Eye of the Tiger

by Melanie Greene

  Evan, if you come in November, we want you to know you're sitting at the main table, no matter what our sweet grandchildren say about it. Or their parents. You're everybody's favorite uncle, but you're also our beloved son, and your siblings will be treating you like a brother and not a babysitter from here on out. When Elaine told me about Chris proposing to Natalie, Dad and I were ashamed to realize that our first thoughts were to blame you for not growing up enough to keep her. That was wrong, and we're sorry. You've worked very hard to accomplish so much in your career, and we couldn't be prouder of the person you've always been and the man you've become. The man you have been for many years now.

  Dad and I took a long, hard look at what we'd call the culture of this family. We're flawed people, but we parented five wonderful children, each of whom outshines us, and we know every one will think about their attitudes. You are as important, accomplished, and respected as all your brothers and sisters, no matter how much we have all failed to show that in the past.

  We're the proudest of parents, and we deeply love every one of you.

  Kisses to Alice and Will and Lizzy and Jane

  Hugs to Ben and Tara and Marcus

  Kisses to Chloe

  Hugs to Danyal and DJ and Rowan and Laurel

  Kisses to Evan

  -Mom and Dad

  * * *

  Abandoning his water bottle, he hit the pavement for another jog through the neighborhood, but he was incapable of outrunning the questions pounding through his brain.

  He should have called. It would have made more sense. Also, he wouldn't have risked lurking like an idiot waiting for the third chime of her doorbell to be the charm. Her foyer revealed nothing. No lights, no movement, no sound. Turning, he surveyed the street. In their weeks living together, he realized, he'd gotten familiar with several of the neighbors' cars. It left him with a silver luxury sedan, an oversized pickup truck, and two nondescript SUVs to decipher. The SUVs clustered three doors down, where the school-age boys lived, so he dismissed them. He contemplated the fancy car and the jacked up truck. Either could be the pilot's, and it wouldn't surprise him. The Lexus was closer to Nat's house, close enough for him to stroll by while pretending to look up at her windows for signs of life. The floral scarf and jumble of reusable grocery sacks in the back seat eliminated it. He looked back at the truck. No personalized plate, no bumper stickers, no decorative mud flaps. It could belong to anyone. Including a pilot who parked at the curb while Natalie drove them to register for wedding crystal. Or while he and Natalie made enough noise that they didn't hear the doorbell.

  He knocked hard enough to be heard over any of her moans. Because he was a glutton for punishment. If she answered the door after his pounds interrupted their sex, he would vomit into her azaleas. She didn't; he grasped his hair. He should have called. He should have called the same week she kicked him out.

  After blasting the AC long enough to dry the stress sweat off his forehead, Evan backed up her driveway to aim homeward. It was the easiest way to turn around from his spot at her curb, and he'd perfected the move even before moving in. He wondered if they would find a place with a two-car garage. Chris seemed like the kind of jerk who wouldn't take well to leaving his car in the street overnight.

  He was rounding the end of her block when Nat's car passed his. He braked, watching her taillights disappear. Had she seen him? Had she been alone? Had he stunk up his shirt, pacing and knocking in the warm September sun? A hasty three-point turn, and he once again pulled to a stop at her house. It didn't look any more occupied than before; her garage door was already down. He rang the bell, and hadn't fully shoved his clammy hand into his pocket before she answered.

  "I should have called," he said, looking at the vase of sunflowers on her foyer table. Looking at her red espadrilles. Looking away from her olive eyes, in case they weren't tilted up in welcome.

  "It's okay," she said. Her eyes slanted. He stepped in.

  Rumpled, and hair everywhere, and fidgeting. And gorgeous. She'd about swerved into the Machock's mailbox when she'd spotted his car. Two minutes of convincing herself it hadn't been him, or he'd gone for good, while she rushed inside and dumped her bag and froze in front of her stark reflection, breaths shallow until he hit the bell.

  They stood there, a yard apart. Separated by his arm length, plus hers. His gaze skittered, and she was a statue, but when they finally locked onto each other, he mirrored her relaxing jaw. "Can we sit? Do you have some time?"

  She had all night, but instead of answering she gestured to the living room. He took his usual spot on the sofa beside her. He was wearing a button down and suit pants, with no evidence of tie and jacket and pocket square and belt and tie pin and whatever other accessories he'd suited himself up with for work that morning. The shirt, tucked with precision into his waistband, wasn't rumpled after all. It just seemed naked without all the other stuff Evan usually wore.

  "I heard you got the job," he said, and while his voice was still hesitant, it was full of respect and pleasure.

  She nodded. "I did. I started at the first of the month; it's amazing so far. Tough sometimes, but amazing. I guess the parent network is still in full force?"

  "Yeah. No surprise there. I should have called, when Mom said you got the interview. Wished you luck. Not that I thought you needed it. Should have congratulated you on getting the job." He moved forward, like he was going to stand, then slid slowly back. "On all your good news."

  He was looking everywhere but at her again. She cleared her throat. "It's okay. I mean, thanks. That's sweet of you. Oh, I ran in to Lionel on Friday, and he sends his best."

  "Right. Thanks. Tell him hi if you see him again." Evan stood, fast, those quick-spring muscles of his always a surprise. He reached into his pocket as she rose to stand toe-to-toe with him. "Here. I got this for you. I don't know, maybe it's not appropriate anymore, but. Well."

  She reached for his clenched left fist, which he let relax and open against her palm. Touching him again grounded her, but she wasn't sure she should be settling into the feeling. A small weight fell into her hand, and when he lifted his away, she huffed out a gentle laugh. It was a tiny house. She shouldn't have been surprised. This one was barely an inch high, and shaped like an old stone cottage. "Why isn't it appropriate? Because the Bucks went for the Tudor instead?"

  "No, because--wait. The Bucks finally found something?"

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Of course. I'm an excellent realtor. I mean, I was an excellent realtor. Now I'm an excellent low-income housing counselor."

  "I owe you two houses, then." He caught himself. "I mean, I would, except for Chris. I bought that one for the new job."

  Still rotating the cottage, letting her fingertips rise and fall over the bumps of the resin's stone shapes, she watched as he rubbed at his hair. "What does Chris have to do with anything?"

  "I should have called. That's what I came here to tell you. Not because of your interview, or my mom scolding me, or because Chris got here first. I should have called because I love you, and it was cowardly of me to not face it, and to not be adult enough, responsible enough, to admit I was wrong. Because I was. Wrong. You challenge me, but only in the best ways. You make me see my life on a grander scale, Natalie. I feel like I fit into the world better now, because of you. And I should have told you that last month, because now you'll think I've only come over to play jealous caveman and pull you away from Chris. I want you away from him, don't think I don't, but that's not why." His voice went all abashed and self-deprecating. "I'm not going to block the runway if you want to take off with your pilot. I just needed you to know how grateful I am, how lucky I was to meet you. And to love you. So. That's why I should have called."

  He was backing towards the foyer, and that was no good. She stooped to scoop the tiny cottage from the floor where she'd dropped it, and rising, caught his arm. "Come here."

  His wingtips scraped to a halt. "Yeah?" His expansive smile threatened to dawn a
cross his face.

  "Yeah." Interlacing their fingers, she led up, past the too-bare walls of her stairwell, to her office. Stood there, taking comfort in the sight of his face. "You're kind of a fool, you know that?"

  "My siblings have informed me."

  She blew out an impatient breath. "I told Marisa to make them stop that."

  Closing the space between them, he bracketed her face in his warm palms. "All that was from you?" She shook her head, unsure what he meant. "My folks yelled at everyone, including themselves, about taking me seriously. For days, the others have been calling all red-faced. Danny even sent me a list of his investments so I could tell him if he was doing it wrong."

  "Hang on, Marisa and Koray scolded so now you have to work for free?"

  His bell laugh rang all through her torso. "I've been offering free advice for years. First time any of them have taken me up on it."

  "Yeah?" If she smiled any more, her cheeks would dislodge his hands.

  "Yeah."

  "Well."

  He tensed, and she didn't know if it meant he wanted to move closer or step away. She rested her jaw in his palm, and his breath whooshed out. They slid together, interlocked as she rotated them, directing his attention to the mishmash row of buildings on her shelf. "I have to make some room for the cottage. It's getting crowded."

  Evan didn't say anything, so she got blatant. Picking up the painted wood block she'd ordered from a hobby train site, she set it directly in front of him, putting the new house in its place. His fingers tightened on her waist. "That's a bank."

  "Was it the word 'bank' painted on it that gave it away?"

  He was hesitant, as if he was unsure of his facts, or the conclusions he was reaching. "I didn't give you a bank."

  She shook her head. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm an independent woman, Evan? If I want a bank, I don't need the man I love to buy it for me." Then she kissed the grin off his face. It was homier than any tiny cottage, warm and toasty and enclosing and uplifting, to be in his arms again.

  Interrupting her lips, he said, "You just can't stop, can you?"

  "Touching you? No."

  "Challenging me. Reminding me how incredible you are. Coming at me, guns blazing."

  "Oh, I'm coming at you, all right. Your gun had better be blazing."

  He'd slipped his hand under her hem and was unhooking her bra. She let him finish before dealing with his buttons. The lack of a tie and belt made her life easier. As did having Evan Lee stopping by to say he loved her. They were in the hall between her office and her bedroom, shirts discarded, not moving a step out of sync. He tasted all her favorite ways: spicy, warm, intense. Her mouth reveled. Her hands delighted. But of all her anthropomorphic body parts, it was the shindig hosted by the four chambers of her heart causing the most commotion.

  His knees hit the bed and he dropped his pants. She dittoed, but before they got back to the familiar territory of insanely good sex, she rested her palm on his heart. "I never once considered getting a toy airport, you know."

  "No?"

  She shook her head.

  "Good. Because I lied earlier. Playing caveman was hundred-percent what I was going to do, if I needed to get you away from him. I've been hitting the punching bag a lot lately. I think I could take him."

  She bit back her smile. "You couldn't pick him out of a set of two men. Were you going to lurk at the airline employee's parking lot calling his name to see who turned around?"

  He shrugged. "Easier to stake out your place."

  Smoothing his balled left fist over her right hip, she said, "Well, that's creepy of you. I guess it's a good thing I told him to never come back here."

  "You did?"

  "He wanted to throw out my sofa."

  "I love your sofa."

  "As often as you've come on it, I should hope so."

  "I love you."

  There went her heart, flinging itself half-drunk onto the dance floor again. "Yeah?"

  He squeezed her ass. "Don't hold out."

  No chomping back the grin now. "I love you, too, Evan Lee. Thank you for taking the first step back here, for being brave while I was still working on finding my courage."

  "Were you?"

  Tilting her head back towards her office, she said, "I ordered the bank building a week ago."

  The glow in his coal eyes belied the dusk outside. "I ordered the stone cottage ten days ago."

  "Braggart." There was only a wisp of heat behind her words, all of the fire having gone more urgent places. Places he was fingering, places he was lingering over. She shivered, eager, quivering.

  "I'll give you something to brag about."

  She challenged him to prove it. He did, collapsing against the bed and tugging her to straddle his chest. Replacing his fingers with his mouth, moving his thumb to her clit, and it was Evan, and she had been too long without him. Too alone in the bed he shared with her now. Too lonely for the feel of his muscles moving beneath his heated skin. Too nervous to throw herself back into his arms. But it was Evan, brave for them both, the mere fact of him aphrodisiac enough to spin her into the gilt glory of an orgasm.

  Collapsing beside him, she fought to regain her breath. "Wow."

  "God, I missed that."

  He wasn't the only one. He propped himself on an elbow and she got engrossed in his features. His hair was a little long, a lot mussed. His soft mouth fought with his taut brow, and she knew he was coiled tight with need. It was just how she liked him.

  Slipping off the mattress, she rummaged in her dresser drawer.

  "Nat?"

  She wiggled her ass, just to hear his inarticulate response. Finding the scrap she needed, she turned back to him. "I wrote a poem."

  "Really?" He sat up. "For me?"

  She smiled in affirmation.

  He swallowed. "No one's ever written me a poem before."

  She widened her eyes in mock consternation. "It wasn't easy. I don't know how you come up with them so fast." She'd had the browser open to the rhyming dictionary for an embarrassingly long time, scratching out inanities. Initially, she'd thought of composing an emotional poem, sending it to him to reveal her feelings, but that would have been following the ostrich pattern he objected to. Plus it was hard to write. So she'd bought the bank, planning to invite him over, show him, and, she hoped, the next step would be sex and her crude poem. It had still been a roll of the dice, opening herself up to his rejection, but he'd gone and made it a no-risk bet to confess her love.

  Evan's gaze tracked between her tits and the paper, so she helped him focus by slipping her forearms under her breasts and holding the poem between them. He took hold of his shaft.

  "Do you want me to read it?"

  His nod was brusque. "Come closer. I don't want to miss anything."

  She licked her lips and he pumped. "Okay, but if you make fun of me, I'm shredding this."

  "Shred it and I don't make the coffee in the morning," he countered.

  He made excellent coffee. Which reminded her to ask, "You will move in for real this time, right?"

  "Poetry reading. Now." He sounded strict, but he was nodding. "And we're putting half my suits in this closet."

  If she showed him the drawers she'd cleaned out during the great wardrobe purge, he would probably let her shred whatever she wanted. But he'd shown up uninvited, which altered her gravity in flippy, floaty ways, so she took a deep breath for bravery and recited:

  Sometimes I can't fathom my luck

  When your dick's in my mouth and I suck

  Your groans as I slide

  Make me wetter inside

  And I know all night long we will fuck

  She glanced up from her paper. He was stroking his erection, eyes squeezed closed. He snapped them open, and they were blazing, and his voice was a growl. "Again."

  Her mouth was too dry to object. She moved between his knees, dropping to hers, and dryness was no longer her problem. "Your dick," she said, "in my mouth," and his
hands went to her head as she opted to act out the rest. He was hard, and hot, and hers. She took him deep and got back those groans she needed.

  "God, Nat. I love you. I can't--" His fingers flexed against her scalp, and she gripped his base as she worked him with lips and tongue. They were both urgent, his gasps speeding her on, her moans meeting his thrusts.

  Evan pulled back, pulled out of her mouth, and she ran the tip of her tongue around the rim of his cock. The condoms were right where he'd left them on his side of the bed, and by the time he was covered, she was spread-eagled, as wet and ready as she'd promised. Vibrating. Evan slid his arms under her back and yanked her to him as he drove into her, filling her body like he'd filled her dance-happy heart.

  Flushed, tendons straining, eyes aflame, he thrust. He was ready. She was ready. They had all night--they had night upon night upon night--but they were ready now. Wrapping her legs around his, bucking into his rhythm, she said, "I love you," and he got wilder, and she said, "I love you," and his grip on her shoulders tightened, and she said, "I love you," and they erupted, and she said, "I love you," into the kiss that fused them together again.

  Epilogue

  Late spring, and the magnolia still sported profuse, fragrant blooms. Natalie stood on the balcony in her robe, idly wondering how expensive it would be to install some kind of remote switch for the fountain. And if being too lazy to go downstairs to turn it on meant she was completely over privileged, or just somewhat.

  "What's that look?" Evan asked, stepping out to join her.

  "I'm being ridiculous. You're back already?"

  "Yep. We ran. Tired her out." On their birthday, they'd gone to a shelter and adopted a two-year old mutt. Princess Charming was a terrier who didn't match the furniture, dug holes if she got bored, and demanded frequent runs with one or both of them. They were smitten.