by Amelia Hart
"But I've never- It's too cold out here anyway. There's no way I'm taking any clothes off, tracksuit or not."
"Well that's a little more difficult, but I'm sure I can arrange something like that, between your clothes and a blanket."
"Look, stop trying to strategize. I'm not an outside kind of woman."
"That's just because you haven't tried it. I can convert you."
"Not a chance." But she could not help smiling as she said it, and thought he probably counted it as a victory. He was grinning as he put on his earmuffs, and she hurried inside away from the roar of the chainsaw. That man.
In the afternoon an employee from the tree company came to grind down the remaining stumps, leaving mounds of earth in his wake. When the noisy machine left she went back out to reclaim the seat in the garden. This time she took a needle, thread and some pieces of material she had cut out on the dining table – steering clear of the craft room and the scrapbooks in there.
When Luke saw her bent over it, he came to have a look. "What's that you're working on?"
"Oh, just a soft dolly for a friend. She's having her first baby in a few months, and this weekend she told me it's a girl."
"You know how to make something like that? That's impressive."
"It's not a big deal. You could probably do it if you tried."
"Me? No. But it looks just right on you. Sewing something all clever and precise. Fastidious. That's the word I'm looking for."
"As I said, it's nothing difficult."
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, then brought his gardening tools back to work near her chair again. They chatted, about nothing in particular, about his experiences playing football, his college days, his family and hers. Just comfortable conversation. He was so easy to talk to, taking in everything she said, quick to throw her a smile.
When the sun set he packed everything away in the garage tidily for the night, and came inside to shower, leaving his work boots by the door. It felt more comfortable than it should to serve him dinner, wash the dishes with him, curl up on the couch next to him and read together and finally go to bed, where she scolded him for his amorousness.
"We can't do that. You've worked hard all day. You'll have no energy left for tomorrow on the field."
"I'll be fine. The day I don't have stamina to make love to you is the day I'm dead."
The comment made her uncomfortable on several levels but he did not give her time to analyze it, only kissed her in a way that said he had waited all day for this moment, and would not wait a second more. She let go of worry, just for now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
She kicked off her shoes, put her purse on the hallway table and frowned down at a suspicious smudge mark on the edge of it. The bag of groceries she carried through to the kitchen, sat them on the bench and then she collected a cleaning cloth and a spray bottle. She went back to the hallway and cleaned off the smudge, smiling a little despite herself at the thought of how it had probably been created. That man.
He would be here soon and she was going to cook them both a meal. Nothing too fancy. Pasta with vegetables and a little fish. A lot of pasta, for him. He had quite an appetite, as one would expect after a hard day of work, mental and physical.
She tied on a red apron as she walked over the floor towards the music system, and when she was done with the knot she adjusted the volume to create an immersive world out of the uplifting strains of Mozart’s aria Ruhe Sanft, Mein Holdes Leben from Zaide. The prep work for dinner went swiftly; broccoli, cauliflower, carrots and bell peppers all going under the knife. A pot of water sat on the stove, rising to the boil, and she set to making pasta, enjoying the squeeze and flex of the dough ball in her hands.
There was that delicious moment of transition when it turned silky and she could still justify a little more handling, leaning into it and feeling it slide past her fingers, before she let it go. Perhaps Luke would enjoy rolling it through the machine. He was probably boyish enough to get a kick out of it so she put it aside to wait for him, covered in a clean, damp tea towel.
When the doorbell rang she turned down the heat under the water and ran to open it the door, an expectant smile on her face that faded as soon as she realized the big man outside was not Luke but Dan.
She stared at him, wordless, then took a single step forward still holding the door, to change the body language of welcome to one of barring the way. Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. She waited.
“Floss, you look great,” he said, and he sounded a little surprised. “Doing some cooking I see.”
“Daniel,” she acknowledged.
“So . . . uh . . .” he clasped his hands expectantly in front of him, “can I come in?”
“I think it’s best you don’t.”
His eyebrows went up in shock. “That’s not very nice, Floss.”
She just looked at him. She was not in a mood to be scolded by him for her lack of manners.
When she did not apologize or backtrack he searched for and found his composure. “I was just . . . passing by and I thought I’d drop in. To see how you are. Make sure you’re doing alright.”
“I’m fine thank you.” The words were hard-edged and cold. As she stood there looking at him she could feel a towering wave of contempt looming up, ready to swallow her. What did he think he was doing, coming back here like this?
“This feels so strange, standing outside my own house like this, looking at my wife.” Over his shoulder she saw Luke pull up at the curb. He got out of his car, took in Dan’s flashy Mercedes in the drive and then stepped onto the lawn to come silently over the grass. “You know I still care for you, don’t you? I never wanted you to be unhappy. Just because we’re not right for each other doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Can’t be . . . close. I’m sure it’s been lonely here for you. Why don’t I come in and we can talk?”
Thank you for the offer but I’ll pass,” she said with icy precision.
“Now don’t be like that, Floss. Don’t deny yourself a little support. This is a tough time for you. You shouldn’t have to be alone.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, her eyes on Luke. He raised his eyebrows in a question, patted his chest to indicate himself and then made a semi-circle gesture she took to mean ‘should I go around to the back of the house?’ She considered his expression. He looked untroubled by Dan’s presence here so she guessed the offer was made for her sake rather than his own; that he didn’t care what Dan thought but he would avoid trouble if she preferred it.
She took a single step toward Dan, still blocking his way, but swung the door wider.
Luke took that for the offer it was, stepped past Dan, through the doorway into the house and disappeared behind her, casually sauntering like he owned the place. She held back a smile.
Daniel King’s face went slack with horror. “Who was that?” he demanded.
She felt a big hand wrap round her own where it rested out of sight on the inside door handle, a quiet message of presence and support.
“It’s not your business, Daniel. Please don’t ask me inappropriate questions. I want you to go away now.”
“Felicity May King, you are still my wife. You owe me an explanation!” he thundered, red creeping up his cheeks in an ugly stain.
“It’s good you brought that up. I need an address so I can have you served with the divorce papers. Where do you live right now?”
“Don’t you fucking dare change the subject. Who is that man in my house?”
“The address, Daniel?”
“I am not telling you a goddamn thing until you answer me!”
She sighed a big, gusty sigh, tilting her head far back to look down her nose at him with a delicate sneer. “I’ll tell you when you give me that address.”
“Washington Street. Apartment 5, number 76 Washington Street,” he said, his teeth clenched.
“That man is my lover,” she said, stepped back into the house, closed the door and slid the bolt home
. There was an inarticulate shout of rage from outside.
“I used to think I was no good at slamming doors,” she said to Luke, her eyebrows raised.
He searched her face, and seeing she was not upset he smiled. “You’re pretty good at it from where I’m standing. Nice to be on this side for once.”
She blushed.
Daniel King was still shouting something, but the door was good quality and thick, and the windows were double-glazed so she could not really hear him. When he put his finger on the bell and held it down she pressed her lips together, then remembered she could switch the bell off. She did, then turned away from the door to walk into the kitchen.
“Do you want to help me make some pasta?” she said over her shoulder to Luke.
“Sounds good.”
She showed him how to fasten the pasta machine to the bench and put the sheets through, then set the fish and carrots in the steamer.
Daniel King came around the corner of the house and she went to the nearest window and shut the drapes in his furious face. He moved on to the next window and she followed then passed him, closing out the sight of him.
He was saying something at full volume about it being his house and that she was a slut and if she thought he would give her a cent of alimony she had another think coming. She did not get every word but she got the gist of it and winced at what the neighbors would hear.
Despite herself she had broken into a faint adrenaline sweat, but she refused to show Luke how this affected her.
When all the drapes were closed against the darkening sky and Daniel she walked back to switch on the kitchen light and saw Luke’s expression. His fists were on the counter, shoulders bunched like a massed thundercloud rising on the horizon, poised to strike. “I can’t believe he just said that to you.”
She smoothed her hand over his clenched fist, trying to soothe him. She did not want trouble. “It’s not pleasant but I’m clear on what I am, and what I am not. He can call me names and it doesn’t change a thing.”
“He deserves a good thumping.”
“He does and maybe life will give him one. I won’t.”
“I could, for you. I’d like to.”
“Sweet as that is, I think I’ll pass.” She leaned back against the bench, her arms crossed, weighed up the wisdom of what she wanted to say, then said it anyway. “If the two of you get in a fistfight, odds are you’ll be transferred to another team, in another city, at least if it happens in the next week. After that we’re six weeks into the season and it’s too late for a transfer, but he can still put you on the injury reserve and mess things up for you. Hitting him wouldn’t achieve anything. I have a lawyer and she’s going over the case. He’ll suffer financially and that’s enough of a hit. And hey,” she made the effort to smile, “as a financial analyst I have to say that’s more meaningful to me anyway.”
His eyes were hard on her face, assessing, and she knew from the set of his jaw he did not like her decision. But after a moment he silently conceded her right to make it, turned back to the task of winding pasta through the machine and laying out the long strands on the rack. He did not look up as he said: “What if I get transferred, Felicity? What then?”
This was why she had hesitated to mention it. She did not want to have this conversation.
“Then you’ll be joining another team. A whole new city to get to know,” she said lightly.
He braced his hands on the bench. “That’s not what I mean.” He looked up at her underneath his brows, the halogen spotlight over the bench making his brown hair glisten and casting his eyes into shadow.
“Don’t do this, Luke. Don’t let Daniel mess things up. Just steer clear of him and none of it needs to be an issue.”
“I don’t think it is Daniel messing things up,” he said grimly, pushed back off the bench and walked across the big room and away down the hall.
She glared after him. What did he want from her? A declaration she would leave her home, her clients, and follow him off around the country for what? Sex? A sperm donation? She had made it perfectly clear to him that was all she was looking for. The water on the stove began to bubble as she turned up the heat. A week of banging her brains out on every available surface of the house and he thought he had changed her mind. As if his wonderful penis was some sort of magic wand: ‘Poof, and you’re healed of your marriage break up and ready to love again.’
Broccoli and cauliflower florets bounced off the bench and onto the floor as she swept the rest into the steamer with the side of the knife blade. She left them to lie. Men. It was always about what they wanted, and never mind who they trampled on to get it. A doormat; that’s all she was to them.
She threw the pasta in the pot hard enough to splash water out, and set the timer with ferocious stabs of her finger. While the final few minutes ticked away she steamed harder than the water. When it was all finished she served it onto the plates she had warmed in the oven, with tiny ramekins of her homemade aioli.
Then she went to look for him.
He was in her bedroom, lit by the streetlight from outside, slumped in the ornately upholstered Queen Anne chair, chin sunk on his chest and staring broodingly at the bed.
“Dinner is ready,” she said.
He did not speak, just lifted a hand to rub his temples.
“Are you coming, or shall I put it in the oven to keep warm?”
He tilted his head back and looked at her, expressionless. A stern face, much harder without his usual half smile.
“Don’t sulk,” she told him.
At this he gave a small, tired smile. “Sulking I am not,” he said.
It certainly looks like it.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Come here.” He patted his knee.
“Are you planning on breaking in that chair? Because frankly I don’t think it’s up to the challenge.”
“Good God, woman, do you ever stop thinking about sex? No, actually what I want is a hug.”
She regarded him suspiciously, still skittish from the near blow-up in the kitchen, not knowing if she should be cross with him or acquiescent. In the end she decided she would rather have the hug, too.
She crossed the carpet and sat down carefully on his knee, conscious both of the chair and her slim line business skirt. He reached out and pulled her sideways into his chest and after a moment of tension waiting for the chair to protest or give way, she slowly relaxed, feeling the gentle pressure at the crown of her head that she knew was him kissing her there. She knew it because she could see their reflection dimly in the mirror of the dressing table, his arms wrapped around her, his posture tender and protective despite whatever her was feeling right now.
Guilt crept over her. She closed her eyes. She did not want to see. “Dinner will get cold,” she said eventually. He shifted and she felt his erection nudge her bottom. “Hey!” she protested. “You said you wanted a hug!”
“I meant it. But yeah, it has been all day and if you will come and sit in my lap you can expect I’ll be interested. That doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. His expression was still sad, kind of wistful. Unexpectedly she felt a surge of compassion for him. He was a good man and this could not be easy, and he was not treating her like a doormat. He was hurt. She was hurting him.
She got up with due care for his state and for the chair, closed the drapes then switched on the lamp by the bed. Then she started to take off her clothes.
His head came up, reminding her so vividly of a dog at the sight of a treat – dead still and with its ears pricked and attention fixed – that she almost laughed. She conquered the urge, set aside her jacket, her pearls, her shirt and silk camisole, unbuttoned then unzipped her skirt and placed it too on the dressing table, pushed down her pantyhose and left herself only bra and knickers, feeling cold with the sudden nakedness, her nipples drawing up in tight points.
He had not come towards her yet so she climbed into the bed, ea
sed down under the covers and then – as he liked to do to her – patted the space next to her.
“Dinner will get cold,” he repeated her words, and she tilted her head to one side, then deliberately removed her bra and underpants and tossed them across the room.
“Priorities,” she told him, and he got to his feet and came to her. She watched him take off his clothes in swift motions – swoosh, swoosh, naked –– and then he climbed in next to her, pulled her closer to fit against him, small and soft against big and hard.
“Better?’ she asked him.
He laughed soundlessly, his frame shaking a little with it. “Are you trying to seduce me into a happy mood?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“It’s a good idea in theory. It really needs practical application. A field test, if you will.”
She was relieved to have him tease her again, her dependably kind Luke, and she moved her head to kiss him, her eyes wide open, too close to focus on him properly but not wanting to let go of him to sink down inside herself.
It was a solemn kiss, a sober one, her closed lips pressing against his, their breath mingled. Not sexual, though her body was tingling to be lying skin-to-skin with him, those tickling impulses traveling up and down her spine making her want to flex and shift, feel him anew with each movement. Ignoring the desire she stayed with him, wanting to give him something, to reach out and connect.
His eyes were open too, half-lidded hazel eyes, the color difficult to discern in the light from the bedside lamp but she knew what they were like: dark brown in the very center, then golden brown, with the edges a dark green; almost pine green, though not quite. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, sliding her hair back behind her ear, she recognized that dry, faintly callused touch, the rasp of it and the warmth.
Her chest knew the feeling of his, the brush of rough hair on her nipples, the bumpiness of a man who spent hours working out in the gym and on the field; the flat planes and hard ridges of him, substantial and solid.