All I Need: Ian & Annie

by Callie Harper

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She sighed. She routinely worked 12-hour days overseeing the school’s kitchen. From the petulant rich kids who lived there sending back their soup because it lacked flavor, to the arrogant faculty treating her like hired help because she didn’t have a college degree, to the staff she oversaw bickering and failing to show up for shifts, I knew she had more than her fair share of work-related headaches. Then there were her four kids on top of it all.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” I assured her. “It’s not so bad. Now tell me more about what Brian’s teacher said when you talked to her.” Mum launched into that topic with vehemence, furious about the lack of care he received at his school. I nodded, listening to the well-worn topic, agreeing to the overall point without catching every new detail. My mind was still on the subject we’d been discussing earlier.

  I didn’t know what to say about Ian. I could barely make sense of the mixed emotions I had over him myself, let alone talk about it with my mother. I could gloss over things, pretty them up and say I felt curious about him or intrigued. I could say he was interesting, fascinating even. But that didn’t begin to explain how I felt.

  He made my heart race, my pulse jump. I thought about him at night after I turned in for bed. Sleep didn’t come quick, and as I lay in the dark it was thoughts of him that kept me company.

  Two and a half weeks it had been now, living under the same roof, yet I felt no closer to getting to know him than that first day. What had changed was how much I wanted to get to know him. My curiosity grew exponentially every day.

  He typically slept late; I woke early. I worked in the gardens outside while he stayed in. At night, after dinner, he frequently retired to the library. A couple of times I’d heard a crackling fire. I felt drawn to it, but I hadn’t gone in. It was easier with the distance. But I wanted to go inside.

  Finally able to grab an hour to myself on my day off, I headed for the hills, winding my way along the paths I’d known all my life. As my feet traveled over the ground, my mind wandered back to a conversation I’d overheard the night before.

  The ridiculously large dinner I’d prepared was ready, the chicken and veggies roasted to a perfect golden brown. I knew Ian had told me he didn’t want to be disturbed. But those kinds of meals—really, like almost all kinds of meals—were best enjoyed fresh out of the oven with some company. I’d tiptoed over to Ian’s room and prepared to knock, steeling myself for his brush-off even as I bolstered my resolve to invite him to join me for dinner.

  He’d been on a call, talking to someone I guessed on speakerphone because I could hear her voice, loud and clear. They’d been talking about Paris. She was visiting some friends she’d known for years, some of whom it seemed Ian knew as well. They’d laughed over a restaurant she’d gone to the other night. He’d agreed, the service was atrocious but the wine selection impeccable. I’d turned around and left without hearing another word.

  Paris. Technically, it wasn’t that far away, merely a train through the Chunnel. Honestly, though, Paris was a world away. Expensive, sophisticated, glamorous Paris and, I bet, that woman were everything I wasn’t. It was a good reminder—I was meeting Ian during an isolated time in his life, a phase during which he’d become reclusive and withdrawn. But he had a whole past I knew nothing about, the kind of past wealthy, privileged people enjoyed with travel and wine and circles of friends meeting up in Paris.

  I’d fixed myself a plate and eaten dinner alone up in my room. There might be fleeting moments of connection, those brief seconds when Ian smiled or laughed, looking at me as if I were a breath of fresh air in a life he’d grown to find stale. Or glimpses I caught of him sitting alone, contemplative, reading in the library or looking out the window at the ocean. In those moments, I wanted to draw closer, learn more, find out everything that had happened to him that brought him to this moment, how he felt, what he thought.

  But why? I paused, looking out over the countryside from a clearing. This was my home, a simple country town, and these were my people. It didn’t really matter what secrets were locked away in Ian’s heart. He and I belonged in two radically different worlds. Our paths were intersecting for a brief moment, the strange twist of fate throwing us together through this caretaking job, but it wouldn’t last. I was already more than halfway through my first month. In six, I’d be off to Edinburgh.

  Best to play it safe, not get too entangled with his pain, his past. I might feel a strong attraction to him, but it wasn’t a good idea. I knew what I’d tell Jess if she were in the same situation: keep your distance. I’d have to see if I could follow my own advice.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  March began gentle as a lamb. It probably was saving the lion for later, but I didn’t worry about that. When you grew up in Scotland, you learned to embrace the sunny, clear days when they arrived. I spent hours outside in the garden every day, clearing off paths, pruning back the overgrowth. Downtown, I found an older local guy up for a bit of work and he was working on setting up a bed for vegetables.

  Most afternoons, Ian joined for about an hour. We didn’t speak much to one another, we simply both got to work. I didn’t want to make a fuss about it. Many aspects of him still remained a mystery, but I had learned enough to know that my enthusiastic excitement and praise did not have the desired effect. He’d meet every gushing, “I’m so happy you’re helping! It’s so healthy for you!” with a snarl and a bark, more than likely heading back inside. No, Ian needed a subtler approach, so I kept my smiles to myself when safely tucked behind a thick rosebush.

  That look of intense concentration as he studied a shrub and made executive decisions, giving it a good clip until it met his standards, I loved seeing it on his handsome face. To say nothing of the fresh air and sunshine, it had to do him good simply to take his mind off of his troubles. Plants and flowers didn’t give a fig about our human ups and downs, and there was a sort of comfort in that. Most of those trees and plants had existed before we were born, and might very well still be doing their thing after our time on the planet had passed. Working out there with the greenery, it put things in perspective.

  One afternoon it got warm enough that Ian stripped down to a short-sleeved T-shirt. I didn’t mean to check him out, I swear I didn’t, but I rounded a corner and discovered a gorgeous man with a broad, strong chest, his muscles defined and bulging as he worked.

  “Sorry!” I stammered and backed away in full retreat, my heart hammering in my chest. Under all those black layers, I’d had no idea he was so ripped. I guess it made sense that he’d be strong. He used his arms to get around every day, wheeling himself in his chair. He must lift weights, too, with that kind of definition, the veins running down his forearms, the bulge of his pectorals. He looked really big. Stepping into the path again, I had to sneak another peek. The sleeves of his T-shirt wrapped around his strong biceps, his shoulders defined and round under the cotton. I brought a hand to my cheeks, all heated up.

  A safe distance away, I sat down on a stone bench, catching my breath. That wasn’t exactly professional, sneaking a peek at his muscles. But the man was hot! Where were his scars? I’d tried not to dwell on the question. It seemed nosy and somewhat morbid to wonder where, exactly, he’d been burned and what, exactly, it looked like. But his arms looked fine. Damn fine.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  The next morning I heard a noise coming from Ian’s first floor wing. I’d never been down it before. Ian had made it clear I wasn’t welcome; it was his turf.

  But there it was again, a grunt. I stopped and listened, then heard a long groan. Was Ian all right? What if he’d fallen and hurt himself? He might need my help.

  I tiptoed down the hallway, wondering which door he was behind. One of them was ajar. I heard a rustle of movement behind it and I gave it a slow push.

  Inside, the room was a home gym, tricked out with state-of-the-art equipment. Apparently he hadn’t
updated the main living room, but he must have spent a fortune on all the weight and cardio machines. Unlike most gyms, this room had no mirrors.

  He was sitting on a bench with his back to me, straining with effort as he lifted what had to be 200 pounds in a shoulder press. He wore no shirt. His back was a mass of scarred flesh, unnatural white, twisting veins of red, patches of brown. It looked violent, shocking, a testament to horrific injuries and pain. I couldn’t stop the gasp that flew from my mouth.

  He turned around, thunderous anger flaring in an instant. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” Standing up, panting, sweat dripped off of him, beading along his chest, trailing down his abs. His shorts rode down low on his hips, showing the start of his V. No scars on his front, none at all.

  “I’m—” Words failed me as I continued to gawk at the man before me, overwhelmed by the thought of the torture he must have endured from the burns on his back. And the perfection that now faced me in front.

  “Get out!”

  I left, my heart racing, head pounding. I ran up the stairs, headed to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Jesus. How could I forget any of what I’d just seen? The depth of his injuries? That chiseled, sweaty wall of muscle?

  I didn’t see him the rest of the day. I kept looking for him, wanting to apologize for intruding on his privacy. I hadn’t meant to do it. I could explain, but I didn’t see or hear him at all.

  Most evenings he tended to head to the library. I hadn’t ventured there, respecting his privacy. After that morning, he’d made it clear he wanted it. But I had to apologize. I showered and slipped on a comfy T and jeans, then headed toward the library. He had a fire going. I could hear and smell it.

  I hesitated at the entryway. I bet it was warm and cozy in there. He had a leather couch, all soft and broken in. But I should probably go. He wouldn’t want me—

  “Are you going to stay outside? Or are you brave enough to come in?” a deep voice growled from the library. He’d seen me.

  “Brave enough?” I took a step in.

  “I might bite. He looked up at me with a wolfish grin and for a moment I almost believed him. But the room was so inviting, the opposite of the decrepit living room in every positive way. A fire in the fireplace roared and crackled, casting the smaller room in a warm, intimate glow. I could already feel myself relaxing, letting my guard down. But that wasn’t good. I needed to stay alert around this man.

  Ian sat at a table with a chess set in front of him, studying it in fierce concentration. The firelight flickered across his handsome features, accentuating his cheekbones and long, dark eyelashes.

  “I just wanted…” I started, feeling awkward at my interruption. “I wanted to apologize for disturbing you earlier.”

  He grunted. “I don’t like to be disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry. I heard a noise and wondered if you needed help.” He didn’t look up. “It won’t happen again.”

  “And yet here you are.” His words pushed me away, but he looked at me with growling heat. I ventured a step closer. “Are you playing chess?” I hadn’t expected that. Then again, I never knew what to expect with Ian.

  “No, I’m sitting here in front of a chessboard not playing chess.” There, that was what I expected from Ian: sarcasm.

  “Yes, of course, I see you have a friend with you.” I gestured to the empty chair across the table.

  “It’s an online match.”

  “But you play on a real chessboard?”

  “I like to.” He sat back, stroking the dark stubble across his chin. His gaze roamed my body as he spoke, lingering on the cotton of my shirt where it clung to my breasts. “I’m a tactile man. I like to touch what I’m thinking about, feel it in my hands before I decide my next move.”

  The air between us grew heavy in the flickering firelight. My eyes widened. I looked away, feigning interest in a large, old globe on a pedestal. I could tell he still watched me as I walked over. On a shelf, I saw a newspaper clipping. In black and white, a ballerina leapt across the stage. I stepped closer and read the caption: Sophie Douglas, principal dancer for the New York City Ballet, in the London premier of Swan Lake.

  “Wow, is this your sister?”

  “One of them.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Two.”

  “And this one’s a dancer?”

  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

  I put down the clipping, but then noticed a photo lying on top of a book. Three kids smiled on a beach, two girls and a boy. I recognized his eyes, still dark but in the photo lit with mischief. Ian had to have been around eight years old when it was taken. Standing sandy and messy from head to toe, he looked directly into the camera with an impish smile. He had a dimple I’d never noticed before on his left cheek. He looked so vibrant, so full of life, the kind of boy you couldn’t take your eyes off of because the second you did he’d be up to no good.

  “What have you found there?” He came to stand next to me. Caught, guilty, I took a step away from the shelf.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Didn’t you?” But he didn’t seem angry, more like he was calling my bluff. I looked up into his eyes. They looked clear and focused. He smelled like mint and firewood, and I realized what seemed strange to me.

  “Hey, you’re not drunk!”

  He leaned against the bookshelf, hand up in his thick, dark hair as he looked down at me with a wry smile. “Shocked are you?”

  “A bit, clearly. I didn’t mean to blurt that out. It just occurred to me.” A blush crept up my cheeks. I had no filter whatsoever.

  “You do say what’s on your mind. I recall recently you told me I was a drunk.” My blush turned scarlet, but he continued, “You had a point.” I smiled, and he raised his finger in warning. “Do not let that go to your head.”

  “No, of course not,” I assured him, while letting it do exactly that. Was he changing his ways? Because of something I’d said?

  “I’m not giving up drinking.”

  “I never said you should.”

  “It helps with the pain.”

  “What hurts?” I took a step closer again, wanting to know more. He looked so healthy and strong standing there towering over me. “Is it the burns on your back?” They’d looked painful, but maybe the skin was numb? “Or is it your legs when you stand? Or your feet?”

  He shook his head. “So nosy, Annie.” But he reached out and took a strand of my hair between his fingers, looking at it in the gleam of the firelight.

  “I’m not trying to be nosy.” I drew even closer, so near I could feel the heat radiating from his broad, strong chest. It was like standing next to a massive wall. My heart hammered. “I’m just wondering, have you tried other things for the pain? What helps?”

  “Forgetting. That’s what helps.” His eyes searched mine, flickering down to my lips. Then he let my hair drop, shaking his head, drawing away. “So you want my case file, my medical history?”

  There it was again, that detached tone he used, wry, observational, slightly amused. It frustrated the hell out of me.

  “I’m not some doctor trying to do a clinical review. We’ve been living together for three weeks and I barely know anything about you. I’m curious about you.” I gestured with my hands, as I tended to do when I felt passionate. “I don’t even know how you were injured. I just know you had an accident.”

  “So what you really want is my life story?”

  “Yes, I do. I want to know everything about you.”

  The warmth in his gaze made me suddenly self-aware. I’d sounded extremely eager. But it was true. I did want his life story. I wanted to know exactly what had happened to him, what he’d done about it, what more he could still do. But I was growing increasingly curious about more than that, too. I wanted to get to know him. I wanted to hear all about his sisters, what friends he’d had over the years, which ones he considered true. And women, had he dated? Ever fallen in love?

&n
bsp; “What will you give me if I tell you all my secrets?” He reached out again, this time tracing the collar of my shirt. His fingers felt rough, calloused and warm against the sensitive skin of my neck.

  “Give you?” My lips felt parched, throat dry. My voice came out in a whisper.

  “You seem to find me quite mysterious. How badly do you want answers?”

  "I don't know about mysterious." A blush flooded my cheeks.

  His eyes gleamed predatory and hungry. He licked his lips, looking down at mine, and for a fraction of second I thought he was about to kiss me. Then he drew away, standing up, crossing his arms firmly against his chest. “You’d better go.”

  I jumped like a jackrabbit, heading straight for the door. “Goodnight!” I called as I headed out.

  “Goodnight, little rose.”

  I didn’t get to sleep for a long time.

  6

  Ian

  The way Annie looked at me? She shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t like it so much.

  She was so eager and open, so innocent and sweet. She looked at me with shining eyes full of hope. And more. There was desire there, just beneath the surface. Desire I felt increasingly sure she’d never explored with anyone else.

  The next afternoon she offered to make me a sandwich. She was bustling about the kitchen with that purposeful, cheerful energy the exact opposite of mine.

  Yes, I wanted to sit with her and enjoy a meal. I wanted to watch her flit about the kitchen, her hair up in a messy ponytail that I could undo, letting it fall in soft waves down her shoulders. I wanted to watch her rest a hand on her waist, or the curve of her hip, maybe sucking in that plump lower lip while she thought something over.

  So, I’d said no. I did not want a sandwich. But as I turned to leave, she touched me. It was a casual touch, the kind of gesture most people made without thinking about it. But people usually thought before they touched me. They wondered about my burns, my mangled flesh. But Annie brushed her hand along my arm in an almost intimate way, as if she were drawing me closer. It was the touch of someone who knew me well and felt comfortable enough to reach out and communicate with a gesture instead of a voice.