His hand squeezes mine. I had forgotten he was still holding it. For some odd reason, it felt as if we blended together as one. I’m disappointed when he pulls away and goes fishing for his wallet to pay the tab.
For the next few minutes, I’m off somewhere in my mind, wandering around in a daze. The world around me diminishes into a blur. I know I’m walking with him, and I feel his hand holding mine, guiding me down the street. A moment later, we’re in the concrete basement of some garage, and I hear the beep-beep of his security system on his car and see the latches pop up on the doors. His bumper is still wrapped in tape.
“You didn’t get a loaner yet?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll have one.”
I glance at the damage that I’ve done to his lovely car, and the sense of mortification returns. If I had watched what I was doing, I wouldn’t be here now—with him—the perfect specimen of manhood, who is far too good to be with a girl like me. Of course, I could be prejudging him solely based on his smoking looks and kindness. He could be a monster underneath, just like the rest. A woman never knows. My half smile fades into a frown as the memories of former brutes flood my mind.
“You okay?” he asks, as he opens the car door for me.
“I’m a bit tired.” Hasty lies always hide the feelings. I can’t tell him the truth for heaven’s sake. We’ve just met.
The journey home is quiet. He appears immersed in his own thoughts, but he’s driving straight toward where I live. “I should give you directions,” I offer, a bit surprised he hasn’t asked.
“No, that’s okay. I checked on the Internet and mapped it out,” he says nonchalantly.
Ingenious man, I think to myself with a tad of suspicion. I decide to check the web for information on him when I get home.
Surprisingly, I feel comfortable with his driving. I don’t usually like the passenger seat. That out-of-control feeling sweeps over me. I look at the dashboard and see he’s not speeding. He’s following the car ahead at a safe distance. He’s an excellent driver. It’s probably the perfection part in him that I am sensing.
While I’m thinking about it, some car speeds by him and cuts in front. It startles me, and I grab the arm rest. He doesn’t flinch. Now, I’m thoroughly impressed. Not a trace of road rage tendency stirs him whatsoever.
“That was a close one.” He glances over at me with a concerned look.
“Yeah. Crazy drivers,” I moan with self-righteousness.
“There are a few, that’s for sure.” He smirks.
“Probably not the thing to be saying after my own faux pas of this morning.”
Now he’s grinning from ear to ear. He turns his head quickly and winks at me, then looks back at the road. I relax in my seat for the remainder of the way home.
Ian pulls up to my apartment complex and magically arrives in front of the exact building. He finds a visitor-only parking spot, turns off the car, and reaches over to pat my hand.
“Let me walk you to the door.”
“Uh, no, that’s okay.” I feel compelled to refuse his offer, afraid he’s going to want an invitation to come in.
“Just to the door,” he says, opening his and climbing out.
He comes around and opens my door and then offers his hand for me to take. I look into his sincere, kind eyes and release my fate into his palm. It’s unusual for someone to take care of me with such thoughtfulness. I don’t know how to respond.
After I’m out, he releases my hand, and I start walking toward my apartment. “I’m on the third floor,” I tell him, taking the first step. I practically run upstairs, and he follows behind me. The door to Apartment 306 is there, and I hesitate before putting the key into the lock. I turn and look at him watching me.
“Ian, thank you for making my birthday a memorable one. I don’t think I’ll forget this day, thanks to my inability to pay attention to the road ahead of me.” I’m captivated by his sympathetic eyes. Admiration threatens to drown my cautious heart. Immediately, I try to suppress the urge to like him—really like him.
“No, problem, Rachel. Frankly, I’m glad we ran into each other.” He chuckles and changes his sentence. “I mean you ran into me.”
He reaches out and touches the tip of my nose with his index finger. I flinch over his cute antics.
“Thanks again.” I push the key into my lock and shove open the door.
“Saturday,” he asks, sounding like a little boy. “Are we on for a hike?”
The longing in his eyes touch me. “I’ll call and let you know, okay?” It’s all I can offer at the moment without feeling pressured.
“Okay. You have my number. Call me.” His face is clearly etched in disappointment.
He turns and heads toward the stairs and climbs down the first six and stands on the landing for a brief second. “Goodnight.”
“Night.” I wave goodbye and smile.
A moment later, I’m in my apartment. I lock the door and slide my back down to the floor, until my rear hits the throw rug. The thought of spending time with him is overwhelming. I feel drained in so many ways, I can’t number them.
Confusion swirls through my mind, mixed with the fear. I’m not sure what I should do about his invitation. Finally, my pent-up emotions from the day expel in tears. For the next ten minutes, I’m lost in a crying jag I cannot stop, because of the kind respect Ian Richards has shown me. I know I don’t deserve it, but it felt so wonderful it makes me want more.
Chapter 3
A Reluctant Acceptance
I wake up Tuesday with my usual morning depression, after a restless night’s sleep. Attorney blue-eyes kept showing up when I closed my eyelids. He’s hard to eradicate, and now I have four days to decide whether I want to accept his offer or not.
After climbing out of bed and showering, I’m reminded that I need to catch the bus to the body shop a few miles away to sign papers and pick up a rental. Already, I’m behind at work, which adds more stress to my day. I reach for my prescription and down my morning anti-depressant. Tonight at seven o’clock I’ll take another.
Three months ago, I had fallen back into the dumps. It’s been a constant battle being on and off medication since I was a teenager. I feel happy, and then I feel awful. When I think I’ve got the depression beat, I go off the pills and feel cheerful for a few months. Then stress, loneliness, and heartache take their toll again, and I’m calling my doctor begging for the return of the purple-colored pill.
I’m to the point in my life that I’m thinking of making this a permanent arrangement. We’re old friends by now. I don’t know what else to do, because I need to function so I can work and take care of myself. There’s nobody else to do it for me.
As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I think of Ian Richards. It’s far too tempting to believe that a handsome and successful man would find an interest in me, especially on a long-term basis. I’m not sure if I accept his story that he wants to be friends. We’re not on the same playing field. Another twang of distrust hits me as I try to figure out his motives for wanting to take me on a hike.
It doesn’t take long for the alone-in-the-woods thought to resurface and the notorious serial killers of the Pacific Northwest to haunt my mind. I can see it now—my poor bones with the flesh picked off by ravens will make headlines in the Oregonian newspaper—unidentified skeletal remains found on Larch Mountain by a hiker.
If I do go with Ian, then I am choosing a trail that I know is heavily travelled. Perhaps I should check his backpack to make sure he hasn’t brought any duct tape. The irrational worries keep prancing through my mind from rape to murder. I have four days to figure this out. At the rate I’m going, I’ll make myself sick by then and won’t be able to go.
After climbing into my economy rental, I drive to work and park in the structure next to our building. I’m early enough not to get a lecture, so I head upstairs to my desk and am greeted by the red roses that look as fresh as the day before. They make me smile. I shove my nose into a bloom and i
nhale the scent reminding myself how delightful it feels to receive a fresh bouquet. I should give him credit for that, at least.
“Hey, Rachel!” Julie greets me. “The roses still look fabulous. Did you thank your victim?”
I smile and feel the urge to share. “Yeah, we had a drink after work last night.”
“No!” She plops herself in the chair next to my desk and leans forward. “Tell me, what happened?”
“I ordered a Coke, he had a Bud, and we just talked.” I try to make light of it, then added the rest. “Then he drove me home.”
“Wow, did he come in and you guys…you know…?”
“Gosh, do you think I’m bonkers?” I squawk at her in disbelief. “I hardly know the man. No, I didn’t invite him in.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
Now the questions are annoying me. Why do I share when I know that people are going to poke and pry even more? There’s a reason I’m private, and this it is—Julie Rogers with her big nose. If I tell her everything, soon the whole office will know of my personal life before the noon hour. Afterward, in the months that follow, everyone will line up at my desk telling me what to do next.
“I’m not sure,” I say, turning my head away. I push the power button on my computer and wait for the software welcome sign. Maybe she’ll get the hint her welcome has ended.
“Well, let me know if anything comes of it,” she says, with a tad bit of disappointment in her voice. She rises from the chair and heads over to her home-sweet-cubicle.
As I wait for the computer, I glance at the picture of my cat stuck to my cube’s wall with a push pin. Whiskers, my life. My eyes turn toward the flowers, and I imagine a picture of Ian, with six-pack abs, sitting in a silver frame, adorning the corner of my desk. Now, wouldn’t that be something? I’d never get any work done.
At last, the computer is up. The clock has rolled over to eight a.m. It’s time to get to work and leave my fantasies behind somewhere in my mind. Already, I know that concentration is going to be difficult today. When I’m down, I can’t focus, and work is painful. Mr. Stewart has filled my incoming box to the top. He’s probably trying to pay me back for being late yesterday.
“Time to earn my $14.68 hourly wage,” I mutter under my breath. I grab the first piece of paper and get at it.
* * * *
The week has shown me no mercy by making each day fly by toward my decision point. He hasn’t called me, and I’m assuming he picked up the hint that I don’t like to be pressured. I feel guilty that I haven’t called, but I’ve thought it out carefully what I want to say.
Late Thursday afternoon, I decide to take the leap. Beforehand, I write down each point that I want to get across. Otherwise, I’ll freeze in my thought process and forget everything. I want to hike at Multnomah Falls. The place is crawling with people this time of the year, and the trails are packed with visitors. There are bathrooms nearby, in case I lose it, and places I can scream if I need to be rescued. Of course, it’s a long drop to the bottom falls should he decide to push me from the top, but I know I’m stretching the imagination with that lame thought. My pathetic paranoia tendencies make absolutely no sense.
I get up and walk over to the employee lounge again and dial his number. It rings and then goes straight to voice mail.
“You’ve reached Ian Richards. I’m away from my desk at the moment or on the other line. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you, and have a pleasant day.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, drop my mouth open, and look at it as if I just visited an alternate universe. Why is this guy so nice?
Beep. I hear it and then bring the phone back up to my ear and freeze for a second. “Uh, Ian? It’s me, Rachel. I’m calling about Saturday.” I leave my number and hang up.
My stomach is nauseated, and I feel my heart flutter. My usual physical reactions raise their ugly head, because my mind can’t handle an ounce of stress. I hate myself, I complain, and walk back to my desk.
I keep checking the time as it slips by, wondering why he hasn’t called. Perhaps he’s with a client, in a meeting, or didn’t come into work because his neck is out of whack. It’s possible. Four o’clock arrives, then four-thirty. Maybe he’s changed his mind—that’s more probable. He’s thought about his invitation and wants to back out. I wouldn’t be surprised.
My cell phone starts to vibrate on my desk top. I jolt and glance at the caller ID that reads Anderson & Wyatt Law Firm. It’s him. I pick the phone up, rise from my seat, and answer it as I’m walking toward the employee lounge.
“Hello?”
“Rachel, it’s Ian.”
“Hi, Ian,” I answer unemotionally. I try not to sound too anxious.
“I’m glad you called. I was getting worried there that you wouldn’t.” He definitely sounds anxious.
“Oh, it’s just been a busy week.”
“Yeah, me too. Put in a couple of long hours the past few evenings.”
“Sorry,” I say, feeling genuinely bad this guy has to work so much.
“Have you decided about Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“Okay, I’ll go under certain conditions.”
“Name them.”
“Can we hike at Multnomah Falls? You know, to the top? Haven’t done that in years, and I think it would be fun.”
“Yeah, sure. You up for the steep climb?”
I hadn’t thought about that. It’s a killer walk, that’s for sure. “If we go slow, and you promise not to laugh at me when I need to stop and catch my breath.”
“Deal. What time you want me to pick you up?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nine o’clock sound okay to you? We should get there about ten.”
“Sounds fantastic. Want to do breakfast beforehand?”
“Uh, no,” I say emphatically. The rascal chuckles.
“Okay, I get it. I’ll pack some snacks in my backpack just in case.”
“Okay.” I already know I’m going to refuse them.
“Well, thanks for calling, Rachel, and I look forward to our hike. See you Saturday morning.”
“Okay.”
My nose wrinkles in embarrassment over the same word I’ve said three sentences in a row. He’s going to think I’m pretty dumb if all I can articulate is okay…okay…okay.
“Bye,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.
“Bye.” The call ends. I lean against the wall and catch my breath. This whole thing is pure torture.
I walk back to my desk and think about him for a few more minutes. It dawns on me that I haven’t done an Internet search on this guy. Quickly, I glance around the office, and everybody is busy. My boss has left for the day, so I click on the web explorer. It pops up, and I head straight for the search box and type in “Ian Richards Attorney at Law.” A few seconds later, a massive laundry list of information fills the page. My hand clutches the mouse, and I inhale a surprised breath.
His law firm comes up first, along with other search results such as professional organizations, Oregon State Bar Association, a former law firm he worked at, and a page on the same social media site that I use
It’s impossible not to giggle with glee over that discovery. I click on that first and groan in disappointment. He’s got all his information locked down—his wall, his pictures. Damn. I click on “About” and there’s not much there either, but I do see his relationship status. It says “Divorced.”
I lean back in my chair. “You sly dog, you,” I mumble under my breath. “Left that little tidbit out.” My own guilt pokes me. You didn’t tell him that you were married before either. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I rag on my conscience.
My eyes go back up the search results, and I click on his law firm information. A picture of him pops up. He’s dressed in a pinstriped, dark-gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with diagonal gray stripes. I salivate over his good looks.
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br /> Next, I scroll down to his credentials. There is it… Harvard Law. Oh, great, I feel like such a dummy now, I moan in disappointment. The rest of the information goes on with details about his practice area and expertise.
As I keep clicking on search results, it’s obvious that he’s well educated and respected. I wonder about his family. Perhaps they’re rich. He probably makes a three-figure income every year, and I’m reminded of my own pittance of a salary and multiple credit card debts. The more I read, the more depressed I become. The dichotomy between the two of us builds a broad chasm in my mind. I’ll never be able to breach it, especially when he gets to know me.
Quickly, I exit the Internet. My eyes start to water as I ponder my worthless life. I notice the time. One more trip to the ladies’ room before heading home, and then I’m going to stuff my face with ice cream and hug my cat. I need comfort and assurance from something, even if it’s a ball of fur.
Thanks to my online snooping, I’m in the doldrums as I drive home. The feeling of hopelessness smothers me. Saturday will no doubt turn out disastrous, and our acquaintance will come to a swift end. The voices in my head taunt me.
Nothing good ever happens to you. You’re such a loser.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I acknowledge them in return. I believe every word they’ve told me for twenty-five years and always have. Why should anything change now? It never does.
Chapter 4
Taking a Hike
The morning dawns, and I try to find courage to face the day. I eat an early breakfast high in protein, so I don’t succumb to the need for food until later. Strangely, I’m not feeling as nervous as I thought I would be. In fact, I feel excited to be doing something besides staying home alone.
I dress in my best jeans, pink tee shirt, and grab a light jacket. The weather is clear and sunny today with a high of seventy-five degrees. Perfect for hiking the Columbia River Gorge, except as usual, it’s a bit breezy from the east winds.
My long, blonde hair is freshly washed and pulled back in a ponytail that I weave through the back of my pink baseball cap. Apparently, I’m into pink today. I try not to overdue the makeup and definitely forgo any perfume. Otherwise, I’ll be a target for every bee from here to Idaho.
Conflicting Hearts Page 4