The Proviso

by Moriah Jovan

  * * * * *

  Sebastian requested a stock pot and once that was produced, he poured the wines and the cranberry and apple juices in it. After that he threw in the mulling spices, which were wrapped in cheesecloth, cut up some oranges and threw them in the pot with cinnamon sticks. “Bring it to a boil, then turn to low and then put a lid on it. I’ll start putting up the high stuff.”

  They worked another couple of hours putting up Christmas decorations. When Sebastian would have turned on the radio for Christmas music, she said,

  “Do you know who Alison Krauss is?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I want you to listen to what I listen to.”

  Sebastian listened to the first strains of this music and recognized the genre—bluegrass, zydeco’s English older sister—and though it carried a recording studio polish, it retained its Appalachian authenticity. It was complex yet earthy, the voice divine, the lyrics engaging.

  “It’s really melancholy.”

  “Yes.”

  He speared her with a glance. “Eilis, music can lift the soul or it can destroy it. Melancholy music doesn’t do anything good for a soul that’s hurting.”

  She turned away and said nothing, so Sebastian didn’t push it except to say, “Next Friday, bring your Alison Krauss to work and I’ll trade you for The Wild Tchoupitoulas and Professor Longhair.”

  They stopped halfway through the decorating to fix a late lunch and dress the povitica, then they sat down with the wine and sandwiches.

  Sebastian had never had a worse sandwich in his life.

  “What the hell is on this thing?!”

  He picked up the bread and looked at the thin coat of mayo or—whatever it was—the fake cheese, the fake bread, the fake one slice of ham. The only real thing on it was the lettuce.

  Eilis looked stricken when he finally looked up at her, but he wouldn’t let up. He’d had enough of her food and body issues. He got up and went to the fridge, stood there with it open for quite a while, looking at the kind of food Giselle would call “frankenfood.”

  “Do you have anything that’s not fat free?”

  And, as he’d done to her company and her art, he began to declutter. He dragged the trash can over to the fridge and began throwing everything that said “fat free” out. “Get a pen and paper,” he instructed. “We’re going shopping.”

  He knew she wouldn’t dare protest. After all, he’d made her eat half a Bryant’s sandwich and a whole concrete on threat of licking. Just today, he’d seen her eat one bagel for breakfast with—he dug back in the trash—yep, fat-free cream cheese.

  She would never believe he wanted her as she was and she wouldn’t stop this idiotic diet of hers unless she was forced.

  She did what he said. As he dictated, she wrote. “Steak. Eggs. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my cousin— Lettuce. Peppers. Mushrooms. —it’s that protein is king, lots of green vegetables the queen, and fat their prince. Butter. Mayo. Cauliflower. Broccoli. Bread and sugar are the devil. Chicken. Salmon. Fresh tuna. This fat-free shit? Look how much sugar’s in that.” Eilis looked at the label and gasped. “It’s the second ingredient right behind water. No wonder you’re so hungry all the time.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. The point is to not be hungry. Giselle fat-free’d and starved her way to two-hundred-something. Then she started to eat like that—” He pulled his head out of the fridge to point at the list he was making, then stuck his head back in, “and she dropped fifty, sixty pounds like a hot potato. Oh, and spuds are verboten, too. Strawberries. Blueberries. Raspberries. The thing was, she wasn’t hungry anymore. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, but if you were my woman, this bullshit would not happen.” And no matter how hard she fought him, she would be his woman.

  He closed the refrigerator door and started in on the freezer, still ranting. “I don’t think Giselle’s way works for everyone and she still craves things, but I’d rather see a woman put on a few pounds than go hungry reaching for some unrealistic, unattainable view of perfection that’s skewed to begin with.”

  Eilis’s voice was hesitant when she spoke. “How tall is your cousin?”

  Sebastian snorted. “Short. Maybe five-four, five-five.”

  “That still makes her overweight.”

  “You haven’t met her. The girl’s rock solid muscle, which is heavier, denser. Lots of muscle can go in a really small space,” he muttered, throwing out peas and frozen boxed meals. “Crap,” he said as he tossed a fat-free TV dinner over his shoulder and it sailed right into the trash can. “All crap. She lifts weights. Looks about thirty pounds lighter than she really is.” He shoved the freezer drawer shut, then poured the skim milk down the drain. Then he raided her cupboards and pantry. He needed two more trash bags. When he was done, he said, “Get your coat and let’s go. You drive.”

  Sebastian was startled out of his pique when he saw her car: a vintage British Jaguar.

  “Eilis,” he purred, “you and your rides. Bobcat. Jag with right steering. You got a Harley in there somewhere?”

  That made her laugh. “No. Not that brave.”

  Then he saw the very respectable luxury car that looked like everything else on the road. “Uh, the Jag?” he said when it became clear she didn’t intend for them to take it.

  “Groceries, Sebastian.”

  Of course.

  “Let me guess,” he said dryly once they were on the way. “You don’t drive your Jag to work because it doesn’t fit the Miss Logan persona.”

  “Exactly.”

  Once at the store, he directed her to the magazine section first and tossed a paperback in the cart. “Read that.”

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. “Dr. Atkins? I can’t—”

  “You will,” he said, his tone hard, and she gulped.

  He saw her wince at everything he threw in her cart except for the berries and vegetables and he didn’t care. That hungry thing of hers had to stop. He didn’t know how she could stand upright.

  She finally protested, but it took longer than he thought it would. “You’re awfully bossy today.”

  “I make my living being bossy,” he muttered, looking at the marbling on the steaks and trying to figure out what Giselle would buy. So he called her, explained the situation, and followed her instructions to the letter.

  “Sebastian,” Eilis said, a desperate edge to her voice once he’d closed his phone and put it back in his pocket. “I’m going to gain a lot of weight if I eat all this.”

  He stopped and stared at her, making his face hard and cold so she would know he meant what he said. She looked away. “Read that book,” he growled as he approached her. “I don’t know what it says because I don’t eat that way. Nobody cares about the weight, Eilis. It’s about you starving yourself while also kicking yourself in the ass over an arbitrary number on a scale.

  “I watched you at the Ford exhibit,” he continued, softly now, getting closer to her so that her shoulder was in his sternum and her hip was in his groin. He wanted her to know he had a hard-on for her, even standing in the middle of a grocery store talking about food. Her eyes widened and her face displayed innumerable emotions in rapid sequence, none of which he could pick out. She swallowed.

  “You were repulsed by the women who look like you and attracted to the women who looked like the Virgin. I can only think that you’re repulsed by your own body, which, by the way, there’s nothing wrong with.”

  He pressed his mouth against her ear, wrapped a hand around her other hip, pulled her closer to him so she wouldn’t mistake him. She closed her eyes, breathed deep.

  “You want to lose weight,” he continued on a whisper, his other hand now wrapped around the back of her neck so she couldn’t pull away from either his words or his cock. “What you’re doing is not only not working, you’re always hungry and miserable. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Do something differe
nt. Do you trust me?”

  Her eyes closed, a tear ran down her cheek, tracking her scar. “Yes,” she finally whispered.

  “Then trust me on this. Read that book. Do whatever it says, which I don’t really know. I only know how Giselle eats and which book she consults. Now, let’s check out and go to Subway.”

  * * * * *

  Eilis couldn’t believe this was happening to her, what he was making her do—yet she always had a choice.

  What you’re doing is not working.

  That was true enough. The less she ate, the more she gained. Slowly. Insidiously. An ounce or two per month.

  Do you trust me?

  Implicitly. He could fix anything.

  You were repulsed by the women who look like you.

  Yes, she was. She was repulsed by what she saw in her mirror, but the pictures in his sketchbook told her everything she needed to know about how he saw her. And he’d made sure she knew he wanted her by pressing her into his body, hard, ruthless, the way he did everything when he wasn’t getting his way.

  It was evening by the time they got to her home and she felt . . . good . . . with a full stomach. Sebastian gave her permission to eat—no, he demanded that she eat. So she got the sub she’d always wanted but never dared get. She ate half, savoring every bite.

  “Well, don’t have an orgasm in the middle of Subway, Eilis,” he’d said dryly after she’d taken her first bite, and she could only laugh.

  “You’re a chubby chaser, Sebastian.”

  “Mmmm, yeah, sometimes. Except you’re not chubby.” She blanched in fear he would feed her until she gained another thirty pounds. “And I like you the way you are, in case you didn’t get that in the store.”

  She could feel the heat flood her face and she ducked her head.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got a hard-on for you, Eilis, but what I’m trying to do today is to get you to like you the way you are and also not be hungry.”

  Once they emptied the car and put away groceries— “I’ll have Giselle write you up a list of herbs and spices she uses—the spice cabinet in my house is huge and smells incredible. Then we’ll go to Planter’s in River Market.”

  We’ll go?

  “Sebastian, I don’t have time to cook.”

  “Then hire someone.”

  That had never occurred to her, not once. It was the perfect solution.

  “What about the povitica I just made?”

  “We eat it for breakfast tomorrow. And then you won’t have to worry about it when you change up your eating plan.”

  For breakfast tomorrow?

  Sebastian built a fire in the massive fireplace and turned down the lights. Christmas music began when she turned on the radio and he brought the mulled wine that had been simmering all afternoon. Outside, it began to snow. He sat on the floor, his back to the couch in front of the fire and gestured that she should sit between his legs. Eilis hesitated. It was too intimate, too cozy and comfortable. She knew how he saw her, what he wanted from her. He was her trustee! And he expected to spend the night?

  “You’re not sleeping with me tonight,” she blurted.

  “No, I’m not,” he agreed with alacrity, an inscrutable expression on his face. “I figured you must have an extra bedroom or five.”

  “I didn’t invite you to stay.”

  He looked at her. “Do you want me to go?” he asked softly. “I will if that’s what you want.”

  “No,” she whispered without thinking, unable to bear the thought of his leaving now. Then she cleared her throat and attempted to cover with, “We didn’t finish the decorating because you got distracted rearranging my life.”

  He patted the floor in front of him again and this time she sat. “Chalk it up to the ADD.”

  “You use that as an excuse for everything, don’t you?”

  “Why change what works? Now hush and drink your wine.”

  Eilis didn’t know how long they sat like that: Christmas music, firelight, snow outside, and a Christmas tree only half decorated. She felt warm and safe in a way she had never felt before.

  David Webster had stolen everything from her: Her company, her body, her self-esteem, her soul—things she’d worked so hard to regain when they’d been stolen from her before, time and again. He’d stolen her nose and her face.

  Sebastian was hauling her out of bankruptcy. He’d cleared out her art and with it, her bad memories, so she could go into her vault again. He’d cleaned out her refrigerator and had possibly set her on a path that could alleviate the constant hunger that made her so nauseous and dizzy. He’d drawn her as he saw her, which was beautiful, and he’d made it more than clear that he found her desirable.

  He was a very, very beautiful and brilliant man who wanted her.

  May I kiss you?

  Furthermore, he wanted a relationship with her; that could be the only explanation for his behavior: No man who just wanted sex would treat her the way Sebastian treated her and no man had ever treated her that way before.

  Do you trust me?

  He’d made her think of her garden as a work of art, rendering it a haven again and, in essence, giving her that back, as well. And he’d brought her the one thing she wanted for her garden that she had such a hard time getting.

  Her biological parents had taken her life from her. Life had taken from her. David had taken from her.

  Sebastian gave. Then gave more. He filled her soul with humor and hope.

  The wine was long drunk by the time her grandfather clock chimed one, and she felt a light touch on her neck, then another. Sebastian was kissing her, butterfly kisses on her skin, and she closed her eyes, tilting her head, letting him taste her skin with his tongue. At that moment, she’d let him do anything he wanted to do to her, in front of the fire, cliché and all.

  He ran his hands over her hips and up her ribs, gathering her sweater over his wrists. She gasped at the touch of his hands on her bare skin. She raised her arms when prompted and he took her sweater off, slowly, gently. He caressed her belly and ribs, then his fingers went to the clasp between her breasts. She let him take her bra off. He continued to barely touch her neck and shoulders with his lips and tongue, even as he hefted her breasts in his big palms and they didn’t overflow his hands.

  Sebastian pushed her away gently then and took off his tee shirt. Pulling her back against him, she sighed to feel his bare chest on her bare back. They sat like that, Sebastian caressing every inch of her bare skin either with his lips or his fingers, her juices flowing, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, until the clock chimed 1:45.

  “If you can tell me which bedroom I can sleep in, I’ll let you go to bed. Alone,” he whispered in her ear.

  What if I don’t want to go to bed alone?

  “All right,” she whispered. “Up the stairs. First door on the right.”

  Again he pushed her forward gently and then rose, holding out his hand to help her stand, then turned her around. She was mortified that he would see her naked torso, even though she knew that he’d already drawn her nude and had imagined her correctly. She attempted to cover herself anyway.

  He pulled her hands away from her body and looked at her fleshy hips, her squishy belly, her big breasts. He reached out and took one in his hand; she gasped, but she didn’t move away. His touch was too exquisite, too . . . right.

  “Perfect,” he whispered and her heart stopped when he caressed her tightened nipple with his thumb. She looked away, down, uncertain what to make of his approval of all her faults.

  “Look at me, Eilis,” he murmured, and she did, reluctantly. “No, look at my chest. Look at my body.” So she did and she gasped. He was cut, as she’d imagined, complete with six-pack, but he had scars criss-crossing it. Lots of them, some more obvious than others, some fairly thick and at least one that seemed to have developed a small keloid.

  “What happened?” she breathed.

  He grinned proudly, wickedly. “Angry husband. And assorted other back alley
battles.”

  She didn’t know why that was funny, but a lot of things were only funny after midnight. She laughed and put her hand to her mouth because she knew she shouldn’t laugh.

  “The husband. Were you . . . ?”

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Caught us dead to rights. It’s all part of the Parisian artist thing.”

  “How old were you?” she asked, tracing a scar with her finger, unable to say why that scenario was arousing to her.

  “Oh, twenty-three or thereabouts. I actually didn’t know she was married. Not that it would’ve made any difference.” He looked back at her torso, her breasts, and she caught her breath again. He’d made her forget she was half naked. “Eilis,” he murmured. “Don’t ever let anyone—especially you—tell you you’re less than perfect.” He leaned in to drop a kiss on her forehead. “And I know from perfect.”

  * * * * *

  They ate the povitica for breakfast and drank the rest of the wine. Eilis let Sebastian feed her, not because he was forcing her to eat, but because she was beginning to like it when he fed her from his own hand.

  “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “You’ve spoiled me for anyone else’s povitica.”

  She felt warmth suffuse her at his praise. “Thanks.”

  They spent the rest of the day finishing the decorating, but it was slow going on purpose, because soon Sebastian would leave to go home, she’d have an empty house, and she wouldn’t see him again for a week.

  After the sky had dropped six inches of snow, Eilis took Sebastian out to her greenhouse and showed him how to put the plow blade on her lawn tractor. She let him plow the path from the greenhouse to the driveway, then the whole of the driveway. She laughed and laughed at how much fun he was having. Once that was done, she went in to flip a switch and said,

  “Sebastian, watch the driveway.” In about fifteen minutes, he started to laugh again. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” he asked as what remained of the snow melted away and the driveway dried as if no snow had fallen at all.