One Look At You

by Hartwell, Sofie

  “Ha. Ha. Please go.” Just as soon as he leaves, I get out of the tub and dry myself with one of the soft, thick bath towels from the bar. I look through my overnight bag and see a pair of white shorts and a mint green crop top. I decide on sneakers since we seem to be going for a long walk. In a little over five minutes, I join him on the deck.

  “I’m ready.”

  He turns around and gives me a slow once-over. “No purse? Not even a phone? You’re very low maintenance, aren’t you?”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Not at all. It’s a very good thing.” He flashes a grin and I am transfixed by his handsome face. This man is so hot I can feel my nerves tingle when I’m next to him.

  CHAPTER 11

  We walk hand-in-hand out the front door and trudge down the narrow road. After half a mile or so, we start to see some cottages. Tony says, “Prepare to step into a fairy tale.” I look more closely and see what he means. The houses are like gingerbread cottages surrounded by the most lush and colorful gardens. The endearing quaintness of it all makes me feel like I’m in another time in history.

  “This is my favorite section of Carmel,” Tony says as he points out what seems to be a grouping of houses. “In the 1920s, an investor asked the city council to develop this tract of land according to an English shared garden plan. The five houses are clustered with lots of garden space between them, like in a park. All five houses were designed by the same man – Hugh Comstock.”

  “And I guess you feel very English when you visit these parts?”

  “Very,” he says drily. “Though everyone always seems to forget I’m only half-English.”

  “Well, you are an Avery.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Livie. People have preconceived notions about me and how I grew up just because my father is a famous man.”

  “They wouldn’t be too far wrong.”

  “No, but it does make me a little resentful that people make half-assed judgments.”

  I look at him, concerned that I may have touched a nerve. “Ahh, poor little rich boy, you must have had such a terrible childhood.” I put my hands to my eyes and pretend to cry. He looks at me and lets out a guffaw. I sigh, thankful that my little injection of humor was not lost on him.

  “Putting me in my place, Olivia Harris? You’ll pay dearly… later.” Well, I have been warned, and now this ‘can’t wait, must have it now’ feeling is brewing inside of me.

  “Can we go in?” I’m dying to look at the architectural details and the landscaping.

  “It’s private property so, no, we can’t. But we can go around the perimeter and you’ll have a closer look.”

  We walk around slowly and I take note of how beautiful and unique each house is. Each of the houses is aptly named. They are built in different styles, but share some similarities like the stone chimneys and multi-paned windows. I marvel at some of the enchanting features. ‘Fables’ has a polygonal hipped roof. ‘Doll House’ has the cutest name plate. Then there’s ‘Birthday House’ with its antique wooden and bronze bench. Sadly, we can’t see much of the other two cottages. The shrubbery and the abundance of flowers in every color are a magical touch to the little subdivision. I smile at the thought that the homeowners must live lives touched by a bit of pixie dust.

  “Do you suppose the people who live there live happily ever after?” I ask like a child.

  “If only that were true.”

  We continue our stroll, ending up on the busy Ocean Avenue, the main avenue for downtown Carmel. A number of famous stores line the stone-paved alleyways. The Carmel Plaza has three levels of elegant clothing and jewelry stores. But we find ourselves visiting the many art galleries which house some really interesting paintings and sculptures. Many artists call this town home, drawn to the breathtaking panoramic vista of the ocean.

  Soon, we’re inside the Rourke Gallery, admiring a painting of the beach at dusk.

  “Welcome to our gallery,” a lady in her sixties says to us with a welcoming smile. “Are you interested in one of the pieces as a present for your lovely wife?”

  “I’m not…” I start to say, but Tony interrupts me before I can finish.

  “As a matter of fact, we are looking at this painting. It’s perfect. Can you have it delivered?” he says it so casually, without even asking for the price.

  “Certainly, come right this way. You can give me the address and I’ll see to it that it’s properly packed and shipped to you.”

  After Tony finishes scribbling the address, she looks up and says, “Avery? Why, your father bought a number of my pieces when I was just starting my career. They were shipped to England.”

  Tony frowns, as if deep in thought. “That’s why I had a feeling of déjà vu when I walked into your gallery. Yes, I do believe I’ve seen one of your paintings in my father’s study.”

  “I didn’t know that you and your wife had permanently settled here. I’m very happy for you. Carmel will be a great place to raise your children.” I look down at my feet, not knowing how to react.

  “No, we’re just visiting. As you say, it’s a beautiful town. If you’re delivering it soon, you may leave it at the deck. We’ll be doing a little more touring before we get back home.” He takes out his wallet and casually hands her a credit card. After writing out the invoice and processing the payment, she hands it back to him.

  “Thank you. It was nice meeting you both, Mr. and Mrs. Avery,” she says formally, as she shakes our hands.

  “Tony and Livie,” Tony casually says.

  “Rhonda.”

  I say nothing as we leave her store, but I feel an enormous sense of relief. I didn’t know how to act back there, and the fact that she thought we were together just made it all real for me again. He’s married. But not to me. I’m the assistant cum lover – nothing more.

  ***

  I’m sipping my iced water while waiting for our order to arrive. Tony and I are seated at the patio of Carmel’s famous seafood restaurant – Fish Queen. It’s only six, but every table is occupied and there are a number of diners waiting in line.

  “You’ve been very quiet since we left the gallery. Are you okay?”

  “Of course. I’m just a little tired.” Lie. Lie. Lie.

  He gives me a speculative look, but I do my best to get out of my dark mood. It would be a lot more humiliating to let him know why. You have no right, Livie. Absolutely none.

  “What do you think I should order?” I’m a little out of my element, so I’d rather have him decide.

  “If you want something light, let’s just order the bouillabaisse and have oysters for an appetizer.”

  “Oysters? I’ve never had them.”

  “You’ll love them,” he assures me with confidence.

  The server, as if on cue, appears to take our order, and Tony takes charge. A few minutes after, the server is back, this time with a bottle of chilled chardonnay and two glasses. Tony fills up the glasses midway and then raises his glass. “To Carmel and a weekend of memories.”

  I smile weakly, not sure what to make of his toast. I clink his glass in response. Cherish the memories. That’s all that will remain.

  “It’s still early. What do you want to do after dinner?”

  “Rest.”

  “Ah, youth is wasted on the young.”

  “Oh, c’mon. That was a lot of walking. I loved it, but I really am kind of tired.”

  “Maybe a quick swim will invigorate you.”

  “Night swimming? I’ve never done that either.”

  “Oh, Livie, you’re utterly refreshing.” He lightly brushes my cheek with his hand.

  “Don’t you mean hopelessly inexperienced?”

  “No, you’re like a breath of fresh air.” I look at him suspiciously, half expecting him to say ‘just kidding’, but he really seems to mean it. Huh. Who would have thought that anyone, least of all the suave Mr. Tony Avery, would think my lack of experience was a good thing?

 
The baked oysters are served in a bed of salt with lemon slices on the side. “How exactly do I eat these?” I question like a country bumpkin.

  “Just hold the shell with your left hand and use your shellfish fork with the right one. He stares playfully at my face. “You know, oysters are a known aphrodisiac.”

  I blush. “Trust you to know something like that,” I say with a smirk.

  “Do you want me to prove it?”

  “No. I’ll take your word for it.” I look around, wondering if anyone is listening in on our conversation. Nope. Everyone’s busy eating or talking. I reach for one oyster and pry it off the shell. I tentatively put it inside my mouth.

  “Well?” Obviously, he’s waiting for me to say something.

  “They’re kind of creamy and delicious,” I say with complete honesty.

  “We’ll try them raw next time, with just a squeeze of fresh lemon.” Next time?

  “How about the bouillabaisse? Is that their specialty?”

  “Without a doubt. They choose only the freshest fish and seafood, and that makes the difference.”

  “You seem to know a lot about good food,” I say as I eye him with curiosity.

  “Not a lot, but my mother is a whiz in the kitchen, so I have a bit of culinary know-how. What about you? Don’t you like to cook?”

  “I do, but I’m not into complicated recipes. More of salads, pasta, or grilled fish and meat. Light and simple.”

  “Someday, you’ll invite me for lunch or dinner and …”

  “You’ll tear me apart with your food critique, won’t you?” I finish his sentence for him.

  “As I was saying,” he looks at me witheringly… “You’ll do the appetizer and dessert while I do the entrée.” He stares at me, a deep frown on his face.

  I look sheepishly at him. “Sorry. Force of habit,” I say without thinking.

  “Why is that?”

  “Why is what?” I’m buying time now.

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  I sigh loudly, reluctant to reply. “I really don’t know. We started off on the wrong foot and I guess my insecurities took over. That or I’m just being too hard on myself.”

  He looks taken aback by my candid response, and says nothing for a few seconds. “Don’t be,” he says with a slight frown. “I admit that at work I’m very demanding, but we’re not at work now, are we?” That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know where I stand right now.

  Of course, I say nothing. I’m grateful that I see our server approaching the table with our order. The server carefully sets the tureen in our midst. Tony thanks him and proceeds to ladle the broth and fish into our bowls. I’m mesmerized by his almost graceful, yet masculine movements, as he serves the dish. After handing me the bowl, he gives me a slice of French bread and says, “Spread the rouille on the bread and dunk it in the soup. Once it’s soggy, you can eat the bread and soup together, if you like.”

  I follow his instructions and find that – surprise, surprise – he’s right. The soup, bread, and rouille are perfect together. The tilapia and scallops taste so good that I resolve to eat seafood more often. “This is so good,” I say between mouthfuls. “You’re a true foodie.”

  “I prefer the term gourmet,” he says, tilting his head and moving his chin forward in jest.

  “Cocky!” He throws his head back and roars in laughter, and I can’t help but join him.

  I am not going to let any of this meal go to waste, so I help myself to another serving. I try to put some more bouillabaisse into his bowl, but he shakes his head. He looks at me so intensely with his gray eyes that I immediately feel self-conscious again.

  “What?” I ask half-defiantly.

  “I’m glad you have a healthy appetite. Please help yourself.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. You were right about the freshness of the fish. I seriously could eat this every day.”

  “More chardonnay?” He asks, ready to pour some into my wine glass.

  “Just a little, please.” He fills the glass halfway and I motion for him to stop.

  I take a small sip and then fork the last few scallops into my mouth. I close my eyes and sigh with appreciation.

  “Are you ready for some dessert and coffee?”

  “I am so stuffed.”

  “They have a scrumptious green tea napoleon that’s covered with…”

  “Stop. You had me at scrumptious.” A smile ruffles his mouth. He calls the server and places our order. Two cappuccinos and desserts are placed before us. I admire the froth design on the coffee and the artful plating of the napoleon.

  The delicate layers of puff pastry have the slight spiciness of green tea, and the sweetness of raspberry. I’m literally beaming with delight while I slowly savor the dessert. The cappuccino is, of course, perfect with its thick velvety foam and the right amount of sweetness. Oh God! I must have gained two pounds from this wonderful meal.

  “We really need to go back outdoors and walk again,” I say peevishly.

  “Your wish is my command. Let me get the check and we’ll be on our way.”

  After he settles the bill, we stroll back to the house in companionable silence. He points out a few places of interest along the way, but we’re both mostly immersed in our individual thoughts. Neither of us feels the need to make small talk and we’re both fine with that.

  As we approach the front of the house, we see the painting he ordered earlier, wrapped in a carton box. I kind of excitedly run to the parcel and ask, “Where are you going to hang the painting?”

  “It’s not for this house. We’re taking it back to L.A.”

  “Oh, that does make more sense. Are you having it stored until you get your own place?”

  “Maybe,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. He lifts the box and brings it inside to lean against the living room wall.

  “I still feel bloated from dinner.”

  “We can just walk along the seashore, if you like.” His suggestion sounds appealing so I nod my head vigorously. His mouth curves into a smile. He takes my hand and we go out through the deck sliding door.

  The sky is now a dark blue with streaks of orange and red. The sun is sinking, and we are slowly enveloped by the night. I gaze at the vast expanse of the ocean and horizon. The sheer beauty takes my breath away. I turn to look at him and see that he’s watching me with dark, hungry eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers.

  I blush with secret pleasure and tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

  We slowly walk again, arm in arm, closer to the shore this time. It feels like being in our own little paradise with the wind rustling and the sea waves rolling back and forth. Tony stops to sit down on the sand, and he stretches his arm up for me to join him. We quietly admire the lovely picture before us. He puts his arm around me for warmth and both my arms encircle his chest while I rest my head lightly on his shoulder. It’s one of those perfect romantic moments that come by so rarely. I bask in his attention, yet I have this mortal fear that a moment like this may never come again.

  As I gaze at the silver stars, he props himself up on his elbow and watches me. I give him a quizzical look, and he says, “I’d rather be looking at you.”

  This time, I lean over and gently touch his cheek. He catches my hand and plants a kiss on my palm. His fingers idly stroke my arm, causing goose bumps to rise. I shudder and he leans forward to claim my lips. The warm and sweet kiss takes my control away. I continue the kiss, my tongue licking the corner of his mouth teasingly, and the kiss turns urgent and exploratory. We’re locked in an embrace as he starts to move his tongue against mine in a rhythm that starts out slowly and builds in intensity. My mouth is burning as he devours me with fierceness.

  His hands move from my back to my waist, and my own hands go up and down his muscled flesh. The touch of his hands is slow, deliberate and almost hypnotic. He traces a finger from my collar bone to my chest until he finds the buttons of my top.

  “Here?” I ask, close to panic a
s I look around me anxiously.

  “We’re all alone.”

  I give him a small nod and his lips move over mine again as he unbuttons my top. A soft gasp escapes him as my black bra is revealed. His hands go to my back to unhook it. I shamelessly take off my top and bra, and sit in front of him, half naked, my breasts glistening in the moonlight. While his mouth closes over one nipple, his hand lazily makes circles with his palm on the other. An electric pulse arcs through my entire body.

  He cups both breasts close together and hurriedly moves his warm, wet tongue back and forth, from one nipple to the other. My body writhes with pleasure. I want to cry out and be taken right here. He seems to know what thoughts are going through my head. At one point, he stops and says, “Not yet.” My whole body is a mass of sensation and my hands can no longer be still. I pull his shirt upwards and put my hands underneath. I impatiently tear his shirt wide open until he’s bare-chested like myself. This time, I shower his body with kisses. When I bend to suck at his nipple, he groans audibly and then puts my right hand on his bulge.

  His hardness sends me over the edge. I unzip his pants and put my hand inside. My whole body tingles with the knowledge that I have this effect on him. I trail kisses from his chest all the way to his waist, while I pump him with my hand. I want to smell and taste every part of him so I go down, my mouth greedily surrounding him. I steal a glance at him and I see his eyes are closed. His entire face is contorted in pleasure. His left hand is lightly resting on my head, silently urging me to continue. Amidst the tide and wind, only his soft moans can be heard as my hands and lips instinctively move in a steady rhythm for his gratification.

  He lifts me with both arms until we face each other. He bends to tug at my ear lobe with his lips and then softly says, “Your turn.” He spreads his shirt and my top on the sand and makes me lie down. I still feel the abrasiveness of the sand on my back, but I’m beyond caring. My body is awash in sensation as he licks circles around my taut nipples. His lips tenderly touch every square inch of my chest and he makes his way to my shorts.