“Although,” I amend, “I would have enjoyed it much more if you had finished the song. You had quite a fan club going on.”
“My karaoke-star days are over, I’m afraid. But if you are nice to me, I could be persuaded to give a private performance.” He squeezes my hand, and ushers me into Julio’s Barrio. My mind has gone into overdrive, thinking about what a “private performance” might entail.
Focus, Sophie. It’s time to eat burritos and refried beans (quite possibly the least romantic dinner ever invented).
—
After stuffing ourselves with knockoff Mexican food, we head outside.
“What time is it?” Samira asks.
“I’ll check,” Narayan murmurs, taking out his phone.
“The fireworks start at eleven,” Samira explains.
“It’s ten-thirty now,” he says absently, eyes still glued to his phone. “I’m sorry Sam, but I have to go.”
“Everything okay?” Brett asks.
Narayan nods. “Nothing serious. My mom just texted me. She and my grandma were dropped off at the house, and they don’t have a key. They can’t get ahold of anyone else. Brett, can you give Sam a ride home?”
“You bet.”
Samira casts a glance at Brett and me, and our entwined fingers. She must sense my “Please bugger off so I can be alone with him” vibe, because she turns to Brett and says, “That’s okay. I’d like to visit with Nar’s grandma a bit anyway. If we hustle, maybe we can get there in time to take them to see fireworks on the south side.”
We part ways, agreeing to meet up again during the week.
And then we’re alone.
Well, not really alone. There are several hundred other people on the street.
“We should start heading toward the river valley,” Brett says.
“Good idea.”
We meander our way there, hand in hand, discussing anything and everything, laughter punctuating every other word.
Sigh…I love the feeling of falling in love.
Oh my. Is that what this is?
Brett and I eventually find a spot near the edge of a clearing that will give us some privacy, as well as a great view. Large trees loom overhead, their branches reaching out to us like old friends. The river twists along the valley floor, shimmering in the moonlight.
Brett is standing behind me, so close that I can feel heat radiating off of him. I have the sudden urge to take a small step backward, flushing our bodies together. Anticipation thrills through me. I cautiously step toward him, and lean my head back on his chest.
A small gasp escapes his mouth. I’d love to kiss that beautiful mouth. He breathes out a low, quiet groan and leans down to smell my hair. It’s a delicious feeling, making my skin prickle.
I feel a strong, muscular hand caress my chin, tilting me up so I’m looking at him. I can barely breathe. Brett’s tongue darts out between pursed lips, wetting them. He’s staring intently at my mouth. He leans down toward me. The old block of ice in my chest is melting again.
Our lips meet.
At that moment, the brilliant fireworks that we’ve been looking forward to begin. Through closed eyelids, I sense dazzling flashes of light and color. But neither of us bothers to look.
Chapter 12
Neighbours
I am so excited. Brett suggested I come by his new work site to see the progress they’re making. We’ve been an “official” couple for about a week now, and I’ve become more curious about what he does every day.
I definitely need the distraction. I’ve just had a crap week at work.
St. Puke has been at it again. The absolute worst was when he walked in on me as I was setting up an IV line in a patient’s room. It’s a routine task; I’ve done it a million times.
“Ah, Sophie. How is Mrs. Jones doing today?”
“Oh, a bit better than before. Although her—”
He cuts me off. And Mrs. Jones starts talking too. Only it’s gibberish. She has advanced Alzheimer’s disease, and tends to talk complete nonsense at full speed to anyone who will listen. Apparently, she must think Dr. St. Luke is a good listener. If only she knew.
“Mrs. Jones is scheduled for an assessment tomorrow,” St. Luke says, without looking at me. His attention is focused solely on the chart in his hands.
“Fingle fopper, brig staggen jingle jap,” Mrs. Jones says in agreement.
They both talk loud and fast, so it’s difficult to understand what’s being said. I can only catch the odd word.
“Geriatric assessment team…MMSE…new prescriptions…”
“Sal mosh triggin, diddle bosh lisden, ha ha ha!”
St. Luke gives me a steely look over his glasses.
“Are you going to set that up, or do you normally start by staring at the wall?”
“Fish foggle mesh grippen.”
What? OH!
“I was just about to set it up,” I reply coolly.
With practiced movements, I remove the tubing from its package and label it with a date sticker. I can feel his eyes following me, scrutinizing my every movement. I lift the tubing and expertly spike the bag of saline hanging from the IV pole. HA! I know it’s a small skill, but surely, no one can spike a bag like I can.
Why do I hear running water?
“Shit!” I hiss. I forgot to clamp the tubing, and saline is pouring freely out onto the floor.
“Shit!” Mrs. Jones repeats happily. Huh. She can still say swearwords clearly. Go figure.
I feel my cheeks go red. Such a rookie mistake, one that I haven’t made since I was a student. I desperately grab at the roller clamp, but it won’t budge. I clutch the end of the tube, attempt to squeeze a portion of the line like a garden hose, and end up spraying Mrs. Jones and Dr. St. Luke.
I finally manage to stop the flow of saline by placing my thumb over the end. St. Luke lifts his knitted brow and looks at me appraisingly.
“Well,” he says, “it looks like you’ve got everything under control in here. Excellent job keeping that line sterile, by the way.”
I glance down at my fingers, grubbily fondling the end of the line. Smooth move, Sophie.
Silently, I dispose of the bag of saline and contaminated IV line and exit the room behind St. Luke. I expect him to stalk off toward the nursing station to torment some other unsuspecting person, but he abruptly stops and faces me.
“I’d like you to carry out those orders ASAP.”
My brain stutters and stalls.
“I’m sorry, which orders?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs.
“Your incompetence knows no bounds,” he says. “If you would have been doing your job and listening to me, then perhaps you would have heard me.”
“Excu—”
He waves a finger in front of my nose.
“No, no. No more talk. I’ll find someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
He nods his head to me. “Good day.”
Do I run after him and tell him off? First of all, I would need to see written orders before carrying them out. Secondly, there’s absolutely no way I could have properly listened to him back there with Mrs. Jones gibbering over him.
I reflect on these things as I drive to see Brett. I push my hair out of my eyes, and turn up the radio.
Don’t think about work, Sophie. Focus on lovely things. Lovely, muscular things in hard hats and steel-toe boots.
—
I pull into a pseudo-parking lot that’s pretty much a dry field. “Narett Construction” signs are everywhere, as are heavy pieces of equipment, piles of dirt, and portable offices.
It’s an extremely hot July day, and I can see heat radiating off things in waves. I shield my eyes and scan the field. Where is Brett? I’m starting to feel very out of place in my little blue summer dress, surrounded by dirt and sweaty men.
A burly guy with a fuzzy beard and a copious amount of black chest hair matted to the inside of a white T-shirt walks past me.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Brett Nicholson?”
Big-burly-guy smiles, and instantly reminds me of a teddy bear. Or a sweaty, Greek Santa Claus.
“He’s over there,” he says, pointing toward a cluster of men standing around a large hole in the ground. “He’s on the cat.”
“Oh, right. Thanks!”
What’s a cat?
Okay, this is fine, I can totally figure this out. I just need to brush off my deductive reasoning skills. Obviously it must refer to a certain piece of equipment. Easy peasy. Just need to narrow it down.
Crap. Everything has the word “CAT” written on it.
How am I supposed to know which piece of equipment he was referring to? And I’m not about to traipse in there in my wedge heels and summer dress. I may not know what a “cat” is, but I’m not a complete idiot. Perhaps I should go back to my car and call him. At least I’d have air-conditioning in there.
And that’s when I see him. Brett is sitting on the edge of the seat on some yellow machine, and seems to be giving instructions to the guys around him. Instructions given, they scatter and he returns to digging a hole.
Or something. I honestly have no idea what he’s trying to do.
But it looks hot.
He’s busy pulling levers and shifting gears. Mmm…I bet he’s good with his hands.
My dirty thoughts must send out some sort of signal, because after I fantasize a few seconds about the many ways he could “operate” me, he spots me and jumps down from his perch.
Brett jogs over through the stifling heat, grinning wildly. “Hey, baby,” he pants, and gives me a soft kiss. “Glad you could make it.”
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I say. “The dirt piles are very feng shui.”
“Exactly what Narayan and I were going for.”
I grin back at him.
He escorts me around the perimeter of the work site, a safe distance away from the action. He points out where a pond and a community garden will be, and tells me how they plan to combine solar and wind energy to power the houses.
“I have no idea of how you can keep all that straight,” I say. “I can’t wait to see how it looks when you’re finished.”
He gives me a shy smile. “Well, there’s a lot of work still. Anyway, that’s where we are at the moment.”
He takes my hand and we walk toward the parking lot.
“Come on, I’m taking you out to dinner,” he announces.
“I’d love that. You’re so dressed up, too,” I say, motioning to his dirty jeans and T-shirt.
He squeezes my hand. “We’ll stop at my place first so I can shower and change.”
“Cool,” I say calmly. Inwardly, I’m jumping up and down with joy. I haven’t seen his place yet, so naturally I’m curious about what it looks like. That, and my imagination is doing back flips over the thought of him being wet and naked.
“Should we stop in and see Nar?” I ask as we pass the portables.
“He’s out today. Balancing figures and whatnot, working out contract details. Office stuff,” he says dismissively. I gather that “office stuff” isn’t really Brett’s thing. He’d much rather be outside playing in the dirt. I kind of love that about him.
Although I imagine he cleans up really well when he wears a suit and tie. What will he wear tonight? Oh no…what if he’s taking me somewhere fancy?
“So, where do you want to have supper?” I ask casually, while glancing down at my plain summer dress.
He flashes that sexy half grin that makes my knees wobble. “Just follow me home first. We’ll sort the details out later.”
I get in my car and follow him on the half-hour drive to his house. He lives not far from me, actually. This could be convenient, in case I want to go for a visit.
At midnight.
Wearing a trench coat.
Only.
His neighborhood is a bit newer than mine, and the lots are smaller. Another good point to buying an older home, like mine. If we ever got serious, which house would we live in, his or mine? I guess that depends on how much I like his place. I’d hate to give up my backyard, and the beautiful home that I’ve worked so hard on.
Whoa—did I just think about him in the long term? I keep on surprising myself. A month ago, I would have rather stuck forks in my eyes than consider moving in with a serious boyfriend. And yet, in the past week, I’ve been so busy and high on love (or whatever this is with Brett) that I’ve barely even thought about Aaron.
Hmm. When should that conversation come up? Maybe now that we’re an official couple, I should tell Brett about Aaron.
No, no—don’t go there. This is my first time at his house. I don’t want to spoil the evening.
I park my car on the street and follow Brett up to his house.
“Home sweet home,” he says as he opens the front door.
It’s a bit bare, and needs a “woman’s touch,” but overall, it’s very nice. His house has a clean, masculine feel. A total man cave.
The entryway opens into a large living area, which is walled in by ceiling-to-floor windows, giving an unrestricted view of the backyard.
What catches my eye the most is the elegant spiral staircase to the right-hand side. Solid wood, with detailed scrollwork; the work of an expert carpenter.
“Did you make this?”
Brett nods. “Took me forever.”
He tours me around the house, and then settles me with a glass of water before heading off to the shower. Hmm…What would he do if I joined him?
I gulp down my glass of ice water. We haven’t even properly made out yet, for goodness’ sakes. Well, not that making out can ever be “proper.” I don’t think much propriety could ever exist in the realm of exploring someone’s mouth with your tongue.
Brett joins me in the living room a few minutes later, and finds me inspecting one of his many bookcases.
“That was fast,” I comment.
He’s wearing jeans and a plain, light blue T-shirt. The clothes are plain Jane, but he looks anything but plain. He does look a bit casual, though. We must not be going out anywhere fancy.
Just as well. I’m not dressed for anything classier than a food court.
“You ready for supper?” he calls over his shoulder as he walks to the kitchen.
“Sure. Where are we going?”
He looks up at me from behind the kitchen island. “We’re staying in. I decided that I’d rather cook and keep you all to myself.”
Gulp.
“You want to cook for me?”
I’ve never had a man cook for me before. Well, other than my dad. But his creative (aka disgusting) combinations, like tuna fish and banana sandwiches, don’t count.
“You can help,” he says playfully, passing me ingredients to make a salad.
We work side by side at the kitchen island, delicious electricity darting back and forth between us. The salad doesn’t take long, and we head outside to the backyard.
“Good week at work?” he asks as we walk through the living room toward the patio doors.
“Meh, about average,” I reply. I notice that my voice sounds tired at the very mention of work. Brett seems to notice too, and drops the subject.
The yard backs onto a golf course, and is bordered with tall, leafy trees. I settle into a comfortable lounger and watch him fire up the grill. It looks like the grill master is showing off his skills again. So long as he doesn’t pull out mice on skewers, we’re good.
I survey the yard a bit more. There aren’t any flowers, but it’s shaded and well maintained.
“Well, Nicholson, it’s got nothing on my backyard, but it has a certain manly charm.”
“Manly, huh?”
“Yes. Plain, but functional. It needs some flowers or something.”
Brett smiles and looks as if he’s about to say something, when the neighbors crank up some death metal songs to an earsplitting volume. Brett shoots an annoyed look over the fence. For a s
plit second, he reminds me of someone, but I can’t place who. AHH! That’s who it is.
“Your frown just reminded me of Ravi Singh. He always seems to be scowling about something.”
“Is that a good thing? That I remind you of him?”
“Depends.” Ravi is really funny, even if he is a bit of a martyred grump. “Have you met Samira’s parents?”
“Once, briefly. They seem to bicker a lot.”
I laugh. “Sounds about right. They’ve had several fights going on for years.”
“Such as?” Brett asks. So I fill him in on the controversy regarding Samira’s name.
“Ha! Poor Sam.”
Our friends next door turn their “music” up another notch, and the muscles in Brett’s jaw start tightening rhythmically. I try to lighten the mood, though it’s a bit difficult to talk over the shouting and chaotic guitar solos.
“How did your parents choose your name?” I ask, still thinking about Nita and Ravi’s ongoing fight about Samira’s name.
He chuckles. “It was the eighties, and they came to a mutual agreement. My mom loved Bret Michaels from Poison, and my dad loved Bret ‘Hitman’ Hart.”
“As in the wrestler?”
“The very one.”
I’ll never understand why men like wrestling or fighting. It must be some kind of testosterone thing. There’s never, ever been a time when I wanted to grapple Samira to the ground and kick the crap out of her.
He walks over and straddles the end of the lounger I’m reclined in. He runs a finger along the curve of my calves.
Oh my…
“What about you, Soph?”
“What about me?”
He leans forward, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. I shiver, despite the sweltering July heat. “Your name. How did your parents choose it?”
“Oh, that. My dad named me, actually. My mom was going through a hippie phase, and if left to her own devices would have named me something weird, like Sunflower or Ocean. Dad wasn’t having any of it.”
“Sunflower Richards has a nice ring to it,” Brett says, and I playfully poke his chest.
I smile at him, and he smiles back. The same electricity that’s been buzzing between us all afternoon pulls us closer and closer, our lips tantalizingly close…and then a particularly obnoxious, screamy song rips apart our nearly tender moment.
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