Spring Feve

by Emerald Wright

  “I’m Abe, good to meet you.” He said, his voice something like caramel and bacon all rolled together.

  I blinked. I knew I had a name. What was it?

  My mouth was suddenly dry and I reached desperately for my water. I took a quick sip and then sputtered out my name, half of it finding its way back out of my mouth and down my chin to dribble to my shirt.

  “You okay there?” He said with a half-laugh, while sitting down.

  I nodded and coughed a bit. It was such a Woody Allen moment that I didn’t know I was capable of ever reproducing. The world was on slow-mo and I was at the center of it. Embarrassingly so.

  “You find the cafe okay?” I asked, desperate to get our conversation on track.

  “Yes, it’s a good spot. I’ve been here a few times.”

  “That it is, glad to hear you think so. Hope you’re hungry, my treat. I’m famished. I sorta forget to eat and sleep properly when I get in this type of writing zone.”

  He seemed amused by me, the crinkle around his eyes was especially charming. It was right then that I could look at him long enough to fully absorb his facial features.

  Warm brown eyes, rosy lips, apple cheeks, some day-old stubble, curly brown hair the color of chocolate, and a jawline that could cut a diamond, if needed. It all tapered down to a handsome Adam’s apple, and ended on a broad pair of sturdy, well-muscled shoulders.

  The rest of him promised a lean, toned, muscular frame that seemed as rugged as the great outdoors. The cleft of his chest, at the nape of his throat was what did me in. His skin promised tantalizing sensual delight for my fingers…

  Out of nowhere, our server appeared, her pen and order-pad ready and poised to scribble. “What’ll it be, Cass?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it yet, too gob-smacked by Mr. Handsome to have looked over the menu. Not that I needed it. I knew it by heart.

  “Let’s go with the usual, number three today.” I said.

  “Pancakes, real maple syrup, bacon and hash-browns?”

  “That’d be the one. Coffee and OJ too. Thank you.” I said, handing her the menu I really hadn’t needed.

  We both looked at Abe at the same time to find that his keen gaze was on me. “What she’s having. Down to the OJ. Sounds good.”

  Something about that delighted me. It seemed flattering but I didn’t know why.

  Then I blurted out, “Oh, keep the bacon floppy please. I always forget to ask.” Simultaneously, Abe did the same thing and our server now had the most wicked, amused look on her face, peering back and forth at us.

  “Alrighty then, floppy bacon for the both of you.” She said, winked and then strode away.

  We looked at each other, a silly grin on my face and a goofy smile on his.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes, really. I hate crisp bacon.”

  “Me too! I thought I was the only one in the world?”

  “Apparently not,” he answered, a wicked twinkle in his eye.

  Oh good god, my panties.

  I gathered up my wits and sensibilities. I had to get down to business or risk never being taken seriously by this beast – er, man, again!

  “So, how long have you been editing?” I asked, desperate to get the conversation back on track, bacon-ordering shenanigans aside.

  “Almost ten years now.”

  “Nice, that’s reputable.”

  “I like to think so. Although, I must admit, finding new clients in the area will prove a bit challenging. They’re a loyal bunch, in this town.”

  “It’s true, we’re not fickle. Finding a good editor is like finding the love of your life. You hope it turns into an LTR.”

  He grinned at that comment, a private understanding between us and then averted his gaze to look out the window, to the passerbys outside.

  I continued, “I write in a genre that I’ve done very well in, but I need a break from it. So, I’m going to take some time and pursue a more literary endeavor for now.”

  I paused, not wanting to reveal what I was planning to do. Talking about the Great American Novel was one of those things that you just didn’t discuss out loud. You pursued it vigilantly and quietly, under the radar until you could reemerge in the real world with your completed masterpiece ready and available for consumption.

  “Did you have a chance to look it over yet?” I asked.

  His gaze had returned back to me. “Yes, I think we’ll be able to work together.”

  I let out a sigh of relief, unconscious that I’d even been holding one in. “Oh good. I’m glad for that. I am.”

  He reached down to his aged leather bag and pulled out a super-slim MacBook. As he opened it, clicking and typing a bit, I watched his large, elegant hands that were masculine, gruff and utilitarian. Almost like he was a carpenter or had some sort of hobby that involved craftsmanship and his hands.

  “Do you work with wood?” My question escaped me, coming out a bit blunt.

  His eyebrows arched high and he grinned bigger this time, “Yes, I do. How’d ya know?”

  “Your hands,” I said, nodding in his direction, “They look like hands that know the woodcraft.”

  “You can tell that from looking at my hands?” he asked, seeming genuinely amazed at my astute observation.

  “Yeah, I was raised around my grandfather who was a carpenter. He always took really good care of his hands but you could always see the work beneath their luster, so to speak.”

  “That’s impressive. Nowadays, most people wouldn’t have a clue…”

  I nodded, instantly pulled back to the good memory of my grandfather in his suspender overalls, working and whittling away on something in his woodshop, what he preferred to call his workspace.

  “Thank you, you’re probably right.”

  He nodded in earnest and then glanced at his laptop. “I started reading it on the way over, while on the bus. It has good bones. You’re pretty funny. I like that.”

  Thank the gods! He thinks I’m funny. I’ll take it!

  “Yeah? Good. Any other thoughts?” I asked.

  “Well, my first impressions are favorable. I think I see what and why you’re making the switch. I’m not done reading but when I do, I’ll share my thoughts in more detail. I’d already started red-lining a few spots…”

  He passed his MacBook over to me and sure enough, he was already editing my story. Impressive! I didn’t want to dive into the edits right then, respectful of his part in the process. Just like a writer needs to be allowed to get the words out, the editor needs to be able to scrutinize and critique without the writer looking anxiously over their shoulder.

  “Wow, you are a go-getter, Abe. Looks good…” I said, passing the laptop back to him, an approving smile on my face.

  “So, when do you need this done by?” He asked.

  “As soon as you are able to, without forfeiting quality. I’ll gladly pay double.” I answered.

  “No need, I can have it to you within a day. Tomorrow morning, will that work?”

  “Yes, absolutely. You’re a godsend.”

  “What’s the rush for, if I may ask?”

  “Well, my agent. They’ve already seen the final version but it hasn’t been submitted to go to press yet. I want to get this into his hands, completed so I can pitch a switch-out without encouraging his wrath.”

  “Smart. Well, I’m glad to be of service. I appreciate the opportunity and your trust in me.”

  “Trust?” I asked.

  “Ya know, we’ve never worked together. Being a referral.” He explained.

  “Ah. Yes, of course. Well, I trust Charlene very much. If she recommends you, I know I’m in good hands.”

  Another warm smile flourished on his face, “You like hands, don’t you?”

  I flushed, squirming a bit and just then, one of my long curls broke free from the messy bun I’d piled my hair into that morning and dangled right in my face. Before I could
push it back, he reached across the table and brushed it back and behind my ear.

  Time stopped. It was such a sweet and innocent-enough gesture, but so full of potential caresses. His fingertips grazed the tip of my ear and it took everything in me to not visibly shudder in pleasure. My ears are one of my most heightened erogenous spots on my body. Something I kept a secret.

  “There,” was all he said.

  Then our food arrived, reminding me that I was starving. Eager to have the distraction, I dove in and shoved a few mouthfuls in. Not very ladylike, but at the moment, hunger prioritized over attraction.

  “When was your last meal?” he asked, laughing in amusement.

  “I don’t even remember. Truth.”

  “You really do get in the writer’s zone. Good thing you’re not diabetic.” He quipped, then took his first bite.

  “I know, right? If I don’t stop my crazy ways, I will be. I keep meaning to hire a part-time housekeeper slash cook. More to babysit my adult ass than to do the housecleaning. It’s sad really. Pathetic.”

  Chewing, he nodded and once again, I saw that twinkle in his eye that somehow told me he approved. “Well, I appreciate a hearty appetite. Too many women these days deny themselves the pleasure of food.”

  “Agreed, I’m not shy about food, at all.”

  “More power to you. Serious.”

  We fell into an easy silence, each of us eating and chewing. Somehow, whatever nervousness I’d had initially, started to dissipate. All sorts of crazy, romantic notions were still flying through my thoughts, of course, but we were now more relaxed around one another. I’d never met a man who was so easy to read and converse with. He seemed so straight-forward and upfront. All man, but with a warm, genuine demeanor. A gentleman. A sexy, rugged, flannel-wearing, gentleman.

  He reminded me of one of my male-shift characters, actually. Charming, a bit gruff but still polished. Confident in himself. A lady-killer, but not a bragger. Part cowboy.

  While romanticizing my newfound editor, I found myself wondering who was currently warming his bed. The thought instantly made my knickers even damper. Oh to be that lucky woman!

  An hour later, our breakfast eaten and paid for, he’d politely excused himself after a firm handshake, promising to have the edited version for me to review. To my delight, we’d agreed to meet up again at the café the next day.

  Walking back to my place, eager to collapse into the warm, inviting womb of my bed, I was tingly with his lingering effect.

  Had I found an editor? Or my future husband?

  * * *

  After breakfast with Abe, I slept to mid-afternoon. In my dreams, I’d encountered a grizzly bear. A great, big, giant of a bear who’d come upon me while I was picnicking at some National forest, probably somewhere like Yellowstone National Park. Somewhere I’d never been and would likely never go. I wasn’t the great outdoors type.

  The bear had sniffed and grunted around my food, scavenging for something to eat. Oddly, I wasn’t afraid of it and extended my hand, offering it a honey-covered treat of some sort that made absolute sense to do in the dream, but would have been utter suicide, of course, in real life.

  It’d licked the treat salaciously from my palm and fingers, its sweet, pink bear tongue delighting in the yummy flavor. It’d grunted with approval, then snorting, blowing some dust up. Then, it’d sat across from me, on his haunches, as if to join me for my picnic. Which I’d found to be terribly funny and began to laugh. One of those belly laughs that makes you almost want to cry, they feel so good.

  Then, I’d woken up.

  I laid there, remembering the silly dream. In my entire last year of writing shifter stories, I’d never actually dreamed about the animals that I incorporated in my books. Not like that, at least. More like nightmares.

  And now, today – after meeting Abe, I had a grizzly bear dream? Really?

  Wondering what it meant, I picked up a novel lying half-open where I’d left it. Other than going to the gym for a swim later, there was precious little the world required of me today. My book finished, one way or the other, the edit underway – I had nothing but time for the rest of the day, which was more than fine by me. I wanted to read.

  So, I read.

  For all the contemporary erom I wrote, I was a lover of the classics. There was no such thing as reading too much by Jane Austen or rereading Jane Eyre every year, in my world. A hopeless romantic, it was what had gotten me in trouble in the first place. And into the profession of writing full-time.

  Besides needing to pay the bills, a working girl can dream, right? That Mr. Darcy and all the many other book boyfriends out there, exist? Somewhere, somehow? Which begged the question… What happens when a live, in-the-flesh, honest-to-god, real man and potential mate appears suddenly in your life? What does a heroine do?

  Mark him? No wait, that’s what the male does, not the female!

  Because suddenly, I felt as if I’d been transported into one of my stories. Or someone’s story, for the matter.

  As I read, the rain pattering against my flat’s windows, making the day ripe for a stay-in-bed-and-read-fest, my thoughts wandered back to Abe constantly. All the little things flashing before my mind’s eye. His disarming smile. The sexy grin. The twinkle in his eyes, those hands and his chin. The brown eyes, the jawline. The shoulders, the graze of his fingertips on my ear-top when he’d tucked my hair behind it…

  His overall demeanor, really. The whole package. I barely knew him and I was besotted. Completely. How was that even possible? We’d barely just met?

  Sure, we all read about it. Insta-love. Hell, I made a living writing about it, but did I actually believe that it happened? I guess I’d just thought it was like fiction. You know, make believe. And here the universe was out to prove me wrong.

  God, I could only hope so.

  In some ways, the writer’s life is so solitary that when my phone rings, it surprises me. The outside world has a way of intruding on your inside world and short of the fridge being absolutely empty of food, do you pull yourself together to go outside and face the world and join reality. Briefly.

  As sparingly as possible in my case.

  Weaving make-believe and pretend into fiction was a time-consuming love affair of its own kind. One that I was an expert at, apparently. If I was capable of suspending my disbelief for the love of a good story, then why would it be so hard for me to believe that I’d found a man, to be truly interested in?

  That sat on my chest, like an elephant. I bolted up in my bed.

  It wasn’t so hard to believe… which made me wonder, did I need to fire my new editor? End this working relationship straight-away so we could pursue a relationship outside of the arrangement of a work-related one?

  I almost picked up my phone to do exactly that, but stopped.

  This would be true, only if he was interested too. Was he interested? I sighed and leaned back against my bed’s headboard. I’d always been a bit too impulsive. And I knew that right now, I was headed in that direction. In danger of making an ardent fool of myself if I didn’t just wait this out.

  Allow some time to pass and not ruin it before it even had a chance to get started. When I got like this, there was only one thing to do. Work out. Go for a swim. Take a walk. Get some fresh air. That was exactly what I was going to do next.

  After I finished reading the next chapter in my book.

  Chapter Two

  (( 2 ))

  ABE

  Once done with breakfast, I walked a few blocks away, to a nearby independent coffee-shop that I liked to frequent, so that I could start straightaway on the edit for my new client. Settling in at a cozy spot, tucked up front, in the apex where the window and wall met, a perfect spot for people-watching, I mused on the woman and author I’d just met and had breakfast with.

  She was beguilingly lovely and utterly oblivious to herself. She burned bright with the creative mania of a writer intensely absorbed i
n her fictional worlds and universe. Without a laptop, pen, pencil or typewriter – she would simply be another escapist fool hell-bent on getting away from reality.

  And this was exactly why I was so charmed by her. Her creative mind hinted at places tucked away, barely revealed and full of heat, longing and passion.

  How I knew all of this about her – I couldn’t say, but I’d felt it. From the moment we’d laid eyes on one another. That intense charge and connection between us, brimming just beneath the surface.

  I sighed and took a healthy slurp of my coffee, the caffeinated brown nectar I enjoyed the most of all beverages. Well, maybe except for beer. Breathing it in, I thought about her scent. So feminine, soft, sweet – erotically enticing. I found myself imagining licking parts of her tucked away, deep within her inner folds.

  My manhood was waking up and I suddenly realized I’d need to get my mind out of the gutter so as not to have a raging boner in a public place. It had been too long. Too long since sex.

  My divorce had been difficult but necessary.

  It was a simple case of getting married too fast, too soon at far too young an age. She’d just been a month or two over twenty when I’d proposed and eloped with her. I was only eight years older than her, but that made all the difference as each year passed. She’d felt robbed of her chance to get to know herself better and become her own person.

  Thankfully, we’d opted to wait to have children, so that made our separation and subsequent divorce much cleaner.

  For that, I was immensely grateful.

  In the end, the woman I’d fallen in love with was no longer in love with me and I’d done the right thing by her. I walked away from everything we’d built together. I let her have it all. Just gave it to her, didn’t even challenge her attorney at all. Signed the dotted line, picked up what belongings I truly wanted and left. At first, I’d stayed with a friend in Jackson Hole, enjoying the posh Rocky Mountain town.

  Granted, not having to be monogamous and sex-starved since we’d long since stopped having it, I fell into a pattern of casual sex for a couple years. Which was nice. Okay, more than nice.