ago—and I squeeze my eyes closed, savoring every sensation rippling through me.

  “Yes.” I sigh when his mouth descends even farther and he kisses my breast through my clothes.

  We are this close to going past the point of no return against the hard metal door when a shrill whistle blasts through the gymnasium. We leap apart. I pry my eyes open and spot a middle-aged coach standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the gym. He has a volleyball in one hand and his whistle in the other—the whistle he is still blasting at full volume.

  “Jesus,” Adam mutters under his breath.

  I reach down to straighten my shirt and then brush the back of my hand across my mouth. I’m shaking—maybe from being caught, maybe from what we were just doing.

  The coach finally lets his whistle fall back against his chest.

  “We’ve got competitive volleyball practice in here in 20 minutes,” he shouts. “Clear out.”

  Mouse barks at him, and I leap for his leash before he can take off running.

  We heed his orders and ‘clear out’, awkwardly and silently. Adam follows me out into the parking lot, but I have nothing to say. He just finished telling me he wasn’t ready to date, and then we made out hardcore. Makes sense.

  “Listen, back there—”

  I groan. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. If he starts up again about how much space he needs or how unprepared he is for dating, I won’t be able to control my temper.

  I whip around and cut him off. “Adam, save it. We aren’t dating. I get it. Whatever that was—” I shake my head. “It was nothing, okay? I’ve already forgotten about it.”

  He doesn’t speak up to correct me, and I’m thankful
for that. Out here, in the empty parking lot, he’s partially cast in shadow. He doesn’t look like Polite Adam, the man who loves animals; he looks like Seductive Adam, the man who just pushed me up against a door and had his wicked way with me. In other words, we’re in dangerous territory.

  “I’ll see you around,” I mutter, turning straight for my car.

  I don’t release my breath until Mouse and I turn back out onto the main road. That was…the most confusing half hour of my life. A therapist would have a field day with that exchange. Me? I don’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole.

  The traffic light in front of me turns yellow and then red. I slam on my breaks and glance down at my right arm propped on the steering wheel. It bears the mark of Adam’s hand, from where he held me against the door. Already, it’s fading. By the time I get back home, it’ll be gone, but I can’t wait until then. I scrub at the skin with my other hand, making my entire forearm red until it all blends together.

  There. He’s gone.

  The light turns green and the car behind me lays on its horn.

  “I’m GOING,” I shout to no one.

  When I turn down the street toward my apartment complex, I don’t turn in. I pass the parking lot twice, looping around the block and contemplating my options. I could leave right now. It’s not as if I have a life going here. I could drive until I hit Houston, Austin, Dallas. I could keep going until I hit another state, another country. I could start over somewhere and wipe the last few years from my memory.

  And maybe I would have if Mouse hadn’t whined from the back seat, reminding me of my responsibilities here, of all the reasons I’m stuck in this tiny town and this tiny life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ADAM

  “

  Adam , we would have invited a mannequin to lunch had we known you’d be this quiet.”

  I glance up from my untouched turkey sandwich and find my mom and Kathy eyeing me suspiciously, waiting for my reply.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” I say, shrugging off their concern.

  It’s been a few days since my incident with Madeleine at the YMCA, and she hasn’t replied to my phone calls or text messages. The tables are reversed, and I don’t like it.

  This morning, I was summoned to lunch by my mom and Kathy, and I couldn’t turn them down. I don’t have room in my schedule for another impromptu appointment courtesy of my mom and a stuffed bird.

  We’re eating at a deli down on Main Street, just across from Madeleine’s real estate agency. I didn’t pick the restaurant, but I did pick my seat at the table, facing out, toward the agency. We’ve been here for thirty minutes and I haven’t seen Madeleine once. She must be eating at her desk or out with a client.

  “If it’s nothing, then why aren’t you eating?” my mom asks. “I’m almost finished.”

  To prove her wrong, I pick up my sandwich and take a massive bite.

  “Alrighty then.” Kathy laughs. “Diane, did I tell you I saw Madeleine at the grocery store the other day?”

  I pretend to be enthralled by my sandwich.

  “Oh? No, you didn’t.”

  Kathy nods. “Yeah, just for a second. We were both about to check out, but she stopped and struck up a conversation with me. I half expected her not to remember me since she and Adam weren’t at the barbecue that long.”

  My mom hums. “She’s such a nice girl.”

  “So nice.”

  It doesn’t feel like they’re trying to get under my skin, and yet they are.

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  My mom laughs. “Sure. Why don’t you come up with something to talk about?”

  “How are the girls?” I ask Kathy, knowing exactly what I’m doing.

  Kathy is obsessed with her daughters, and she’ll talk about them nonstop if you get her started; it’s a tool I’ve used quite a few times at awkward family dinners when my mom is intent on aiming the focus on me and my life.

  “Oh they’re good! Did I tell you Allie lost another tooth?”

  For the next thirty minutes, I tune them out and slink back into my thoughts about Madeleine. I know I screwed up last week. From the beginning, I knew Madeleine was someone I could be interested in, so I did my best to respect that. I tried to be polite and distant. Obviously I had moments of weakness, but nothing as terrible as what I did to her in that gymnasium.

  I was trying to do the right thing. I was so sure that turning her down and explaining that I wasn’t ready to date was the gentlemanly course of action, but then why did it feel like the exact opposite? Seeing her expression when I turned her down for a date broke something inside of me. She looked so defeated, so utterly embarrassed. No woman wants to be made to feel undesirable.

  But that’s not Madeleine’s problem.

  She’s too desirable.

  I want to be with her. God, I would have taken her against that metal door if that coach hadn’t interrupted us.

  And that’s the problem. I tell her one thing and do another. I can’t blame her for being angry with me—I’m angry with me.

  From here on out, I should leave her the hell alone. I should stop calling her and get someone else to cover the puppy training classes. I should bury my head in work and focus on myself.

  Instead, as I walk back to the clinic after lunch, I try calling her work phone, half expecting her to screen my call.

  On the third ring, she picks up.

  “Good afternoon, Madeleine Thatcher at Hamilton Realty.”

  “Madeleine.”

  There’s a long pause, and I wonder if she is about to hang up.

  “Can we talk for a second?” I ask before she can.

  She sighs. “I’m at work, Adam. What do you need?”

  She clearly wants nothing to do with me, but that’s to be expected.

  “I think we should talk.”

  “Okay, and I don’t think we should talk. Is there anything else?”

  I’ve never heard her voice so devoid of emotion.

  “So you’re not upset with me about the other night?”

  “Not at all.”

  She’s bluffing.

  “All right, then I’d like to come by and run Mouse tonight.”

  “I have plans.”

  Another bluff.

  “I’ll come by before your plans.”

  Someone on her end of the line warns her about a meeting starting in five minutes in the conference room. She tells them she’s headed there now.

  “If you say no,” I continue, “I’ll assume you’re still upset about the other night.”

  I’m not proud of myself, but my underhanded tactic works.

  “Fine,” she says. “Be there at six.”

  Okay, maybe I’m a little proud.

  …

  I’m standing on her doorstep at 5:55 PM and I can hear her shuffling around inside. After I knock, she scurries to the door and unlatches the lock. I’m a little taken aback to find her standing on the other side in a skimpy red cocktail dress. It’s fitted around her waist and the short hem falls to mid-thigh—barely.

  She’s putting in her second earring and waves me in with a small nod.

  “Come in. I’m almost done getting ready.”

  “For what?”

  Maybe she doesn’t hear me, or maybe she feels she doesn’t owe me an answer. She disappears into her room and I hear her shuffling through her closet. Mouse tries his best to monopolize my attention, winding through my legs while holding a ball in his mouth, desperate to be pet. I rub behind his ear, sinking my fingers into his soft puppy fur, and crane my neck to get a look inside Madeleine’s room. She’s sitting on her bed, strapping on high heels. Her dress has ridden up, barely covering her upper thighs.

  “Do you have a date?”

  She jerks up and sees me watching her.

  “No, I just like getting dressed up like this for fun.”

  Her words drip with sarcasm. She pushes off her bed and closes her door, cutting off my view. She might as
well be telling me to fuck off.

  It’s just Mouse and me for a few minutes. I could leave and get started on our run. Instead, I help myself to a glass of water and take a seat back on the couch. Her apartment seems smaller than the last time I was in it, or maybe I didn’t pay attention before. Now, with her hidden away in her room, I have nothing to do but snoop.

  Her antique coffee table is cluttered with books. There are stacks of paperbacks piled underneath and layered on top. There’s no bookshelf that I can see—it’s not like one would fit—and it seems she uses the table instead. Spines face me and I scroll down the list, recognizing one out of the ten titles: All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. On a whim, I reach for it, appreciating the worn spine. There’s a yellow sticky note tucked between the pages and I flip to it, wondering what passage she found important enough to refer back to. Maybe I liked that passage too.

  “Rooting through my things?”

  I drop the book like it’s on fire.

  She chuckles and comes over to pick it up, and her silky dress brushes my leg as she bends down, straightens. My fingers catch the hem and I brush it between my thumb and pointer finger; it’s softer than I could have imagined. I drop it before she can notice.

  “Aren’t you going to apologize for snooping?” she quips, finally meeting my eyes. I realize I’ve been waiting for her to acknowledge me ever since I first arrived. Now that she has, I have nothing to say. I lean back on the couch, taking in every detail she’s prepared for another man. Her long brown hair falls in loose, silky waves. Her makeup is heavier than I’ve ever seen it, though it’s still not much. Her lips have a soft pink color on them and as I stare, I remember what she tastes like.

  “Guess that’s a no,” she says with a shrug.

  She’s turning to back away, and I reach out for her hand. I don’t have the right, and her expression confirms that.

  “Who are you going out with?”

  Her brow arches in annoyance. “Why do you care?”

  I tug her hand and she stumbles forward. It’s a warning: Tell me or I’ll pull you down onto this couch and you won’t make that date and I won’t run with Mouse. We’ll repeat the same mistake we made a few days ago.