I press the remote to unlock the car, then toss my purse in. When I turn to say goodnight, he catches me around my waist and draws me in for a kiss.
The sweeping motion begins like our dance, sweet and warm, with a hint of desire. Once he presses his mouth harder against mine, his hold tightens, locking me within his embrace. Pleasant excitement gives way to rising panic, clawing at my insides. My heart pounds with a mix of both, the rush of emotion blocking out all else. I can’t breathe, and go still to keep from drowning.
A distant, small voice calls to me. Take control. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I push at his shoulders.
Releasing me suddenly, he steps back. “I’m sorry. I’m coming on really strong. It’s not like me at all. I’m just so drawn to you. That’s no excuse.” He scowls, but not at me. He seems disgusted with himself.
My pulse flutters, calming slowly. “No, I’m sorry.” I sound too breathy, so take another moment to let my heart rate return to normal. A memorable first kiss, but for all the wrong reasons. Sorry is the last thing I want him—or me—to feel.
His glasses sit askew across his nose, and I cautiously reach up to straighten them. “I apologize for overreacting. It’s been a long time. A really long time.”
“No, I shouldn’t have gotten carried away.”
I shake my head. “Please, Kip. You caught me off guard, that’s all.” And he hasn’t mocked my irrational, immature reaction, another good sign.
“At least I can’t say anything stupid while I’m kissing you.”
A flood of warmth releases my wired nerves. “You haven’t said anything stupid.”
“You’re too kind.” He strokes my cheek, a simple but tender gesture that melts my worries. Brief but warm, he kisses my forehead, and lingers close. “And too pretty.” Another kiss on my nose, and he reaches his mouth for mine. “And definitely too kissable.” More gently than before, he presses his lips to mine.
Another flood of jumbled sensations crashes over me. A quick tilt of my head frees me before I’m swept away. “Either I have a coffee rush or else you’re too kissable, too.”
“I hope it’s the latter.” He leans in once more.
Before the tsunami of feelings engulfs me again, I place a staying hand against his chest and blurt, “We should say good night.” Before I completely lose myself in the incredible sensations washing over me. I have to remind myself that I hardly knows this man. I would like to get to know him, but slowly.
Kip’s mouth becomes a thin line—half grimace, half smile—and he gives a reluctant nod. “Will you let me take you out to dinner?”
I’m so relieved at his gentlemanly agreement. “I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll call you.”
“Do you have my number?” The thought ices my skin. Does he?
“Not yet. I’m hoping you’ll give it to me.” He grins.
How stupid I am, overreacting again. Of course he doesn’t already have my number.
I reach inside the car for my bag, find a scrap of paper and scribble it. “That’s my cell. I usually let the machine pick up for the house phone.” The fact that I’m giving him my private number is momentous, but I try not to make a big deal of it.
His eyes brighten, enough of an acknowledgment. “Good to know.” He tucks the paper into his jeans pocket.
“Okay. I’ll see you.”
“Yes,” he says pointedly, then more softly, “Good night.” He brushes his lips against my cheek.
I close my eyes against the rush whirling inside me.
He draws away and squeezes my hand, then steps back, fingers still wrapped in mine.
I release him. “Good night.”
He turns finally, and strides across the wet blacktop to his vehicle and climbs in.
With a start, I realize I haven’t moved, so throw open the car door and plop behind the wheel. When he cruises past and honks, I do the same. Though he can’t hear me, I say aloud, “Good night.”
It definitely is.
Surprisingly so.
Chapter Seven
Spending time with Claire lifts Kip’s spirit higher. A buzz of energy zings through him, something he hasn’t experienced in years. Driving home, he turns the radio up loud. Pounding on the steering wheel, he fake-screams the lyrics to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. Might have described how he felt before, but now he climbs the stairway to heaven instead.
All because of Claire. Man, who’d have thought he’d be so happy again? That little dimple in her cheeks when she smiles, the music of her laugh… he can’t wait to be with her again.
Before he knows it, he’s parking in his driveway. Still abuzz, he has enough energy to run ten blocks, but instead jogs to the door, then makes a beeline to his laptop. Waiting for the computer to boot up, he does his best Clapton impression and sings ‘Wonderful Tonight’. His arms ache to hold Claire in another slow dance. He kicks off his shoes and then slides on his socks across the wood floor toward the kitchen. He pours a glass of milk and carries it back to the laptop.
This email will be infinitely easier to compose than the last one.
Dearest Claire,
Forgive an old man another intrusion, but I wanted to send you my phone number before I forgot.
As if he possibly can.
He types it in, double-checks the accuracy of his nervous fingers pecking the keyboard, then adds his home address.
In case you wanted to share your movies sometime, you’ll know where to bring them. Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. But I would like to see you soon. Let me know when you’d like to go to dinner.
He resists the urge to add, ‘Don’t wait too long’. That might be too much.
He opts for a casual closing to the message, a simple Best, Kip. A long exhale, and he slumps back in his chair. Now the waiting begins. The most difficult part of the process.
He launches into Petty’s The Waiting Is The Hardest Part. A pretty darn good rendition, if he does say so himself. His fingers move along invisible guitar frets but itch for actual strings. How many years has it been since he’s played?
His cell chimes, and he grabs it. A number he doesn’t recognize appears in the display. “Hello?”
“I’d like to see you soon, too. How about tomorrow?”
Claire. His heart rate shoots out of measurable range. He waits a beat to calm himself, so she won’t hear his nervousness. “Sounds good. But let’s make it lunch, and discuss dinner afterward.”
“All right.” Her smile comes through in her voice, a repressed laugh that lends intimate warmth.
Now his fingers itch to trace the dimple on her cheek. Among other things.
He shakes off those thoughts. “Pick you up at eleven thirty?” He winces. Really pushing her with such an early time.
“Where are you taking me?” she teases.
To the moon, he hopes. “We can decide on the way.”
The note of surprise in her “Okay” gives him pause, and he wonders exactly how unhappy her marriage had been if she hadn’t had input on simple things like where to eat lunch.
“See you at eleven thirty,” she says. “Good night.”
“Sweet dreams.” He clicks off and grins at his cell. She called. She must have done the same thing he had—ran to the computer as soon as she’d gotten home.
Tomorrow. They’ll have time enough to discuss whatever she wants then. In… he glances at the time on his cell… another twelve hours. All he has to do is sleep, get up and kill some time in the morning.
And not go overboard falling for Claire.
Not that he hasn’t dated other women. Once or twice, here and there. But he’s never gotten excited about seeing any of them, never looked forward to more dates. Never wanted to find out more about her, all the little nuances that only someone in a relationship with her could learn. And none ever gave him a case of the guilts. Not once tonight has he thought of Justine.
I’m not cheating on Jus. She is gone. She encouraged him to find
someone else, not to grieve forever. Not to wait too long.
Three years have passed. Time is too precious to waste. Another thing he hasn’t felt in a long while, but hits him hard now. He wants to grab the hands of time, stop them from moving forward. He needs every hour, every minute, the universe can spare to get to know Claire.
Maybe have a life again.
His head hits the pillow and he stares at the ceiling. Too wired to sleep. He plugs his cell into the mini speaker and flips on Pandora. Stretching out again, he lets the soft music wash over him, soothe him.
Next he knows, sunlight pours through his bedroom window. No sooner do his eyes pop open than he thinks: Claire. He has to shower, find something non-nerdy to wear. He fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand and checks his cell. During the night, the phone battery drained to nothing. He hurries to plug in the charger to see if he’s missed any texts or calls. Nothing. And it’s only a few minutes after seven. He has hours yet.
Coffee, a shower, catching up on the news online and on television. He wastes minutes in front of his closet before he selects a cotton plaid shirt, tweed jacket and trousers. No, jeans. Nothing too formal.
Still more than three hours till he can pick her up, so he works on the cabinet awhile, but can’t lose himself in the project like he normally does. When his lack of focus causes him to nick the wood with the saw blade, he turns off the equipment and the lights.
A run, that’s what he needs to burn off the extra energy. Three miles of pounding the pavement leaves him sweaty, so he showers again. With the water streaming over him, he realizes he hasn’t thought of where she might like to go. Lunch will last only an hour, then what?
An idea strikes him. The perfect place—something he’s wanted to do, but not alone. He hopes she’ll want to go, too.
By the time he arrives at her doorstep, his nerves are practically bursting out of his skin. He takes a moment to compose himself, then presses the doorbell. Should have stopped for flowers.
She opens the door and her smile fades. “Are you all right?”
How can she look more beautiful than the night before? A silver clip holds back her shoulder-length brown hair on one side. Eyes dark as chocolate, rimmed in thick lashes. She’s wearing makeup today.
“Yes,” he finally answers. “Sorry, I would have bought a bouquet, but…” He has no excuse.
She waves him off. “I’m not a fan of cut flowers. I prefer them in the garden. Alive.”
“Oh. Good.”
She opens the door wider. “Want to come in?”
“Sure.” Except she appears less than enthusiastic about the idea. “Unless you want to get going.”
“All right.” She gathers her handbag and jacket. “I’m ready if you are.”
A ping of regret nicks his insides. He’d like to see her place, the things she keeps, what she considers worthwhile and important.
“Great.” He steps back and waits for her to lock up, then walks her to the car and opens the door for her.
She smiles, but her cheeks flush a lovely rose hue. “Thanks.”
He climbs in and starts the engine. “Any thoughts about lunch?”
“I heard about a place in New Hope that sounds interesting.”
He can’t read her blank expression. Nervousness? Wariness? “Let’s try it.” He backs the SUV into the street and shifts into first gear.
“You don’t want to hear what sort of fare they serve?”
“I appreciate any meal someone else cooks for me.” He smiles but isn’t kidding. Too many nights of microwaved meals from a box cured him of picky eating. Being with Claire shifts his appetites to another type of hunger. Food may not be a great mix with the flutters in his belly.
Once they reach the restaurant and the hostess seats them in a cozy corner, he finds greater satisfaction in conversation anyway. He’s missed the easy repartee he’d shared with his wife, and Claire’s wide range of interests—many of which match his own—easily keep the flow of talk going.
During a lull, she glances up. “What?”
Busted. He’s been staring. “Just wondering what you might want to do this afternoon. The Franklin Institute has a great exhibition.”
Her smile’s strangely apologetic. “Cleopatra.”
“So you’ve heard of it.” So she must be interested. Great minds think alike.
She wrinkles her nose. “I already went.”
“Oh.” A little too alike. “Maybe an art museum instead? There should be some new shows, somewhere, if I’m not mistaken.”
“There are. The Met opened a wonderful photography exhibit a few months ago, and a Philadelphia museum has an excellent Rodin display.”
He scrunches his lips. “I take it you visit there regularly.” Which means it will be a special date for him, but not for her.
“I got tired of waiting for someone else to free up time to go places with me, and starting going by myself.” She sounds sorry.
Uncertain of what to say, he makes a sound of acknowledgment.
She flutters her hand in the air. “I know, I’ve heard all the arguments about going out alone.”
“No, I admire your independence. I should do the same.” Instead of sitting at home reading, or watching shows he barely likes.
“I tried the bus tour thing,” she says, “and hated it. When friends who agreed to go to a new play backed out at the last minute, I was going to resell the tickets, but they were extremely hard to get. I was lucky to have gotten them and...” She shakes her head. “I decided at that moment that I wasn’t going to waste any more time. From then on, I had no qualms about buying one ticket, getting dressed up and going by myself.”
“Sounds liberating.” He flashes a grin he doesn’t feel and signals the waitress, mouthing, ‘Check’.
“That’s a perfect description. For years, I’d kept mental lists of all the things I wanted to do, but the lists kept getting longer because I never did them. If I suggested something to my husband, he always made an excuse not to go. I just got tired of not living the life I wanted.”
The waitress stops long enough to set the bill between them. “Whenever you’re ready.”
To Kip, Claire sounds as if she intends to fight for her hard-won freedom. “I don’t blame you.”
Studying him, she knits her brow. “But you don’t agree, do you?”
“Once in awhile would be nice, but I prefer to share experiences with people I like.”
“That’s the ideal. But I’ve also come to appreciate how lovely an experience can be when I can take my time and enjoy things at my own pace, and not worry about what someone else likes or dislikes.” She rests her elbows on the table. “I suppose that sounds selfish.”
He reaches over and lays his hand atop hers. “It sounds like you’re catching up after being deprived for too long.”
When she looks up, the gleam in her eyes holds more warmth. “Yes.”
He strokes his thumb across her palm. “If you decide you want company sometime, let me know.” He keeps his tone light, but can’t be more serious.
Her slow grin looks sly. “I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Oh, thanks.” He laughs and draws out his wallet.
She reaches for her bag. “I’m paying half.”
“Nope, I’ll get this one. So if I can’t rock your world with a cultural event, how can I impress you?”
She rests her hand atop his and squeezes. “You already have.”
His heart billows against his ribs, and then aches. “We’re still left with no plans.”
“Sometimes plans are overrated.”
He lifts her fingers to his lips. “Spontaneous is good, too.”
The flush of rose tingeing her cheeks gives a beautiful contrast to her dark hair and fair complexion. “That could lead to spontaneous combustion.”
“In a good way.”
She laughs and bites her lip. “Why don’t we just walk? Pretend we’re tourists?”
“Sure.” He follows
her as she sashays to the exit, her metronome hips captivating him. Tourists? He’d rather pretend they are lovers. Better yet, find a cozy motel and become lovers. If he didn’t think he’d scare her away, he’d suggest it.
Jus’s advice not to wait too long didn’t always work best. The sensible option is to take things one step at a time, but Kip’s having a hard time tapping into his sensible self lately. For too long, sensible meant stodgy. Stuck, going nowhere. He definitely wants to go somewhere with Claire. A nice, long journey. Maybe it starts today, walking together along sun-dappled streets.
He grasps her hand. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“Visited this town, you mean?”
He shrugs. “Meandered. Not rushing from one thing to the next because I’m expected to.”
“I don’t meander often enough either.” She turns her head, but it doesn’t hide her smile.
“What do you do, then? Besides appear solo at gala events?”
Her pleasant expression doesn’t waver. “Read. Work. Do lesson plans.”
“So, mostly work.” An all too familiar scenario. “What do you have planned for the summer?”
“I’ve been tossing a few ideas around in my head, but nothing particular.”
Sounds intriguing. “What sort of ideas?”
“Oh, a class or two. Maybe travel a bit. What about you?”
Fussing over Ella’s cabinet has taken center stage. Doesn’t seem such a great prospect to fill his time now. “Puttering around the man cave, mostly, finishing some woodworking projects.”
“Nice. What do you make?”
Her enthusiasm takes him by surprise. “Whatever my daughters dream up. They find furniture in magazines and expect me to reproduce the pieces for them.”
“That’s amazing. I envy creative people.”
He never thinks of himself that way because none of his work is original. “A matter of practice, is all.”
She stares dreamily at some distant point. “I’ve always had a strange yearning to make metal sculptures.”
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