by Kara Braden
Cecily watched him, wondering what he was thinking. There was definitely nothing awkward or uncomfortable in his body language, which was a relief. He seemed fine. He’d dressed as he had been since they’d gone to town to pick up his clothes: jeans, a button-down shirt, and a sweater, this one a finely knit deep maroon that was probably a wool/cashmere blend. Today, Cecily knew exactly what was under that clothing, and she couldn’t help but stare as he crossed the wood floor with light, silent steps and no hint of pain in his back.
Ian sat down at the desk and flipped the switch that turned on power to the modem and satellite dish. “Is it your turn or mine to make breakfast?” he asked a bit more politely.
“I’ve got it,” Cecily said, affectionate warmth spreading through her chest. By the time she was in the bedroom, searching through what little remained of her clean clothing, she was grinning at the thought that Ian wanted a repeat encounter. At least, he’d said so last night. Or implied it. Her exact memories were a bit fuzzy on that point.
She kept grinning all through her morning wash. Remembering that Marguerite was coming over, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail that wasn’t as short as she normally liked. Usually, she cut it once every couple of months, when it became unmanageable. Now, though, she thought about last night, the feeling of Ian’s fingers twisted in her hair, sparking bright pinpoints through her scalp.
She’d leave it, she decided. After one last splash of water on her face, she went through to the kitchen to start breakfast. She crouched down to build up the fire so she could start coffee.
The desk chair’s wheels rattled over the floor, and Ian came through the archway a moment later. He looked at her clothes and asked, “You’re not going running this morning?”
Uncharacteristically shy, she shook her head. “I feel lazy this morning.” With a bolder smile, she added, “It’s your fault.”
His sly grin sent hot tingles down through her body. He stalked toward her, challenging, “Tell me it wasn’t more fun than jogging or calisthenics.”
“It was all right,” she mused, “though you don’t get out of proper exercise tomorrow morning. Be glad Marguerite’s coming over.”
“Damn. That reminds me…” He rubbed his jaw, watching her put two ham steaks into a frying pan. “Have you got any razors? I forgot to order some.”
She looked over and couldn’t help but smile a bit at the hint of gold stubble over his jaw. “You could skip it for a day or two.”
“You don’t want to see me try to grow a proper beard,” he said with a laugh. “Anything—even some horrid pink razor?” he asked, walking up to look into the frying pan.
She let out a laugh and handed him the spatula. “Yes, because so much of what I own is pink,” she challenged, thinking of her father’s old things, stored in a box in the basement. “Stay here. Watch breakfast.”
He looked at her curiously but didn’t ask where she was going. He just went to get plates out of the cupboard, keeping one eye on the ham steaks.
At the bottom of the steep, narrow staircase, she turned on the light. She had her washing machine and an old gas dryer down here, along with her tools and a single trunk that had traveled with her from college to base housing to a Stateside storage locker while she’d been deployed. She wasn’t one to keep mementos, except for the contents of the old trunk.
Her father’s razor was old but stored carefully in oiled cloth to protect it from rust. It was nothing fancy—not a carved ivory heirloom—but she remembered being fascinated by it as a child. She used to sit and watch him shave every morning before he’d gone off to work. Later, when she came home on weekends during college, she used to shave him, sparing him the indignity of shaky hands or the electric razor he hated. The hospice had sent it to her with his effects; the package had been waiting for her at the base when she’d been flown home on emergency compassionate leave.
Now, she opened the trunk to get the box with her dad’s old razor and the rest of his shaving kit. After last night, she was surprisingly comfortable with the idea of lending the heirlooms to Ian, though he’d been a stranger less than two weeks ago.
***
Ian was getting better at cooking on cast iron, though none of the pancakes were precisely round and one was markedly frayed at the edges from when he’d tried to skimp on oil. Still, Cecily was kind enough not to mention it, and she even complimented him on having finally gotten the coffee strong enough without letting it turn bitter.
“So, any ideas, or am I attempting to grow a beard for the first time since I was seventeen?” Ian asked as he helped Cecily bring the dishes to the sink.
She nodded in the direction of the cardboard box she’d brought up from the basement. “Found my dad’s old shaving kit. Will that do?”
Ian was intrigued; she hadn’t mentioned her family at all. He went to the box and opened it, expecting to find an old-fashioned metal safety razor and maybe an ancient, rusting red and white can of Barbasol. Instead, at the top of the box, he found a second thin cardboard box, the ends tearing. Inside was a piece of oiled cloth wrapped around an old straight razor, blade gleaming.
“The strop should be under there,” Cecily said as she started running the water in the sink. “You can use the bar soap in the bathroom. It should lather up just fine.”
“Wonderful,” Ian said uncertainly. He considered pretending that he actually knew what he was doing, but he’d never so much as touched a straight razor in his life. He glanced over at Cecily and said, somewhat embarrassed, “This is a little awkward, but I have no idea how to avoid cutting off anything important with a straight razor.”
“Oh.” Cecily glanced over at him, pushing a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. “If you want, I can…help.”
Ian held back his instinctive refusal. He didn’t like anyone near him with sharp objects. “You have used a straight razor before?”
“Of course,” she answered as if it should be obvious. She dried her hands and took the razor out of his hands. “If you finish the dishes, I’ll make sure it’s sharp enough.”
“Comforting,” Ian muttered and took her place at the sink. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up the scrub brush.
Cecily grinned at him and took the box to the kitchen table, where she started to unpack the contents. “I used to do this for my dad, after he had a stroke.” She moved one of the chairs over to the stove, and then crossed the room to flip the light switch on. “Would you set a small pot of water to warm? I don’t want to run the water heater empty.”
Ian found her smallest pot, filled it, and put it on the stove. He wanted to ask for details about her father, but they were still essentially strangers, even after last night. God, she’d been beautiful and brave, allowing him to coax her body to heights of pleasure that had seemed to catch her by surprise. He couldn’t wait for another chance to see what else she hid under her reserved, quietly competent facade.
He finished up the dishes, listening as she moved through the kitchen and bathroom. She stacked a couple of hand towels on the counter, checked the water, and then moved the pot off the stove. “Almost ready,” she told him.
He turned to watch her hang a broad strop from the pantry doorknob. It was leather with a canvas backing. He watched, confused, as she started to run the straight razor back and forth over the canvas side with a soft whisper of sound.
At Ian’s curious look, she explained, “I’m just making certain it still has an edge. Have a seat.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her as he sat down by the warm stove.
“It’s no trouble.”
He took a deep breath and told himself that she wouldn’t be offering if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. She was self-confident enough to admit when she was out of her depth. He could trust her.
After a few more passes of the razor, this time over the leathe
r side of the strop, she crossed back to the counter. She put down the razor so she could soak a towel in the pot of warm water. “Lean back. Or would you rather get the desk chair from the living room? That can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s fine,” he assured her, slouching down. He folded his hands in his lap and tipped his head back, waiting.
***
Cecily wrung out the towel, darting quick glances at Ian. He’d been tense when she’d first offered to shave him, but now he was relaxed and calm. The weight of his trust settled on her, giving her a moment’s pause.
Determined to be careful, she draped the towel over his jaw and said, “Let that sit.” She covered the towel gently with her palms, both to warm her fingers and to press the cloth against Ian’s throat. She couldn’t resist brushing her thumbs over his high cheekbones, aware of how odd it was that they hadn’t even kissed this morning, after last night’s intimacy.
Not that she could bring herself to kiss him now. Instead, she removed the towel, soaked it again, wrung it out, and replaced it. She felt as if she should say something, though she didn’t know what. Then again, neither of them needed the silence filled with meaningless conversation and small talk, something Cecily appreciated. So she left the towel in place and poured some warm water into the tin cup of soap. She had to work the badger-bristle brush for a minute or two to finally get a lather.
She turned back to Ian and took the towel off his face. She draped it over the sink, and then touched his warm, damp cheek, feeling the stubble, turned a richer golden brown from the water. She told herself that the touch was just to ensure that his beard was soft enough to properly shave, but she knew that was just an excuse.
Ian smiled slightly, a bare uplifting of the corners of his mouth, and opened his eyes to look at her. “So far, so good,” he murmured.
She smiled in response and looked down as she gave the brush one last swipe over the soap. “We’re just getting started,” she answered and began to brush the lather into his beard, hiding skin turned ruddy from the heat under a layer of whitish foam. Ian shivered under the touch, hands shifting restlessly on his thighs, and Cecily paused for a moment, arrested by the image of using the brush, dry and soft, over his entire body.
Finally, she put the brush aside and touched Ian’s hair in warning. She opened the razor, saying, “Stay relaxed,” as she set the blade at the edge of the foam high on his cheek. Smoothly, she drew it down, marking the subtle catch of the blade on the hairs. His breathing turned shallow but stayed slow, encouraging Cecily to continue. After she wiped the excess foam on a towel, she made a second stroke, just forward of the first.
Confident that Ian wasn’t going to flinch and end up needing stitches, Cecily continued, losing herself in the concentration to keep from causing even the slightest injury or irritation. He was entirely pliant under her fingers, allowing her to tip his head or press a finger to his lips to hold the skin taut. The only time his breath actually hitched was when she touched his chin and pulled the razor down the underside of his jaw, but even then his hands stayed relaxed on his legs.
When Cecily finished, Ian went to sit forward. She touched his shoulder, and he froze. “Something wrong?” he asked, lifting a hand as if to check for blood.
“I’m not done.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” she said, remembering when he’d said those same words to her last night.
Ian met her eyes, and she knew he was remembering. He licked his lips and leaned back again, tension in his posture. It took a moment for Cecily to realize he really had no idea what she was doing.
She moved the towel from the sink to the pot of warm water. Then she touched Ian’s face, stepping to the side of the chair to better meet his eyes.
“For a perfect shave, you do this two or three times,” she explained, stroking her thumb down the line of Ian’s jaw and then back up. The stubble was imperceptible compared to a safety razor or electric, but it was still there.
Ian smiled, tension melting away. “It’s good enough. It’s just dinner with Marguerite.”
There was no reason to hesitate—no reason not to pick up the threads of last night’s intimacy. So Cecily leaned down and pressed her lips to the path her thumb had just traced, and she listened to the way his breath stuttered. “She doesn’t get to feel the difference. I want to do this, Ian.”
“How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?” Ian asked breathily.
Cecily smiled.
***
Every six weeks, like clockwork, Ian’s personal assistant scheduled him for a visit to the salon she’d chosen. He’d been something of a local celebrity in Manhattan, and he’d had an image to maintain. But he’d never had anyone shave him—not when he could take care of his beard in five minutes with an electric razor or ten with a disposable.
Not content to shave him twice—once with the grain of his beard, once across it—Cecily insisted on three separate shaves, the last one against the grain over skin so smooth that the blade barely whispered.
After the third pass, Cecily carefully ran the wet cloth over Ian’s face, leaning in close to study his skin. Her eyes were practically glowing with satisfaction, and the subtle smile tugging at the corner of her mouth made it worth all the fuss and effort and the ache that had settled in his back.
“Perfect,” Cecily said, tossing the cloth aside. She set her fingertips to Ian’s face and traced little circles over every inch that she’d shaved, making him shiver. Her fingertips were callused but illegally talented, and he found himself entirely content to sit in the damned uncomfortable wooden chair all day if it meant she would keep touching him.
A distant part of his mind wondered what had brought this on. Cecily didn’t strike Ian as the intimate type. She hadn’t wanted to sleep in his arms and hadn’t offered a morning kiss, leaving him to wonder if last night had been a one-night anomaly. Now, though, he found himself rethinking that. Whatever brought on this moment of gentleness, he could get used to it.
Then, realizing his idle fantasies had strayed into dangerous territory, he muttered, “Thank you,” and got up out of the chair, letting the burn in his back and neck distract him. He was in no position to think about things like “relationship” or “long-term” or anything at all beyond the end of winter, when the last of the aching emptiness of his addiction was under control. And then he’d go back to Manhattan and Cecily would stay here.
Best to look at this as a vacation, Ian reminded himself. Vacations ended, leaving fond memories to cling to when everyday life became too boring or stressful.
He avoided looking back at Cecily and instead went into the bathroom to rinse away the last of the shaving foam. She kept a glass jar of moisturizer on the bathroom shelf, a natural blend made locally in Pinelake, or so she’d said. Ian opened the jar and used a finger to scoop out the thick lotion. He rubbed it between his palms and smoothed it over his face and neck, remembering the touch of her gentle, strong hands on his skin.
The door opened. “Ian, there’s lotion—” Cecily cut off and met his eyes in the mirror, mouth quirking up in a faint smile. “You found it.”
“Thank you,” he said, and he didn’t mean the moisturizer. “I never put in this much effort.”
She pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped closer. “You should.”
He studied her in the mirror; firelight suited her better than electric. It brought out rich red-gold highlights in her hair and gave warmth to her pale, freckled skin. He permitted himself to stare, thinking of how Manhattan’s electric night would turn her hair to deep mahogany, how she would glow under the bright Miami sunlight, how the midnight-blue ocean would bring out the rich green of her eyes.
She took another step as though drawn forward, lips parted, and it was as natural as breathing for him to turn and lift a hand to her soft cheek, tipping her face up to meet his kiss.
The light touch of her lips was tentative and fragile, but he resisted the impulse to pull her close. He wanted this to be on her terms.
Chapter 9
October 28
Ian lay on the sofa, staring up at the beams supporting the attic floor, idly running his fingers over his jaw. Cecily’s hands had been absolutely steady as she held the razor. He thought back to the video and the bloodstains on her uniform, and he pictured the scar on her shoulder. He felt queasy thinking of how long she had been held captive before her rescue.
Cecily had gone out fishing for tonight’s dinner, an activity Ian had no desire to share. To fend off the boredom that threatened, he rolled off the sofa and went to the desk. He’d already checked his email, so he left the power off and turned his attention instead to the typed pages on the corner. She had made no effort to hide them, so he didn’t hesitate to pick up the stack, turn it over, and start reading.
The fantasy novel was elegantly written but transparent, the plot devoid of complexities that would alienate young readers. (Ian distinctly recalled his frustration with such simplistic plots in the early days of school, when he’d been more interested in sports than completing his homework, because school had been tedious and unchallenging.)
At the bottom of the stack was the second book, darker and more ominous in tone than the fantasy novel. The story—less a proper manuscript and more a very detailed summary with bullet point outlines and notes—was set during the Cold War. The main character was a U.S. Air Force pilot, not a Marine, but there were similarities nonetheless. The pilot was shot down in contested airspace north of Japan, captured, and handed over to the KGB for interrogation. A few early pages, labeled REV2, detailed a parallel plotline about a special ops team being mobilized to rescue the main character and had notes about a possible KGB traitor who would help with the escape, but nothing had been done with those story arcs.