Curves for Him - 10 Delicious Tales

by Aubrey Rose, Dez Burke, A. T. Mitchell, Catherine Vale, Marian Tee, Harper Ashe, Eliza Gayle, M. G. Morgan, Shirl Anders, Milly Taiden

  “Two coffees,” I said impulsively, handing the five dollar bill over to the barista. My hands trembled slightly as I picked up the cups. What was I doing?

  I pushed open the door with my shoulder bravely and exited the warm cafe, one coffee in each hand. For an instant I wavered. What if he didn’t want it? What if he thought I was a weirdo? I set my shoulders and walked over to him. He must be freezing, sitting out in the cold.

  “Here,” I said, offering him the steaming cup and putting on my most well-meaning smile. He looked up at me and my breath caught in my throat.

  A scar ran down the right side of his cheek, the white seam visible all the way from his hairline to his chin. That wasn’t what made me gasp, though. Dark frowning eyebrows framed his piercing blue eyes and a shock of almost-black hair threatened to escape from under his wool cap. He was younger than I thought when I walked past him, probably less than ten years older than me. And handsome. I gulped.

  He must have thought my reaction was to his scar, for he immediately angled his face away from mine, the white seam disappearing from my view. A defensive expression rose up on his face, and he looked at me suspiciously, one brow slanted up.

  “Um, I thought you might want something to drink...” My words trailed off lamely as I held out the coffee to him. I never could talk around handsome men. His expression softened and he reached out to take the proffered cup.

  “Thank you,” he said. The slightly accented words came out low, growling even, and as he took the cup, his long fingers brushed against mine. Again my heart jumped in my chest and I pushed down the strange feeling that was twisting up inside of my body. You don’t know who this man is, Brynn. He could be a serial killer, for all you know.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, quickly pulling my hand back and wrapping it around my own coffee. The warmth spread through my fingers, but it was nothing compared to the electric heat that I had felt touching his hand. After a moment he tilted his head up toward me, and I realized I had been standing there in silence, just watching him.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” he said.

  “No, that is—” I stumbled over my words, blushing furiously. “I mean—”

  “Do you often buy strange men coffee?” The accent in his words reminded me of my mother. Eastern European. His voice lifted in a teasing lilt, but his face was deadly serious, his scar giving him a menacing look. The incongruity made my already-flustered brain even more confused. Maybe he thought I was hitting on him. Should I be hitting on him? Oh, god.

  “Um, no,” I said. “I just thought... I mean, you looked like you might need one.”

  “You think I am a bum?” He raised one eyebrow, his accent more pronounced. Definitely Eastern European.

  “No! I mean, maybe. But that’s not why I got you coffee. I was just getting myself a cup, and I thought you might like one. You know, to keep you warm.” I couldn’t stop myself from rambling. “It’s really cold out here. That’s all.”

  He smiled for the first time, and the rush of relief that swept through my body warmed me as much as the coffee in my hands. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a genuine smile. A kind smile. I felt my body heating up under the coat, and I wanted to tear the damn thing off.

  “Come, sit,” he said, and despite my misgivings, I complied, the bench chilling my legs through my jeans. A strange man sitting alone—what was I thinking? I comforted myself with the thought that the library was just behind us. A strange thrill of pleasure ran through me as I sat next to him, and danger too—he hadn’t seemed so tall when I was standing, but now that I was beside him I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. Despite this, I felt more safe than vulnerable, as though he would protect me if anything were to happen at that moment. I did not know why I felt as though I could trust him.

  A line from one of the books my mother used to read ran through my mind: “...and the prince, tall, dark, and brave, fought off the wolf and chased it into the snowy night.” I shook my head and the words flew away into the darkness.

  “You’re a generous girl,” the man said. “Even to an ugly old bum.” He winked, and I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

  “You’re not old!” I said. He was in his thirties, if not his early twenties. “And you’re certainly not ugly!”

  “Oh! Is that so?” A twinkle shone in his eyes, and I flushed at my own admission. He must know that his looks were to die for—strikingly dark features against his light blue eyes, his strong jaw dotted with day-old stubble. Even with a scar running down the side of his face, he was achingly beautiful. Especially with his scar. It made his already fierce eyes look even more pronounced, and gave an edge to his otherwise perfect beauty.

  I felt a rush of desire for something I would never possess, and shame that I had the bald temerity to desire it. Of course my words had come out wrong. They always did.

  “I... I mean...”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” the man said. “But thank you. It’s not so often I get complimented, I just want to savor it.” He took a long sip of coffee, inhaling with pleasure and set the cup aside on the bench. “So do you think I am a bum?”

  His words were a question, but I did not know what he was asking, or if he was still joking; his smile had turned into more of a smirk. His coat looked expensive now that I could see it up close, and his watch glinted gold underneath his sleeve. Definitely not a bum.

  “No, you’re not!” I said, blurting out the words before I could temper them. I quieted myself before I spoke again. “It’s just... everybody has a hard time sometime.” Something else my grandmother taught me.

  The joking expression fell off of his face so quickly that I thought I might have imagined him smiling. I shifted awkwardly, the cup of coffee heating my fingers against the numbing cold.

  “You’re right. This is a hard night for me.” He looked off at the dusky sky, his eyes reflecting the falling snow. Snowflakes dotted his face, melting immediately on his cheeks and dusting his dark lashes with white crystals. He did not seem to notice, his gaze straining to see something too distant to be visible. Then the look was gone, and his eyes came back to mine.

  “But a hot drink and a beautiful woman make all the world of difference.”

  My breath caught in my throat and I put my handkerchief up to my nose to hide my look of surprise. Beautiful was the one adjective I could definitively say didn’t apply to me. Especially now, my face flushed with the cold and my nose dripping like a busted water pipe. He must be joking. He must. But the way his gaze swept over my face appreciatively made my stomach roil with hope.

  “Are you a student here?”

  “Yes,” I said, stuffing the handkerchief back in my pocket and retreating my hand back to the coffee cup. It was much easier to avoid awkwardness while holding something, I found. “Actually, I have to go to my study group. I’m already late.”

  “What subject are you studying?” He had turned to face me, his knee lightly pressed against mine. The touch made me dizzy with a desire that came from some unknown depths in my body. It scared me and thrilled me at the same time. Immersed in my studies and my work, I didn’t have time for a relationship. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  “Math.”

  “Ah! Mathematics!” He reached out and clasped his hands around mine, which were still holding the coffee cup. I would have pulled them away, but his blue eyes hypnotized me with their sudden intensity, and his long fingers held mine firmly, as though I belonged to him. Every nerve in my body jumped at his touch, and my heart pounded in my ears. The steam from the coffee rose between us and mingled with the white of our breaths. His face bent down, just above my own.

  “It’s the most beautiful of subjects,” he said. “As beautiful as nature is beautiful. As beautiful as...”

  What was he doing? I froze in my seat, my hands still ensconced by his. He looked at me as though he saw my soul inside of me, his gaze familiar and possessive. At that moment, I kne
w he wanted me, desired me. I could feel threads of attraction stretching across the small space between us as tangibly as if they had been visible, hanging in the cold white air.

  It was over in a second. He pulled back quickly, as though he had touched his lips to coffee that was too hot, and the connection was lost.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He released my hands, and I almost dropped my coffee all over my lap. None of my muscles were listening to me anymore. Not after the touch of his hands on mine.

  “Sorry?”

  “I shouldn’t have. It was presumptuous. I’m not...” His stare was lost again in the distance.

  “Not what?”

  “Not whole. Not ready. I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders, obviously distraught but trying to hide it. “Excuse me. Thank you, thank you for the coffee.”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  He looked up at me, and I saw a deep longing in his eyes. Not knowing what I was doing, I reached out and touched his cheek on the side of his face that was scarred. My thumb rested on his cheekbone, and with my hand obscuring his face the scar was erased from view, peeking out only slightly from under my palm. I caressed the white seam. His dark hair fell over my fingers and his eyes flashed dangerously, as though he were not the prince after all, but the wolf.

  His strong fingers closed over mine, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. I instinctively leaned forward into his pressure but stopped as he opened his mouth to speak. He paused, seeming to change his mind about what he would say.

  “You’re a lovely girl.” His voice was nearly a whisper, and I heard in it a note of sorrow so deep that it made me want to throw my arms around him. I could tell he was hurting, that he wanted me and the wanting hurt him somehow. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know why, but I recognized the pain in his gaze as easily as I recognized my own face in the mirror each morning.

  A student walked around the corner of the library into view, and I instinctively sat back upright, realizing the insanity of the situation. This was a man I did not know at all, a stranger in the snow, and I was ready to fall into his arms as quickly and easily as if I had known him all my life. I stood up from the bench, scared by the intensity of my attraction to him, unlike anything I had felt before.

  “I have to go,” I said. “My study group.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, still sitting. He did not seem anxious at all to see me go, but as I moved past him his hand shot out to stop me, catching me by the elbow.

  “May I ask your name?” he said.

  I hesitated for only a split second. “Valentina,” I replied. “Valentina Alastair.”

  “My name is Eliot. Thank you for the coffee, Valentina,” the man said. He let go of my arm and I walked quickly toward the library, forcing myself to only look ahead. I thought that if I turned to look at him, I would not be able to leave him. But at the library door, I gave into curiosity and let myself glance back at him.

  There was nobody there. He had vanished, like a snowflake that falls onto your cheek and melts into water before you feel it touch your skin. Above the bench there was a wisp of white breath that curled into itself, fading, until it dissipated into the air. Under the bench no footprints left any indication to where he had disappeared. The sheets of snow whipped along the sidewalk and brushed away any trace of the man who held my hands in his so possessively.

  The snow continued to fall and I blinked once, hard, then went inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Dr. Herceg! Dr. Herceg! Wait!”

  Eliot turned to see the department chair fairly skipping to catch up to him.

  “Eliot, please,” he said, shaking Patterson’s hand in greeting.

  “Eliot. Yes. Excellent. I’m so glad I could catch you,” he said.

  “What can I help you with?” Eliot asked, faintly irritated. With gray hair and spectacles resting on his thin nose, the department chair resembled just about every other mathematician Eliot had ever known. Dr. Patterson had been running the department for as long as Eliot could remember, although he tried to avoid the man as a rule. Patterson preferred conversation about office politics to those of mathematics, and Eliot’s disdain for the academic rat race had not endeared him to the man. Eliot’s position as a fellow had been granted as a special exemption so that he could remain in America to study, and he knew Patterson resented the way Eliot isolated himself.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your internship prize. And your work in general.”

  “Of course.” Eliot paused, then realized the man didn’t want to speak in public. “Your office?”

  “Yes, please, this way. Crazy weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?”

  Eliot murmured his assent as the gray-haired man led the way down the hall and into his office.

  “As you probably know, there have been rumblings about the internship program. Please, sit.” The department chair sat behind his desk. Eliot scanned it quickly. On the desk were a number of official-looking papers: grant proposals, staff recommendations. A picture of a slim, blonde wife and two children. A half-empty glass of water. A gilded clock on a marble base. A framed plaque of commendation from a mathematical society. He had no mathematics on his desk save a pile of student homework papers.

  Eliot eased himself into the leather chair in front of the desk. His frame was too long, his elbows jutting out over both armrests.

  “Rumblings?” he said.

  “On the email lists for the math department.” Patterson raised his eyebrows meaningfully, but Eliot didn’t get the meaning.

  “I don’t read them.”

  “Ah, hmm.” Patterson shifted in his chair. “But of course you’ve talked with the other professors in the department about your work.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Patterson said. He tapped a pen on his desk. “Well.”

  Eliot stared ahead calmly. The clock on the desk filled the room with its ticking.

  “It’s just that...” the department chair began. He coughed.

  “Just that what, Dr. Patterson?”

  The man coughed again into his hand, evidently not wanting to bring up the subject. Eliot leaned over and pushed the half-empty glass of water toward him.

  “For your cough.”

  The gray-haired professor looked startled, his eyes glinting with suspicion. Eliot met his gaze coolly. Patterson set the glass aside without taking a drink and leaned forward over his desk.

  “It’s been some time since you’ve last published anything, Dr. Herceg—”

  “Eliot.”

  “—and many in the department feel as though you have been too selective in your internship program. Dr. Carrey, for example.”

  “The one whose son was rejected last year,” Eliot said. The math professor had called Eliot to beg for his child’s acceptance. That conversation had not gone well.

  “That’s right.” Patterson did not meet Eliot’s eyes. “Many here take his side.”

  “Good for them.”

  “And many have noticed that you have not visited your internship program in Budapest at all since its inception.”

  “I manage the students remotely.”

  “Some say you don’t manage at all.” Patterson breathed heavily, as though under a great weight.

  “I have tried to do my best working from here. I need to focus on my research.” Eliot felt his skin heat up slightly. He hated to lie, even a lie by omission. Truthfully, he could not bring himself to return to Hungary.

  “That’s another thing. Since your contributions to the mathematical profession have waned...”

  “I’m working,” Eliot said, lightly touching his fingertips together, “on a difficult problem.”

  “So you may well be. But since you do not—or cannot—publish, we feel that it would be beneficial for you to increase your contributions in other areas. For example, taking on more students for your internship.”

  “I take on many students each year to the academy.” Eliot tilted
his head to one side, casually cracking his neck.

  “But only one from this university!” Patterson pointed one finger in the air, as though he had made an important issue clear. “Only one!”

  “Are the students from Pasadena inherently more qualified than those from other universities?”

  “No, but many are qualified who are not picked. Dr. Carrey’s son, for example.”

  “Dr. Carrey’s son is incompetent,” Eliot said. “He should not be practicing mathematics at all, let alone at the Hungarian Academy.”

  Patterson licked his lips but ignored the insult.

  “Then surely you could pick others. More than one!”

  “Surely. But why should I favor Pasadena?”

  “Pasadena University supports you and your fellowship, Dr. Herceg.”

  “Eliot, please.”

  Patterson leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, and Eliot knew just then what was on his mind.

  “Your fellowship here is continued, in part, because of your contributions to the prestige of this university.” Oh. So that’s what he was driving at. Eliot realized why the department chair had been so eager to talk with him. This conversation had nothing to do with mathematics. Eliot spoke his next sentence carefully, as though wading through a particularly difficult proof. He wanted the point to be perfectly clear.

  “Because of my financial contributions.”

  Patterson paused.

  “In part, yes. Yes, you are correct. This would all be much easier to handle if you continued to be as generous to our department as you have in the past.”

  “What contributions do you make to this department, Dr. Patterson? Apart from teaching the mandatory lectures.” Eliot brushed his thumb against the stack of homework papers on Patterson’s desk.

  “I teach all of the higher level courses I can manage with my schedule.” Patterson seethed. “But then again, I happen to enjoy making a contribution to this university.”