Between the Lines

by Jane Charles

  Ellen

  This is turning out better than I hoped. Not only am I sitting with an employee from Baxter, but he’s hot as hell with muscles in all the right places, flat stomach and the sexiest blue eyes I’ve ever encountered.

  And he’s the English teacher? Damn! They didn’t make English teachers like this when I was in high school. And, I’m pretty sure my English teachers were way past the age of retirement and women who loved literature. They probably had fantasies of Mr. Darcy, or maybe even Romeo, while under the covers of darkness after they retired for the night. Guys like Gabe Kent, young, handsome, blonde hair, blue eyes, and a body to salivate over, were usually the coaches and taught lame classes like phys ed or driver’s ed. He can’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six and built like a football player, not like a man who spends his time in a classroom.

  An English Teacher from Bye Bye Birdie pops in my head. I sure wouldn’t mind playing Rosie Alvarez to his Albert Peterson.

  Does he write poetry, read Little Women and have an overbearing mother like Peterson? I bite back the giggle. I can’t imagine this over six-foot hunk of manliness curled up and enjoying the adventures of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy, but looks can be deceiving. My father is the perfect example of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Though I’d peg Gabe to be more of a wolf than a sheep, and in a very good way, unlike my unhappily incarcerated father.

  If I’d had a teacher like Gabe, I would have taken every English class allowed in school. Actually, I did, but it sure as hell wasn’t for the teachers.

  My beer is empty and I don’t even remember finishing it. Gabe’s is on the table and from what I can see in the bottle, there are only a few sips left. I jump up from my seat as he hangs up the phone.

  His eyebrows rise in surprise. “You’re leaving? I just ordered dinner.”

  Like I would leave while he is still here? Perish the thought. “I’m going to run upstairs and grab a bottle of wine.” I grin. “Beer doesn’t exactly go with Italian, at least in my opinion.”

  “I’d offer you some, but we don’t really keep any around here.”

  “Not a problem, plus, I want to put something more comfortable on.”

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have added that last thought since his eyebrows rose a bit. I hope he doesn’t think I’ll be returning in my sexy nightie, though it doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea, once I know him a little better, of course.

  After unlocking my apartment door, I hurry back to the bedroom and throw open the closet door. What should I change into? The short skirt was okay for earlier, since I was trying on clothes in some of the little shops on the square, but I have to be too careful sitting around in it. Not that I don’t sit like a lady when in a skirt, but I want to be comfortable.

  After changing and running a brush through my hair I go to the fridge. I recently stocked some of my favorite wines in here. All white and dry. I hope he isn’t a red drinker because I don’t have any of those. Not to say I don’t have favorites, I just don’t have a place to keep them properly in this small kitchen. Before I rush back out the door, I grab the corkscrew from the charger. If he doesn’t keep wine around, chances are, he might not have a corkscrew either. Personally, I never travel without one.

  I stop just outside Gabe’s door to catch my breath and then knock.

  “Come in,” he calls from inside and I let myself back into the apartment. He’s standing in the kitchen, dumping water out of the ice pack before adding more. Should he really keep ice on it that long?

  “How did you hurt your knee?”

  “Old football injury,” he grins at me.

  I’m not sure if he’s being serious or not. Some people like to exaggerate injuries when it could have been a simple fall. Though, he does have the shape and height to be a football player.

  I go into the kitchen and put the bottle on the table. It’s nice being around a guy I actually have to look up to a bit, instead of directly in the eyes. At five foot eight, I rarely come across guys that are that much taller than I am. When I’m in heels, I might as well give it up. Gabe has to be just over six foot and perfect.

  “Glasses?”

  He nods to the cupboard beside the sink and I take out two wine glasses before opening the bottle. “I hope you like white and dry.”

  “Great,” he insists as he limps back to the couch. “I don’t see how anyone can drink those sweet wines.”

  “What, no Boone’s Farm for you back in the day?” Not that I ever had it before going off to college. My roommates brought it back to the dorm because it was all they could afford. I nearly gagged the first time I took a drink. Nothing like the wines I was raised on. Literally raised on. Dad had me tasting when I was fourteen. He claimed that if we were in France, it wouldn’t be an issue. Of course, all of those tastings took place at my grandparents’ vineyard at private family events. Still, I was only fourteen.

  “Nah, couldn’t risk getting caught and kicked off the team.”

  So he did play football. I fill the glasses, put the cork back in the bottle and set it in their fridge. There’s not much in there. A gallon of milk, about a dozen bottles of beer, a stick of butter, some apples, eggs and cheese, along with the various condiments like ketchup, mustard and mayo, but that was about it. “You guys don’t eat much.”

  “My roommate was supposed to shop this weekend. He didn’t quite get around to it.”

  “Have you and Mateo been friends long, like high school buddies, college?” I know they work together, but Gabe only told me that he worked at Baxter. I have to be careful not to slip up and give myself away.

  Gabe frowns at me. What was wrong with the question? I don’t think I sounded like I was prying, even though I was. I have a story to write and the perfect opportunity just fell into my lap.

  “No, we met when we both started working at Baxter last June. As we both needed a place to stay, we took this two bedroom.”

  I take the seat I was in earlier and snuggle into it, glad I put on a sweater. The front of the house, where Gabe’s apartment is, is shaded and the temperature feels like it’s dropping. It wasn’t exactly hot today, but I wasn’t uncomfortable while I was shopping. Now I’m chilled.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  “It’s damp,” I answer. I don’t want him to think I’m really uncomfortable, but I am glad I put these pants on.

  “I know just the thing.” He pulls himself from the couch and limps over to the fireplace.

  “That thing still works, in a place this old?”

  “Yep,” he grins. “And, one of the reasons we took this apartment. It’s a nice source of heat if the power goes out. Which it did more than a few times this last winter.”

  Wood is already stacked in the grate and all Gabe does is strike a match. Before I know it, flames are licking at the logs.

  “You should sit on the couch so you’re closer to the fire.”

  As it would mean also sitting next to him, I happily move. This is turning out to be much nicer than I anticipated. Maybe I don’t need to worry or think about Baxter tonight. That blog post I’m planning doesn’t seem so important right now. Not with Gabe in the shadowed room and a fire going, and delicious wine to hold us over until dinner gets here.

  He takes his seat back on the couch, his thigh against mine, even though there’s plenty of room for him to sit without touching.

  “So, did you grow up in New York?”

  I get that he wants to get to know me. I want to know everything I can about him. Especially how well he kisses, but I’ve got to be careful. Nobody can learn the truth. I promised and it could be dangerous.

  “Nevada.”

  “So why here?”

  “I went to school at Columbia and never went back.”

  “They don’t have good schools in Nevada?” He asks in disbelief.

  “They have excellent schools.” But they are in the one state I never want to set foot into again.

  “So, why aren’t you there?”

  “
Have you ever tried to live in a big desert? I want seasons. Four of them.”

  “Seasons,” he says slowly, shaking his head as if he doesn’t really believe me.

  Gabe – 3

  There’s got to be more to it than that, but before I can ask her anything else the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it.” Ellen jumps up from her seat and grabs her billfold.

  “I already paid and tipped,” I call after her but I’m not sure she hears me.

  I do have to admit that when she said she was going to change into something more comfortable, my thoughts went to something a little more revealing than what she has on. I know it was wishful thinking, but hey, I’m a healthy guy, with a healthy appetite for beautiful women. It doesn’t help that I haven’t dated anyone since before my last surgery, which was more than a year ago. Then I had a long recovery and then had to look for a job. But when she showed up wearing a cute, red crop top, white sweater and dark capris that hug her ass and legs the way my hands are itching to it got suddenly warm in here. She might need the fire, but I sure as hell don’t.

  Ellen West may be thin and not exactly endowed, but she has curves in all the right places. With those high-waist paints and short shirt, she looks like she just stepped out of a1960’s beach movie with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello.

  She’s also wearing red flats, like she was earlier. If she were in heels, she’d almost look me in the eye. I like that. No awkward and uncomfortable bending if I want to kiss her. Not that I plan on kissing her, sitting or standing. This isn’t a date, though that doesn’t mean there isn’t potential for one in the future.

  Ellen returns with the bags of food, grinning. “I’ll put the dessert in the fridge and food on the plates.”

  I push up from the couch. “I’ll help.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she dismisses me. “Rest your football injury.”

  I should help her, but I kind of like sitting here, my leg propped up while she gets our food ready in the kitchen. Not that I’m the kind of guy who thinks that is where a woman belongs; I just like watching her ass.

  I have to adjust my junk because it’s all too aware of Ellen’s ass and I just met her. “Down boy.” I whisper and pull a pillow onto my lap.

  “Do you want to eat at the table or in there?”

  I glance at the fire, the thick rug on the floor in front of it. “In here.” Just because we just met doesn’t mean this can’t turn into something a bit romantic.

  She brings the plates in, along with utensils then grabs our glasses to refill them with wine. I get on the floor and situate the pillows just right and hope to God my knee doesn’t betray me and I need her help getting up after dinner. That would be fucking humiliating.

  Ellen plops down next to me and cuts into her chicken parmesan. She moans almost immediately. “Oh. My. God. This is so good.”

  I chuckle and cut off a piece of my lasagna. She’s right, it is good, but my appetite isn’t exactly whetted for Italian. A hot, sexy blonde, yes. Too bad I just met her, otherwise, this night could end with many appetites being sated.

  She hardly looks at me and savors her food. Her back is straight, legs bent, and toes pointed. I can’t image she’s comfortable in such a position, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. In fact, in the short time I’ve known her, Ellen has perfect posture and moves with a gentle grace I haven’t witnessed in other women. It adds another layer of desire and curiosity about her.

  We barely speak as we eat. I was hungrier than I thought and we silently eat, sip wine and look into the fire, when we aren’t casting looks at each other. When Ellen has eaten about half of her chicken, pasta, salad and bread she puts the plate aside. “I’m stuffed.”

  “What about dessert?”

  Her brown eyes darken with desire and I hope it isn’t because she’s thinking about the tiramisu. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She pulls herself to her feet, taking her plate.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No, you stay there. Keep my place warm.” She winks before taking my plate to the kitchen where she puts our food back into the carryout containers and sticks them in the fridge with Mateo’s dinner. I sure as hell hope he doesn’t come home anytime soon.

  She brings back the bottle of wine, emptying it into our glasses. I’m just glad we had such a starch filled meal, or I’d be tipsy. I don’t drink wine all that often. Then again, I am in my own home and she just has to go up the stairs to her apartment, if she leaves at all, so being tipsy isn’t so bad. Besides, I am on spring break and could be doing a lot worse.

  I add more logs to the fire and plump the pillows behind us.

  Ellen leans back, her legs out in front of her. At one point she lost her shoes and her toenails are painted a pretty pink color. It suits her. There is something so girly about her that I adore. Not like the silly cheerleaders I was always around, but the girly, feminine, all soft and yummy kind of girly.

  “Have you always lived around here?” she asks.

  “No. I spent the better part of my youth in Illinois. Dad was laid off when I was around fourteen and we moved to Rochester.”

  She nods and sips. “Did you really hurt your knee playing football?”

  “Yep, in college.”

  She looks up at me with concern. “And you still have trouble with it.”

  I chuckle. “It’s a long story.” One I don’t want to discuss or relive right now. Especially when Ellen and I could be talking about much more pleasant topics.

  “Did you play any other sports?”

  “Baseball, ran track and basketball.”

  “Wow, you must have been a great athlete.”

  I laugh again. “Not really. I just wanted to play football. Dad is the one who wanted me in sports year round.” If I didn’t love football so much, I would have quit them all because he made me hate the others. “You know that dick of a Dad who is always at the sidelines yelling at his kid.”

  “Yes.” She groans and peeks up at me with worry.

  “That was my dad, and why I had to play every sport he approved of.” Just once it would have been nice if he was like the other parents, who encouraged their kids, or told them not to be too hard on themselves if they lost, but just try better. Nope, my dad was the Dick Dad and everyone hated him.

  “What didn’t he approve of?”

  “Soccer. It’s for sissies.”

  She chokes on her wine. “You’re serious?”

  “Clearly the man never tried playing the sport or he would’ve changed his opinion and I would have been playing that too.”

  “He must’ve been proud.” There’s a sadness in her voice that I don’t get. It bothers me.

  “I’m sure your parents were proud of you too.”

  She snorts. “Let’s not talk about our families.”

  Is she estranged from her family too? That sucks, but it does give us one thing in common, besides living in the same house.

  I don’t want to talk about my family either. I only talked to my dad when I go home for holidays and I only do that because of Mom. Dad and I spend most of that time trying to be civil to each other, only because of Mom, but he never lets me forget how disappointed he is that I wasn’t going to have any more surgeries so I could return to football. Besides, there’s no guarantee another surgery would work and I wasn’t going to put myself through the misery. I disappointed him more that day than at any other time, and there were a lot of disappointments, each time I came in second, missed a basket, was struck out, or fumbled the ball.

  I glance down at Ellen. She’s all soft, warm and cuddly. “I don’t know what brought you here, Ellen West, but I’m glad that whatever it is, did.”

  “Me too.” She smiles up at me and sets her glass on the table behind us. I do the same before lowering my lips to hers.

  Ellen

  I’m about to make out with a man I didn’t know six hours ago. It seems so wrong, but so right at the same time. There’
s something about Gabe that draws me to him. I’ve wanted to know how he kisses since the moment I met him, and it is so not a disappointment. Firm, strong, kind, gentle with an underlying passion, as if he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t need to. I’ll take whatever he can give.

  His tongue caresses and then delves, and heat ignites in my veins. He probes then tangles his tongue with mine as I fall further back into the pillows. He’s over me, but not crushing me. He’s done nothing and already I’m growing damp. Is it because it’s been too damn long, or is it him?

  Before the question can finish forming in my brain, I know its Gabe. He does something to me that I can’t understand or begin to put words to. He isn’t touching me, just kissing, but I want him. My bra’s suddenly too tight and my nipples ache, and I want to take it off so badly, to feel his hands and lips on my breast, but his hands are pressed against the floor on either side of me, supporting him.

  Gabe shifts, and I roll with him, until he is once again over me, but this time, he’s pressed between my thighs and I know he wants me as much as I want him. His thick, hard length is pressed against me and I wish to hell I would have left my skirt on. It would have been so easy to lift it, remove the panties, free his cock, and then have him inside me. I’m getting so wet that there’s probably a spot on my pants by now, but I don’t care. Why the hell won’t he touch me?

  I slide my hands up his chest, caressing the muscles before moving onto his shoulders and then threading my fingers through his soft hair. Why doesn’t he take the hint? I want to do a hell of a lot more than kiss in front of the fire.

  “Man, that was brutal,” Mateo is staying as he comes in the door opens.

  Gabe and I still and then look up.

  Mateo’s face flushes and he takes a step back. “Um. Sorry.”