“Trust me, he’s joking. A regular barrel of laughs, this one is.” Carrying over a pitcher filled with dark beer, Dick set it down on the bar and poured two glasses. He and the stranger clinked their drinks together. After taking a long swallow, Dick nodded at me. “The Professor’s a wonder, isn’t she? Like a walking Encyclopedia. Should’a heard what she had to say about my name!”
His gray eyes intent on mine, the stranger sipped his beer. “She’s certainly something.”
“Have you two met before? Probably not,” Dick decided before either one of us could answer. “Professor, this fine looking gentleman is none other than Daniel Logan. Daniel, this is Imogen Finley. Just moved here a few weeks ago. She and her roommate are renting the old Woodward place up on Fitch Lane. You know, the one with the blue shutters.”
My mouth opened, but before I could protest the bartender repeating everything I’d said to him to a complete and total stranger, Daniel - either by accident or design - brushed his hand across my thigh and any words I’d been about to say were consumed by a burst of heat that ricocheted through my entire body like an electric shock.
Oh. My. God.
Was this what Whitney meant when she talked about having sexual chemistry with someone?
Mo, the guy was bald as a cue ball but the sexual chemistry we had going on… Jesus, you wouldn’t believe it! Like a freakin’ electricity storm.
I’d never understood what she meant before but now…now I think I finally did.
Wondering if Daniel had experienced a similar reaction, my gaze flew to his face and discovered he was frowning at me ever-so-slightly.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
Oblivious to the sudden tension radiating between Daniel and I, Dick clapped his hands together and jerked his head towards the opposite end of the bar where a growing crowd was jostling for position. “You two kids have fun. Duty calls.”
For one desperate moment after he walked away, I considered calling Dick back. His larger-than-life presence had managed to fill the silence. Now that he was gone it was more noticeable than ever, an awkward void that mocked my inability to manage even the simplest of conversations.
Logically I knew that if I could perform a lecture in front of three hundred of my peers I should have been able to manage small talk with one person, but then logic had never been very applicable where my social skills were concerned. Not knowing what else to do, I drained what remained of my wine in one long gulp and waited for Daniel to get up and leave. If past experiences were any indication, it wouldn’t take very long.
“Imogen is an unusual name. What does it mean?”
I stared at him. “Why?”
“Imogen means why?” Studying me over the brim of his glass, he took another sip of beer. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“No.” Visibly floundering, I waved my hand in the air and took a deep breath. “Imogen, roughly translated, means maiden or innocent girl. It was invented by Shakespeare for a character in his play Cymbeline, a romance based on the Celtic British King Cunobeline. Although some scholars believe the name was incorrectly translated when the play was committed to print and Shakespeare actually meant for the name to be Innogen, in which case he wouldn’t have invented the name at all but borrowed it from Celtic mythology.”
“I see.” Stormy gaze flicking down to the empty wine glass I was unconsciously strangling with both hands, Daniel gently eased it out of my grip and slid it to the far edge of the bar. “Do you want another?”
I shook my head rapidly from side to side, sending loose tendrils of hair whipping across my flushed cheeks. As someone who rarely drank, two glasses had me feeling more light headed than I would have liked. I didn’t want to know what would happen after three. “No thank you. I’m on a bit of a tight budget. Did you know wine has the highest markup in the food industry?”
“Did you know when a guy asks if you want another drink he’s offering to buy it for you?”
“Actually, I really wouldn’t - you’re laughing at me,” I accused, noting the faint twitch of his mouth as he bit back a grin. Finishing his beer, he reached for the pitcher Dick had left and promptly poured himself another.
“I am,” he admitted, “but only a little bit.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I don’t know, Imogen.” The way he said my name - like a smooth, sultry promise - sent shivers racing down my spine. He angled his body towards mine and lowered his voice to a dark, husky growl. “How do you want me to make you feel?”
I blinked at him. “Are you coming on to me?”
A flicker of surprise flashed across his countenance before he leaned back, lips quirking into a grin. “Do you want me to come on to you?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“When you do, let me know.”
Because I couldn’t think of a suitable response I didn’t say anything, and more silence descended upon us as Daniel drank his beer and I feigned sudden interest in a scratch on the edge of the bar. Now he’ll get up and go, I thought, but once again he proved me wrong.
“Have you had Allagash before?” he asked, sliding his beer towards me. “It’s brewed right in Portland, about two hours south of here. A guy named Rob Tod founded the brewery in 1995 and designed the brewhouse himself. See?” His grin was a little lazy and a lot sexy. “I know stuff too.”
Daniel certainly did know things, including how to flirt. Five minutes with him and I was already developing a rather serious crush. One based on all of the wrong reasons, principal among them pure physical attraction. “I’ll try it,” I said, nodding at the beer. “You’re not sick, are you?” The very instant the question was out of my mouth I wished I could take it back. Yes, I scolded myself silently. When a very hot man asks if you would like a sip of his beer, you say yes! You don’t ask him if he’s sick! Pull yourself together, Imogen. Right now! “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply-”
“No.” His expression softened, as though he found my question cute instead of offensive. “I’m not sick. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you in the Boy Scouts?” I asked as he held up three fingers.
“Only for three years. Turns out I had a problem with authority.”
I paused with the glass of beer halfway to my mouth. “Do you still have a problem with authority?”
Daniel’s grin was nothing short of wicked. “I think it depends on who you ask. Bottoms up, Imogen.”
I took a small, conservative sip. After drinking wine the beer tasted strong and somewhat bitter, albeit not wholly unpleasant. “It’s good,” I said, somewhat surprised as I’d never really liked any type of alcohol except for wine.
“It’s a Belgian ale. One of the better ones out there. Although I might be a little bit biased.” He took his beer back from me and drank, bottom lip touching the smudged imprint my mouth had left.
By accident, I wondered, or on purpose?
“So tell me about yourself, Imogen Finley. What do you like to do?” One brow, the color of it several shades darker than his hair, arched up. “Besides hang out at bars by yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not here by myself,” I said quickly. “I came with my friend.”
His second brow lifted. “And is this an invisible friend?”
“No, of course not.” I twisted around on my stool, searching for Whitney, but she had either stepped outside or was in the bathroom. “We’re roommates,” I explained, even though he hadn’t asked. “We went to college together. She’s from Florida.”
“And where are you from?”
I wasn’t accustomed to someone taking such a personal interest in me. Usually people asked the minimum amount of questions required to be polite, and quickly moved on. I understood why, and I didn’t blame them for it. I knew I was boring. Everyone thought so. Everyone except for Whitney…and now apparently Daniel. He could have gotten up and left at any moment
, but he hadn’t. Despite my awkward silences and stammering he was, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to figure out, genuinely interested in me. I could tell by the way he studied me so intently and kept his body turned towards mine that his attention wasn’t feigned. Despite his large frame he sat comfortably on his small bar stool, long legs kicked out in front of him. The only movement emanating from his body came from his thumb as he tapped it against the side of his glass, the edge of his nail clicking out a slow, absent rhythm.
Doing my best to mimic his relaxed state, I shifted my shoulder back and propped my elbow on the bar. A chunk of bangs fell into my eyes and I shoved them behind my ear, wishing for once I’d thought to do something different with my hair. Something cool. Something impressive. Something that said ‘mysterious sexy nymph’ instead of ‘dowdy looking professor’. “Pennsylvania. I’m from Pennsylvania. A little town about an hour outside of Philadelphia.”
“What’s it called?”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”
“Try me,” he invited.
“Pipersville.”
Daniel’s mouth twisted into a rueful grin. “Never heard of it.”
Not many people had. Tucked away in the middle of Bucks County, Pipersville was a hidden gem of historic farmhouses and rolling countryside only the obnoxiously wealthy could afford. I had grown up in one of those historic farmhouses. I had galloped through the rolling countryside on a horse worth more than most people’s cars. In Pipersville, I had been given everything money could buy except for the one thing it couldn’t: my parent’s unconditional love.
“You look sad,” Daniel said softly. I started when he skimmed his hand across the top of mine, and looked up to find his grey eyes studying me with a quiet intensity that made me wonder if he was capable of seeing through my shy exterior to the secrets I kept so carefully hidden. Secrets I kept from Whitney. From my mother. Even from myself.
“I’m not,” I said even as I forced myself to smile. “I was just thinking about home.”
Thankfully, Daniel didn’t press the issue. “What brought you to Camden?” he asked as he reached across the bar for the pitcher of beer and poured the rest of it into his glass. “I know lots of people who are leaving Maine, but I can’t say as I’ve met someone recently who’s moving in.”
“I am a-” I stopped short, biting back the P word just in time. Beneath my sensible green sweater my chest rose and fell as my heartbeat accelerated. I didn’t like to lie, but I also didn’t want to be labeled as what I so clearly was: a boring college professor whose entire life was devoted to her career. It may have been crazy, but for once I wanted to be the exciting girl. The adventurous girl. The girl who had a cool, out-of-box job that made people sit up and take notice. Not the girl who everyone wrote off as predictable and dull. “I’m a soccer coach.”
As far as jobs went it wasn’t exactly the most creative, but I’d never been very good at thinking on my feet. Given time, I could find out the answer to nearly any question or problem…but when given only a few seconds my brain bounced around like a ping pong ball, landing on the first thing it could think of. In this case, a soccer coach. Something I knew absolutely nothing about.
“Really?” Daniel set his beer down. “That’s awesome. Where at?”
“Stonewall College. I just started this summer.” Sorry Whitney. Surely she wouldn’t mind me stealing her identity for one conversation. After all, it wasn’t as though I was ever going to see Daniel again. I would never be able to come out to The Pier after tonight, but it was a small price to pay when I considered the alternative: absolute and complete embarrassment when I was caught in my big fat lie.
“I played some soccer in high school.”
Judging by Daniel’s physique, I couldn’t say I was surprised, even though I’d been secretly hoping he knew as much about the sport as I did. Beginning to feel more than a little bit ridiculous for telling such a senseless lie, I opened my mouth to come clean…only to abruptly shut it with a hard snap of my teeth as his hand brushed across my thigh a second time.
I actually gasped, a tiny hiccup of sound that drew Daniel’s gaze down to my mouth. He lingered on my lips far longer than he should have and even though he wasn’t touching me - even though there was a good eight inches of empty space between us - his unyielding stare was far more physical than any ‘accidental’ touch I’d felt so far.
“Sorry,” he said, even though the glint in his eyes said he was anything but when he finally lifted his head. “Lost my balance.”
“No you didn’t,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyebrows pushed up against the brim of his black knit cap. “I didn’t?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.” And I think you’ve done it countless times before. His movements were too perfect not to have been practiced on a dozen other unsuspecting girls just like me. “I think you do it all the time.”
Daniel studied me a moment longer, expression completely inscrutable, before in one smooth, perfectly balanced motion he stood up and pushed in his bar stool. “It was nice to meet you, Imogen Finley.”
He was leaving. I didn’t know why I felt so disappointed, not when he’d stayed and talked to me far longer than most men would have. “It was nice to meet you as well.” I looked away, training my gaze down at my lap where my fingers were linked in a tight knot. Oh well. What had I expected? That he would ask for my number? I may have taken Whitney’s job, but I wasn’t her. She was the one hot guys like Daniel asked out. Not me.
Never me.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I ordered sternly. He’s just a man you met in a bar. A man you’re never going to see again.
If only I knew how wrong I was.
CHAPTER THREE
Day Two
I woke up the next morning with a headache. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to stare blearily at my reflection in the mirror.
“Two glasses of wine,” I complained to the frizzy haired, red-eyed woman looking back at me. “Two glasses of wine, and this is what you look like which is why we don’t got out on a weeknight.”
“Are you talking to yourself again?” Looking equally the worse for wear, Whitney slipped in behind me and made a beeline for the toilet. “You know that’s weird, right?”
Turning on the cold water, I wet a washcloth and carefully dabbed at the circles under my eyes. “You know we have a second bathroom, right?”
“But it’s all the way downstairs.”
“You act as though it’s a mile away.”
“When I’m this hungover, it might as well be. Jesus Christ.” Finishing her business, Whitney flushed the toilet and came over to stand beside me. “We look like shit.”
Studying our faces in the mirror, I was forced to agree. “Going out last night was a bad idea.”
“Going out last night was a great idea.” Grabbing her toothbrush, Whitney applied a liberal amount of toothpaste and began briskly brushing her teeth. “I fink I fet my next foyfriend,” she said, her words coming out gargled as white suds leaked out of one side of her mouth. “His fame is Feorge.”
Stepping away from the spit zone, I pulled back the vinyl shower curtain and twisted the silver handle all the way to the left. After a brief hesitation water sputtered out, picking up momentum as force built in the pipes. I knew from experience the water was freezing cold and needed at least five minutes of run time before it started to warm up. Oblivious to the nuances of old houses, Whitney and I had called our poor landlord a dozen times before we figured it out.
“Do you mean George?” Selecting a beige towel from the shelf above the toilet, I hung it up on a tiny metal hook next to the shower and wondered how long my roommate planned on remaining in the bathroom. We may have been best friends, but I drew the line at stripping naked in front of her.
“Yeah.” Pulling her hair back, Whitney spat in the sink and used the washcloth I’d dampened to w
ipe her mouth. “George. Can’t remember his last name.
“Clooney?” I suggested dryly. My roommate’s taste in older men was well known and, courtesy of the dating blog she wrote in her spare time, well documented.
“Did you just make a joke? You did!” Whitney clapped her hands together. We both grimaced as the sound echoed in the tiny bathroom. “Hungover Mo is way funnier than normal Mo.”
“Har har,” I muttered. Sticking a hand under the showerhead, I felt the water. It was warm, and quickly on its way to becoming hot. “How long are planning on staying in here?”
“I’m on my way out. Leave the shower on. I’ll hop in after you.”
I waited until Whitney had shut the door behind her before I undressed and stepped over the edge of the tub. Facing away from the showerhead I closed my eyes as hot water sluiced down over my body, making quick work of my headache. As I shampooed my hair and worked conditioner into the ends, I went through my schedule, a silent recitation of the day’s events I’d been doing since I was thirteen and my mother coolly informed me it was time I ‘became responsible for my own affairs’. Most thirteen-year-olds probably would have balked at the idea of scheduling their own school pick-ups, but I hadn’t argued.
I never did.
6:00AM wake up, check
6:10AM shower, check
6:25AM hair, makeup, dress
7:00AM arrive at the college
7:15AM breakfast, review notes for first class
8:15AM history of english literature
10:45AM one hour prep period
11:45AM lunch
12:30PM american literature
3:00PM faculty meeting
4:00PM history of english literature
6:30PM review notes
8:00PM arrive home, eat dinner
8:30PM work on thesis paper
10:00PM bed
I ran through my schedule three separate times before I was satisfied every hour of the day was being properly utilized. Stepping out of the shower, I dried my hair, wrapped myself into the towel I’d hung up, and shouted to Whitney that the shower was free. Head bobbing to the loud music blasting out of her cell phone, she passed me in the hallway and slapped my butt, scooting inside the bathroom and slamming the door before I could retaliate.
Learning to Fall Page 3