by Kahlen Aymes
"Sorry," I mumble, duly embarrassed I was snippy with him. "You're right, I don't always get great responses, especially from men."
"I got that," he says with a crooked smile, before pointing at my plate. "You've barely eaten anything."
I give him a wry smile before shoveling another forkful in my mouth.
"Better." With a wink he dives back into his fries. "Although why you'd chose to eat salad, when you could have a nice greasy burger and fries, I don't understand."
"I like hamburgers and fries just as much as the next person, but when I travel it inevitably sits in my stomach like a block of concrete. Besides, I like salad." I provocatively take another forkful in my mouth, which apparently strikes him as funny, because that soundless chuckle is back.
"I like you, Bernie, the romance writer from Toronto," he says around the last mouthful of fries, as he wipes his hands on a napkin. "Can I get you a drink? Or are you in a rush?" He's already standing when he asks. I'm still back on the whole I like you bit and his question takes a little time to sink in.
"Please," I say, digging through my pocket for the five dollar bill I know I stuck in there, but his hand is up.
"What would you like? And I'm buying or my mother would turn over in her grave. She raised me better," he says with an easy smile.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, reacting to the fact his mother is obviously no longer alive. I no longer have either of my parents, and although Dad died ten years ago and it has been four years since Mom passed away, it still hurts like a son of a bitch.
I'm surprised when he bends down a little, putting his face in my field of vision. "Long time ago, Bernie. Long time ago. Now about that drink?"
"Ice tea, please." I manage to smile, even though I'm suddenly aware of the possibility of having spinach stuck in my teeth or something. I can almost feel his eyes as they seem to take in every feature on my face—from less than a foot away. They come to rest on my mouth, and right away my tongue slips out to brush along my bottom lip. A movement he carefully tracks.
With a little shake of his head, he straightens, running a hand through his hair. "Be right back," he mumbles, turning on his heels, giving me a perfect view of his artfully sculpted rear end, long legs moving with purpose, a broad back, and a full head of salt & pepper hair. I wonder how old he is. Not married, though. At least not wearing a ring. I look down at my own hands, where the imprint on my own ring finger has long faded.
What am I doing here? It feels a little like playing with fire, a bit dangerous but so very exciting. I should save my fantasies for my books, where I can control them.
"I should probably find the United Airlines counter and try to figure out how to get back home," I inform Jack.
For the past half-hour or so, since he brought back my tea and a coffee for himself, we've been talking. A bit about his work, which is fascinating, but also about mine, which was a surprise. I know, for instance, that he does occasional assignments for National Geographic, which is awesome. He doesn't seem to have any family to speak of. He is just on his way from a shoot in the Florida Keys to New York for a meeting, after which he says he's happy to be going home for a bit. He actually seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. He asked about family, but mostly he seemed to want to get to know me and what made me tick. It's been a long time since a man, or anyone for that matter, has showered me with so much attention. Somewhere along the past half-hour, I've relaxed into a comfortable conversation, all but forgetting where I am.
When he checks the utilitarian watch on his wrist, I am instantly reminded I still haven’t figured out how to get home. I also need to pee really badly, thanks to the ice tea, but have avoided getting up from the safety of my stool. I don't think he's spotted my cane, hanging off the back of my chair, but if he has, he's very good at hiding it. It doesn't matter that I've walked with one for the past seven years, it still makes me self-conscious. As does my gait, which is far from graceful.
"I'll take your bag," he says, getting up before I stop him. He slings his bag on his shoulder and walks around to my side of the counter. Without saying anything he grabs my cane from the back of my chair and hands it to me. I'm struck silent as he waits patiently, standing right beside me with his other hand out in offering.
"I need a washroom first," I admit, pushing through my shock that he hadn't missed a damn thing, and slightly irritated I let him have this effect on me. I swing my legs around and he immediately grabs my hand with his, helping me down to my feet. Again, the touch of his skin on mine has an immediate physical impact. This time, his firm grip causes a slight shiver to run down my spine.
"I know where they are," he says, when I take my cane from him with my other hand and find my balance on my feet. The moment he lets go of my hand, I can feel the loss. He pulls up the handle on my carry-on and with his hand on my lower back, guides me through the tables. Nothing I can do about the slight waddle as I walk, it is what it is. He waits for me outside the restrooms, hanging onto my carry-on for me. It's not until I'm washing my hands that I realize, with a bit of panic, that I've left my stuff with a virtual stranger. The moment I step out of the washroom, my eyes immediately search him out, leaning against the far wall, my suitcase safely tucked between his legs. My relief must've been visible because he smirks as he pushes off the wall and saunters in my direction.
"You thought I took off with your stuff," he teases me, as he places his free hand on my back again.
"Only for a minute," I admit, smiling when he bursts out laughing. A nice deep rumble I can feel in my bones. "Can't blame me, my laptop is in there and it holds my entire life."
"Hmmmm," he hums. "I see. It would be like me losing my camera equipment."
"I guess. Where is your equipment anyway?"
"Back at the hotel," he says with a sideways glance at me.
"Hotel? I thought you said you were traveling?"
"My connecting flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning. At least the one they put me on, after realizing this evening's flight was overbooked." He leads me to a line up at the United Airlines desk. "I've got a room at the Renaissance Concourse."
"So why are you here and not grabbing room service at the hotel?" I want to know.
"Because I wanted a greasy burger. As a rule, hotel burgers suck. They don't compare to the real deal," he says on a smirk.
The line in front of us slowly dissipates until it's my turn. I explain again how the slight delay leaving Gulfport had caused me to miss my connecting flight to Toronto. The agent was very nice, explaining that she would be able to get me as far as Chicago, but she couldn't guarantee I'd be able to make it home tonight.
"The alternative is for you to take a room at one of the airport hotels. I can have you on the first flight to Toronto tomorrow, which leaves at eleven twenty." She apologetically smiles at me, throwing a peek over my shoulder where I can feel Jack looming.
"Stay," I hear his voice softly behind me.
"Book me on the flight tomorrow," I find myself saying to the girl, who unsuccessfully tries to hide her curiosity as her eyes flit between Jack and me. I hand her my passport and my original ticket, and within minutes I have a new ticket for tomorrow's flight.
"Would you like me to call ahead for a room?" the agent asks. This time Jack answers, causing my knees to wobble.
"No need. It's taken care of," he says, before turning me toward the exit signs.
CHAPTER 2
"Are you okay?"
I stop in my tracks outside the doors the moment the warm Atlanta evening air hits me. I don't know what I'm thinking. I met this man less than an hour ago, and here I am, willingly following him to a hotel across the road. Am I nuts? My brain stopped functioning the moment he told the agent my accommodations were taken care of, and a hot rush of vaguely familiar anticipation coursed through my blood. I've had two one-night stands in my entire life, both when I was in college. I've not even contemplated sex since the father of my children proclaimed to have found th
e love of his life in a woman I thought of as a friend. That was seven years ago. Right when I was at my lowest, trying to come to terms with a body that would no longer cooperate. Like a stab in the back, the man I'd shared dreams with, had two beautiful children with, had supported through his personal struggles after losing his job, had walked out on his vow to stick by me through sickness as well as health. I'd been left to look after two almost adult children, barely able to keep myself standing. And I made it through, but just narrowly. Was I really going to risk rocking my solitary but predictable existence? How did we go from a casual food court meal to here?
"Bernie?" With his fingers gently under my chin, he turns me to face him. "I have a suite. You're welcome to the bedroom, I'll take the pull out couch. I'm sorry if I was presumptuous, but I don't want to say goodbye. Not yet."
My mouth falls open at the raw honesty in his words. Those calm, unblinking brown eyes of his are quietly assessing me. They don't seem to hold anything but an open and nonjudgmental invitation. I don't want whatever this weird connection I'm feeling is to end either. I want more time—time to learn more about him. Where he's been, where he's going, and if I'm perfectly honest, I want to know what made him choose to sit with me in the food court in the first place.
"Okay," I concede, a little breathlessly. Immediately his eyes crinkle into a smile as he grabs my hand and lifts it to his mouth. With his eyes still smiling at me, he presses a kiss to the back of my hand that feels so sensuous, it has my core flood with heat. The impact of his lips against my skin is greater than if he'd stuck his tongue down my throat. Although I'm really, really hoping that might be part of tonight's itinerary.
This time when we start moving, Jack casually slips his arm around my waist, and I really like feeling his big hand resting on my opposite hip. Where normally my mind would direct me to all my insecurities, now I feel oddly at peace with my imperfections. For once I am going to let go. I'm doing this.
Without stopping, Jack leads me through the hotel lobby, straight past the check-in desk, still tugging my carry-on beside him. We're the only two to get into the elevator and only when the doors close, and it starts moving, does he remove his arm from around my shoulders. Almost as if he was worried I'd take off.
"I meant it," he says, turning toward me. "I have no expectations, other than to get to know you better." He reaches out and brushes a strand of my hair out of my face, dragging the back of his fingers over my cheek. His touch is electric. There is this charge between us that I can't make heads or tails of. It's stirring and a bit unsettling, but in a way that is full of anticipation, despite the fact he says he has no expectations. I don't either, in fact, I don't have the first clue what I'm getting myself into—but this feeling? This tension? It's delicious, a touch illicit, and it has my blood simmering hot through my body.
When the elevator stops, I've already changed my mind twenty times. But then the doors open, my hand is grabbed, and I find myself following Jack down the hall. His pace is adjusted to my speed, and he only drops my hand to fish a key card out of his pocket. We don't speak as he gestures me into the room before him. I stop halfway in when I hear the door click behind me. A couch, two easy chairs, and a simple coffee table take up the room, along with a slim desk and a wall-mounted TV unit. There are no personal items visible and I assume he's stored his stuff in the bedroom. With nothing to focus my eyes on, I slowly turn around, where Jack is watching me from under his eyebrows, his head hung low.
"You okay?" he asks again, this time I just manage a sharp nod. I think I am, but now that we're alone in an enclosed space, I'm suddenly reminded of all the warnings I issued to my children over the years. I'm ignoring all of them just by being here. "Have a seat," Jack says, slowly moving into the room, leaving my carry-on sitting by the door. "I want to show you something."
I watch him disappear through the door beside the couch, which I assume leads to the bedroom, and wipe my now sweaty palms over my jeans. Despite the burning in my hip and leg, I don't sit down. Jack comes back in, carrying a laptop, and takes one look at me before walking over to the desk where he flips it open. He types in something before he turns the screen my way.
"I'm going to have a quick shower. I pulled up my profile from the National Geographic network. Feel free to browse. There's a link at the bottom of that page that'll take you to my blog. Feel free to have a look. There's some water in the bar fridge or you can make coffee if you prefer." He takes a few steps until he's right in front of me, and for the first time, I notice how incredibly tall he is, at least compared to me. My eyes barely reach his shoulder. With a little tug on the corners of his mouth, he reaches out and tucks my wayward hair behind my ear, trailing his fingers gently along my jaw before carefully grabbing hold of my chin. "I hope you'll still be here when I get out, but just in case, I need something I can remember you by."
Slowly he lowers his head, never breaking eye contact, until I can feel his breath stroking my lips. I know it's coming and yet I don't move. I want this. Whether I stay or go doesn't matter in this moment, I just need his mouth on mine. The instant his lips touch mine, the breath I've been holding rushes out, and I automatically slant my head for a better fit. There's nowhere else our bodies touch, but I can feel his heat, his hunger, all over me. A languid sweep of his tongue along the seam of my mouth, and I willingly open on a small moan. Gentle, tentative tastes make me lightheaded, and when he pulls his mouth from mine, an involuntary whimper escapes me.
"Fuck," he says softly, resting his cheek against mine. "Please stay." With a light kiss to my forehead, he turns and disappears into the bedroom.
I'm frozen in the spot, still trying to catch my breath after that kiss. I can't remember much more than years of perfunctory pecks on the lips and then many years of nothing at all. I'd forgotten how all-consuming and painfully sweet a kiss could be. With his taste lingering on my lips, I finally look at the laptop, still open on the desk. I pull out the chair and sit down, straightening the screen so I can see.
Jackson Longhorn—best name ever.
A picture of Jack against the backdrop of the Teton Mountains stares back at me. He looks much the same in it as he does now: his longish pepper and salt hair slightly mussed, a scruff on his face. This time though, he's wearing cargo shorts and a simple T-shirt, showing off strong muscular legs and arms. The thought of all of that is naked in the shower next door sends a delicious shiver through me. A quick scan of his credentials and some of his previous published work leaves me quite impressed. But my eye gets stuck on the link to his blog page. That's where I hope to find out more about the man himself.
The background image is a stunning shot of the northern lights. I can't help but wonder if it was taken on one of his visits to Algonquin Park. His latest blog describes his trip to the Keys. It has yesterday's date on it. The writing is intelligent, just as I would've expected, but a surprise is the solid sense of humor that seems to filter through the entire post. I scroll down the page and notice it contains a virtual travel journal I would love to read, but right now I want to find more about the man behind the words. I click the tab that says about me and find the same image of him as was on the National Geographic site, but this time the bio attached is more personal. It describes his roots and schooling in Michigan, as well as his career as a photojournalist visiting war-torn countries. It explains how, after recording the ugly side of humanity for so many years and some turmoil in his personal life, he decided to dedicate himself to capturing the beauty of the world we so easily take for granted.
I'm so engrossed and so hungry to learn more, that I don't hear him walk up behind me. "I had a come-to-Jesus moment where it all became too much, like an acid eating at my soul. My career, my marriage, my life—everything started sinking in a big pool of negative toxicity," he says close to my ear, startling me. Slowly he turns the desk chair to face him as he crouches down in front of me. "I had to get out before I sank right along with it. Fifteen years ago and I'm grateful every da
y for making that choice. And every choice since...including the one that brought you here." His mouth twists in a lopsided grin. "You're still here. I'm glad," he says, pulling one of my hands to his face, but this time instead of the back, he turns it and presses his mouth to my palm.
"Nowhere else for me to be right now," I reply to him, my voice a little hoarse. "There's no one waiting." I don't say any more. I don't want to waste time talking about my past when this moment is perhaps all I can have. And I'm going to grab on with both hands.
He's surprised when I place my hands on either side of his face, but willingly lets me pull him closer. I clearly hear the hitch in his breath when I lean in, and it makes me feel powerful. His lips are soft and I can taste mint when I explore them with mine. This time it's Jack groaning low in his throat when I lick my way into his mouth. I can feel the struggle in his body trying to let me lead when he wants to take over. When my tongue strokes along his, I'm the one moaning softly. He feels—tastes—so good. So wholesome.
Abruptly, Jack rips his mouth from mine. "Bernie..." He sounds pained when he drops his head in my lap. "You're gonna make me lose control," he mumbles against my legs. "Christ. I can smell you."
Okay. That worked better than a cold shower.
The moment he notices I'm tensing up, his head lifts, his eyes scanning my face. "Baby, that's a big fucking turn on. Not that I wasn't plenty turned on already, but knowing I have the same effect on you..." He lets the sentence trail off, watching me keenly for a reaction. I'm still stuck on Baby. I don't think I've ever been called Baby before. I didn't think I'd like it, but I do. Something about that word makes me feel treasured. Hearing him say I turn him on is mind-boggling. A man like that.