Don't Wait Too Long

by Masters, Cate

  He steers the car close and buzzes the window down. “Claire, please get in.”

  “I’m going home.” She clutches one shoe in her hand and winces as she steps with the other.

  “Yes, all right. But please let me drive you. Before you ruin your feet as well as your shoes.”

  Shoulders slumping, she stops, and he brakes hard.

  She hangs her head. “I feel so stupid.”

  He clambers out and gathers her in his arms. “No. We have no reason to feel bad.” He won’t let her bear any guilt for what happened.

  She trembles beneath his hands. “I don’t know.” Drawing away, she keeps her head down.

  “Come on.” He resists the urge to swoop her up and carry her to the car. Instead, he guides her, but even after settling her on the passenger seat, he worries she’ll change her mind and run off, so jogs to the driver’s side. Jamming the gear into second, he sends her a tight smile.

  She crosses her arms and stares out the window.

  Right, she doesn’t want to talk. But in the quiet, he senses her building up her defenses. He flips on the radio. Classic rock is too upbeat, so he searching for something more soothing. Failing that, he pops in a Wilco CD.

  He imagines holding Claire in his arms and easing away her cares. He’ll hold her all night if she needs him to.

  He doesn’t think she’s having the same thought, but hopes to sway her.

  ****

  When he parks in her driveway, he doesn’t ask permission this time, but climbs out and walks her to the door.

  “Thanks.” Barely a whisper.

  She’s unlocking the door. In another minute, it will be too late to make this right.

  “I’m extremely sorry about tonight,” he blurts. “Ella had no right to act that way. I should have sent her away.”

  She turns to face him. “No. She’s your daughter.”

  “That doesn’t excuse her behavior. I’m embarrassed. Mortified, actually.”

  She lays her hand on his chest. “Please don’t be. She loves you.” Such tenderness in her gaze. So generous and forgiving.

  And if he isn’t mistaken, love. At least, a tiny bit.

  He grasps her hand to hold it in place—hold her in place—and strokes the back with his thumb. “I didn’t want it to end like that.” Or at all. His heart thumps in his chest so hard, she has to feel it beneath her palm. He wants her to.

  “I know. But…” Shadows across her face soften her features, giving her beauty an exotic touch.

  He brushes back her hair so he can see her better. When she meets his gaze, his heart leaps. He leans in for a light kiss. Her soft lips hold him there. When she fists his shirt tight, he presses deeper. Whether she pulls him or not, somehow they stumble inside and the door closes behind him. The electricity is sweeping him away, and he can’t get enough of her.

  Lips still touching hers, he says, “Say no anytime.” The next century, preferably.

  “Okay.” Her whisper brushes his mouth.

  The effect intoxicates him, and he crushes her in his embrace. Lightning speed, a small warning sounds in his head. Too fast.

  Yet she isn’t kicking him to the curb. “I want you, Claire.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but can’t contain it.

  A shiver crosses her skin, and she holds him tighter.

  Oh lord. “If you don’t want me, you should say ‘no’ right now and send me home.”

  Her breath’s warm and inviting as she trails kisses up his neck.

  Each one drives him more wild than the last. He holds himself back, afraid she’ll suddenly send him away. He’s not sure he can take the suspense much longer. “Do you want me to go?” He wills her to say ‘no’.

  An agonizing moment passes.

  “No,” she says on a breath.

  His fingers find the zipper at the back of her dress. He drags it down tooth by tooth. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.” Cupping his head, she eases away to look him in the eye. “I want you, Kip. Stay with me tonight.”

  He needs no further invitation.

  Chapter Eleven

  From deepest slumber, the sensation of warm skin against my own wrenches me awake. I blink, not daring to turn my head. Bits and pieces of last night return like a vivid jigsaw puzzle taking shape. Here a leg, next to a waist, an arm around a torso, another around a leg…

  Oh God. I’d practically stripped him. And we made love. Once on the living room floor and once in my bed.

  Embarrassment flushes through me in a wave of heat. Why? A small voice argues in my head. Hormones are the most natural thing in the world. How long has it been since either of us have been aroused? But he’d stayed with me. Is still here with me, arm and leg slung atop me.

  And it feels more right than anything I can remember.

  Carefully, so I don’t rouse him, I ease onto my side and study him. Without his glasses, Kip’s thick lashes are in plain view. His snoring tells me he must be at ease sleeping in my bed.

  I have a man in my bed. Who isn’t my husband. I can’t remember the last time that’s happened. College, probably. In the half-light, he could pass for early thirties, especially with his hair tousled like that.

  I still can’t believe he remembered me mentioning I wanted to try ballroom dancing. We’d talked about so many things during our first day together. He’d paid attention. Really heard me.

  His snore ends in a snort. His eyes pop open, and he rubs his face. “Claire?”

  Yikes, caught staring. I pretend a stretch and lay flat on my back. “Hey.” I’m such a bad actress.

  He snuggles against me. “Hey yourself, early bird.”

  “That’s me.” I toss the covers back and disentangle myself from him. “I have lots to do today.” I pull on my robe. “Errands, then chores, then lesson plans.”

  “Already?” He strains to see the alarm. “What time is it?”

  “Early yet, but I have to—” I nearly say, take a shower, but imagining his naked, soapy body under the stream of water nearly undoes me. “I have to get ready first.”

  He yawns. “I can go with you.”

  “No, you don’t have to.” I answer too quickly.

  He answers after a few beats, and I can feel his probing gaze, like fingers on Braille, trying to get a read on me.

  “Okay, I’ll go home.” He tries to sound upbeat, but I can hear his disappointment.

  Does he consider staying at my home an option without being invited? Did one night of sleeping together entitle him to that? God, I’m so out of touch with current practice. All I can do is go with my instinct.

  “I don’t want you to feel as if I’m kicking you out.” Ugh, but what if he doesn’t leave? I’ll wonder what he’s doing in my house while I’m away. Stop it. He’s not Doug. Not even close.

  He props a pillow behind his head. “Should I stay here, then? Wait for you?”

  Geez, he looks so comfortable. So cozy. I wish I’d stayed in bed with him.

  My cozy feeling abandoned me years ago. I scratch my head, and decide brutal honesty is best. “I need a little time to get used to this.” Or, a lot of time. Weeks, maybe.

  He slips on his glasses and leans against the headboard. “We can slow down.”

  Oh, thank goodness. I sink onto the edge of the bed. “Do you want to?” Part of me wants him to say no.

  He rolls to his side and props his head on his elbow. “Not really, but I want you to be comfortable.” He trails a finger down my arm.

  My mouth dries. I’m not used to actually talking about my feelings. “It’s important for you to tell me what you need, not simply agree with everything I say.” Last night I’d almost made the same mistake, and it reminded me of the problems such behavior caused. Resentments would inevitably build, and lead to arguments. I never want to be anyone’s Doug.

  “I agree.” He draws my fingers to his mouth, kisses them and grins.

  Despite the excitement that zings through my belly, I can’t hold my smi
le. “All right. I’m going to freshen up, and get dressed. Can you lock up when you leave?”

  “All I have to do is throw on my clothes and I’m ready. By that time, you’ll be ready and we can both leave. I won’t try and follow you.” His joke falls flat.

  “Kip.” Guilt makes me wince.

  “Just kidding. Seriously.”

  With a nod, I pull out some clothes and carry them into the bathroom. Showering will have to wait till later.

  When I return to the bedroom, Kip’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his suit pants and shirt, and is slipping on his shoes. He presses his hands to his knees. “You look great.”

  “No points for fibbing.” Makeup doesn’t do much to hide the dark circles beneath my eyes.

  “Hey.” He rises, gathers me in his arms. “I had a really great time last night. The Harbingers notwithstanding.”

  I’d nearly forgotten them, and a chuckle bursts out. “I did, too. And the Harbingers were entertaining, in a way.” Not a good way, but I won’t put a negative spin on anything.

  “We’ll talk later. Okay?” One light kiss, and he releases me.

  “Okay.” I barely muster a whisper.

  As he reaches for his jacket, he murmurs, “Just don’t wait too long.”

  I’m tempted to ask what he means—I’m waiting on him, after all. Something about the way he says it, he hasn’t intended for it to make sense to me. And I probably don’t want to find out its real meaning. Not yet.

  Moments later, we’re in our separate cars, heading in opposite directions. Much as I hate to go out in public looking like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in, I have to leave the house before it begins to feel like a prison again. And while I’m out, I might as well knock some errands off the neverending list.

  I reach the edge of the grocery store parking lot, and my cell trills. I pull into the closest space and jerk the damn thing from my handbag. Trish. I’m not ready to talk to her about this, but press the icon. “Morning.”

  By way of hello, she says, “Kipling Baldwin’s a pretty impressive guy.”

  No surprise to me, but a small well of pride rises from within. “Didn’t find any dirt, huh?”

  “Squeaky clean.”

  The words bring another image of Kip beneath the faucet, lathering in suds. Maybe we should have taken that shower. I shouldn’t have rushed him out the door.

  “Not always.” Hearing myself, I bite my lip. Wow, who’ve I turned into, Mae West? Oh, who cares. Trish obviously wants details. She’ll find out sooner or later.

  “Did you…” Trish gasps. “You two did the dirty deed?”

  My good humor vanishes. “When you say it like that, ew. And don’t tell anyone.”

  “Not even John, pinkie swear.” Trish’s voice shivers with excitement.

  “Good. I don’t want any gossip getting back to any of my students’ parents.” Especially about what took place earlier. Not to be a prude, but I’m not sorry we left Glenn and Dorothy sooner rather than later.

  “Of course it won’t,” Trish gushes. “So things are good, huh? Moving right along.”

  “Too fast. We’re putting the brakes on.”

  “No,” moans Trish. “Why? He seems nice. The college photo’s a little Woodstock but he’s cute, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, very nice, very cute. Very… hands on.” A tiny shudder runs through me at the memory. “I need to step back a little.” That’s the only way I can get a better view, a more sensible perspective. Get my bearings again.

  “Don’t let fear keep you from something good.” Trish sounds heartfelt. “They’re not all like Doug, honey.”

  The soft words pierce my heart. “Yeah. Gotta go, I’m at the store now. Talk to you later.” I disconnect just in time to cover my face with my hands to hide my blubbering.

  Trish had voiced my deepest fear: that after investing so much time and emotion in one man, he’d grow bored. Wouldn’t want to spend time with me. The wonderful lazy afternoons of talking in a coffee shop, long walks holding hands, would disappear. We’d each go back to doing the old routine of things, and we would become the old ‘ships passing in the night’ parody. Only maybe with Kip, nights would have more intimacy than I had with Doug. Well, that wouldn’t be difficult.

  Someone pushing a shopping cart past my car slows, and I can feel the weight of the person’s stare. I dab my eyes and pretend to sneeze. Climbing out, I feign another. “Allergies. They’re terrible this time of year.” I wave the tissue in the woman’s direction.

  I gather myself enough to go on autopilot. I grab a cart and push it inside, but still can’t get the conversation with Trish out of my mind. Memories of Doug haunt me. All those bitter nights I’d felt alone even though he was in the house, too. All the times I’d tried to break through the invisible barrier he’d erected between us—and I failed every single time.

  No matter how many times I tell myself Doug is gone, and Kip is a different person, I can’t stop thinking, wondering.

  I need time. I have to let Kip know how I feel. If I don’t call him right away, I’ll lose my nerve, fall into the ‘good girl’ I used to be. I can’t risk enduring that kind of misery again.

  My hands tremble as I dial his number. He picks up with a friendly, “Hey.”

  Shoppers pass me in the produce section. I wheel away from them, but not out of earshot. “Hey. Listen, I’m not making much progress with what I need to get finished. I’m going to stay in tonight. I’m pretty tired anyway.” How ridiculous. It’s only been what, an hour?

  “Oh. Sure.”

  I hear the disappointment, loud and clear. “You’re probably tired, too.” I sound like I’m trying to convince him to admit his weariness.

  “Not that tired.” His deep voice sounds so sexy.

  I close my eyes. “Well. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Is everything all right, Claire?”

  “Fine.” I hate how phony I’m acting. Worst of all, I can’t even explain why. “Really. I have to go. Bye.” I click off and blow a quick breath. And now he thinks I’m psychotic.

  Better than rushing blindly into another decades-long mistake. No relationship ever dies from waiting. Does it?

  In answer to the inquiring glance of a passing man, I plaster a smile across my face and stash a bag of onions in my cart, though I’m fairly certain I’m only halfway through the bag still in my refrigerator.

  Chapter Twelve

  No bugle call has to accompany Claire’s retreat. Kip understands she’s running away, running scared. In a way, he can relate, almost. Decades of marriage puts the prospect of dating in a scary light. He gets it, because sometimes it freaks him out a little, too. Not enough to stay away. If he doesn’t back off and give her the space she needs, he might lose her.

  So he puts off calling her for a full week, and does his best to sound casual when she picks up. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Thought I’d say hello.”

  “I’ve been, you know…”

  He knows all too well what she’s been doing. Avoiding him. “Yeah. Me, too. I caught up on some stuff, and then I was getting ready to make dinner and it hit me.”

  “What did?”

  Her tone holds zero enthusiasm. He ignores it. “I’m a terrible cook. The worst. My girls have eaten my meals and survived, but I could tell they were less than impressed.”

  “I’m not the greatest in the kitchen, either.” The slightest smile comes through in her tone.

  He remembers last weekend, and bets she’d be great anywhere, but he suppresses that thought. “Did you know the fancy new grocery store offers cooking lessons?”

  “A colleague mentioned it once,” she says. “I haven’t looked into it.”

  Is that a note of interest in her voice? “I saved you the trouble, then. They’re reasonably priced, and nothing too Martha Stewart.”

  “What, no gourmet squid?”

  Ah, he definitely hears a smile this time. “Precisely. I need classes for e
veryday meals. I was about to sign up for one, and then imagined myself in the middle of it, making a mess of everything, with no friendly face to help. It’s funny, but all these years as a teacher, I have a new respect for students.”

  “Sounds like you’d enjoy it.”

  “I’d enjoy it even more if you were there.” He bites his lip in anticipation.

  “Me?” Her feigned indignation teases him.

  “I’m not suggesting you’re a bad cook. I actually have no knowledge of your culinary skills, so I plead ignorance, other than your confession of eating cereal for dinner. I just thought cooking lessons might be fun. Pure and simple.” So please don’t say no.

  “I never thought of cooking as fun.”

  “You might change your mind if you took the class.” He stops himself from saying ‘with me’.

  Her breath through the phone is deep, but doesn’t signal frustration, merely thoughtfulness. “You’re right. What night do they hold the classes?”

  So excited that she’d said he was right, he has to check the dates on the flyer again. “Wednesdays at six. Are you up for it, or is that your bowling night?” Does she bowl? he wondered. Man, there’s still so much about her he doesn’t know. But wants to.

  “No night,” she says with laughing emphasis, “is bowling night.”

  He relaxes at hearing her teasing tone, but waits for her to say, “Wednesdays would work. When do they start? Or is it too late to join a class?”

  Never too late. “Next week. I’m emailing you the link as we speak. You can either register by phone or online.”

  “Thank you. I guess I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

  Disappointment at not seeing her sooner takes down the surge of happiness a few notches. “I look forward to it.”

  He’d love to see her before then, but she doesn’t have to hit him over the head. He can take a subtle hint. Damn if he isn’t trying his best to back off. Hopefully she’ll understand the hint he sends her by inviting her to the class: that he wants more than sex from her. He wants the full package, the real relationship deal. At least, to explore the possibility of one.