by Poppy Parkes
* * *
Derek winced as he checked his phone yet again. He felt like all he'd been doing all weekend was checking the damn thing. He had texted Ruth about an hour ago, before he went to pick out flowers, as Padme had directed. And – nothing. No response. He didn't know if she'd even received the message.
Now he was standing outside her apartment building, clutching the opulent bouquet of white roses and a bar of organic dark chocolate tied up with his best imitation of a bow, staring at the door and wondering if he had the balls to do this. Or, maybe, if he had the balls to walk away.
For what felt like the millionth time since meeting Ruth, Derek rolled his eyes at himself. How the hell was this even happening? He was definitely not the relationship kind of guy. It was just too messy, too vulnerable feeling.
And yet, here he was, prepared to grovel for the favor of a woman he barely knew, but who he somehow knew he wanted to know.
“Whipped,” he muttered to himself, remembering Padme's word. “Damn it, I may be whipped, but I am not a wimp.” He drew himself up to his full height and let himself into the building, making his way to her apartment's door.
* * *
It was the last thing she wanted to do, but Ruth forced herself to roll out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked, propping himself up on an elbow.
“The shower,” she said, smiling. “It's so late.”
“But it's Sunday.”
“Exactly.” She sighed. “It's Sunday, and I've got grading to do.”
“Ah, yes. The first graders. Duty calls.”
Ruth leaned forward to give him a sensual, slow kiss. “I'd much rather stay in bed with you,” she murmured, keeping her face close to his, “but I'll regret it if I don't get going.”
Sam gave her a quick peck. “I get it. Can't say I'm so happy about it, but I get it.”
“Care to join me in the shower?” A coy smile darted across her lips.
He shook his head. “I want to . . . but I know that if I go with you, we will end up right back in bed. You go shower. I'll join you next time. How about I get some breakfast going?”
She grinned. “You bet.”
Ruth left Sam reaching for his clothes that she'd so brazenly helped him out of the night before. She slipped into the bathroom, turning the water on and stepping into its biting flow.
As she piled her curls on top of her head and massaged shampoo down to her scalp, she bit her bottom lip in excitement. Sam had said that he'd join her in the shower next time. There would be a next time!
She had forced herself not to think about the future when she'd invited him out, keeping her eyes only trained on the single night ahead. But morning had come too quickly, and there was something so kind about him.
But what about Derek? She could practically hear Padme, Cecilia, and Maddie grilling her as she imagined telling them about Sam.
And what about Derek? She'd known him for less than forty-eight hours, and in that time she'd already had two major red flags flapping insistently in her face regarding him. Sam felt . . . she cringed at the word “safer” as she slathered conditioner on her tendrils, but it was the truth. He was handsome in his own awkward, hipster sort of way. And he was a poet. He got major bonus points for that. Derek didn't even know she wrote.
And yet . . . as tender as she felt toward Sam, she didn't find herself drawn to him in the same way she was drawn to Derek. With Sam, she could expect a quiet life of words and reading and gentle caresses and snuggling on the couch. But with Derek, she felt like she could expect anything and nothing, like all bets were off. And as much as she understood that he wasn't exactly long term relationship material, she wanted Derek in a way she didn't want Sam.
“Stop it,” she told herself, soaping her smooth skin with peach-scented body wash. It's not like she actually had a relationship with Sam. Or Derek, for that matter. There was no use fantasizing about, or comparing, the two.
Yet.
The word sprang into her mind, and she clasped her arms tight around her own body with happiness. As uncertain and rather terrifying all of this should be, she couldn't help feeling anything other than excited to have a sweet, handsome guy in her kitchen cooking her breakfast.
I really am living a romance novel, she thought. And today, it's not half bad.
* * *
Standing outside her apartment door, Derek raised a wrist and rapped firmly on the door, then wiped his clammy palm against his jeans. He detested how nervous he felt. How the hell do people do this romance thing all the time? he wondered. It seemed improbable that so many people could be pursuing mates in such a way and remain even remotely sane.
The door swung open and he drew a deep breath to begin his plea to Ruth – only to let it out in a rush when he saw an angular blonde man standing shirtless in the doorway.
“Oh,” he said, deflated. “Sorry. I must have the wrong place.” He didn't know how he'd managed to screw that one up. He'd checked the address Padme had given him until the paper grew tired and wilted from over-handling.
“Are you looking for Ruth?” the man asked. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She's in the shower. Should be out soon.”
“The shower,” Derek said in a flat voice, unsettling realization beginning to dawn.
“Yeah. Do you want to come in?”
“Come in?” Derek squinted at the other man, wondering what he had to do with the girl he was here to win over with chocolate and expensive roses. “Yeah. I think I will.”
“Cool.” The blonde said easily, stepping back as Derek crossed the threshold. “I'm Sam. Want some breakfast? I was just making scrambled eggs.” He led the way into the kitchen.
“I'm not hungry.”
“Coffee?” Sam pointed at the coffee pot that was steaming from the freshly brewed near-black liquid, apparently oblivious to – or at least unaffected by – Derek's growing fear and hostility filling the small kitchen.
“I'm fine.”
“Well, help yourself if you change your mind,” said Sam, shrugging as he turned his attention back to the eggs simmering gently in their pan on the stove top. “Uh, what's your name?”
“Derek.”
“Nice to meet you, Derek.” Sam smiled at him, ducking his head a little.
“So, Sam,” Derek said, trying not to sound like he was spitting the words through gritted teeth, “how do you know Ruth?”
Sam's cheeks grew pink for a moment, the flush fading as quickly as it had come. Derek scowled. They slept together, he thought. He could practically smell it on the other man. “Well, we're both writers, so I guess you could say that's how we met.”
“Writers,” repeated Derek. “I see.” He felt twin flashes of knowing and nausea sear through him. He'd been right – he knew that teaching wasn't Ruth's true passion. Writing was, apparently. And, also apparently, she'd been playing games with Derek. And here he was, ready to grovel, to do what he never would have dreamed of doing before he met her . . . and she'd just been screwing this writer.
“How about you?” Sam asked, eying the flowers Derek still clutched in his fist, the thorns cutting through the paper they were wrapped in to his palms.
“Funny you ask, Sam,” replied Derek, voice clipped. “We're together. Or at least, I thought we were.”
“Uh, together?”
“Yes,” Derek said, relishing the puzzled look on the younger man's face. “Which makes me very curious as to what you're doing here, in the morning, shirtless and making breakfast for the woman I brought flowers and chocolate for.”
“I – well, we just met last night. She didn't say – I mean, I never would have – I'm really sorry, man,” Sam said, the half-cooked eggs forgotten, blood fleeing the blonde man's face.
“Yeah. I'm sorry, too.” Derek set the flowers and chocolate bar on the kitchen table. He shook his head. “You know what, just – forget it. I'm going to go.”
“What do you want me to tell her?” Sam asked, following him t
o the door. “About the flowers?”
Derek's anger joined his hurt with a sick feeling of self-disgust. “Whatever you want,” he said, opening the door. He paused, turning to face Sam. “Tell her the flowers are from you. I don't give a damn.”
Derek turned and slammed the door in Sam's face, relishing the impact's vibration jolting through the soles of his shoes.
He strode out of the apartment building and down the sidewalk as fast as he could, eager to get as far from this place of his shaming as possible. Derek felt his lip curling in self-derision. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for this woman, couldn't believe how he'd tied himself up in knots over her . . . and she'd gone out and fucked some other guy while he was in agony.
I knew this was a bad idea. Derek shook his head at himself, pounding the pavement, not seeing the city blocks slide by him. I knew it.
This was his fault. He never should have let Ruth in, let the way she caught his eye catch at his heart, too. He felt like an idiot for letting himself being taken in like this. So amateur. There was no way he'd make that mistake again. Ever.
* * *
Ruth wiped the water from her skin and wrapped her hair in a towel, then tiptoed back to the bedroom, smelling something delicious wafting from the kitchen.
“Mmm, whatever that is smells great,” Ruth called to Sam as she opened her closet. “I'll be right there.”
As she scanned the clothes hanging in the closet, a moment of indecision gripped her. What to wear to tantalize Sam? Something cozy or sexy, or something else entirely?
But then, she remembered, I've already tantalized and won him over, just by being myself haven't I? So she threw on her faded and inordinately comfortable Star Wars t-shirt, a soft gray thing stamped with the image of Boba Fett, the bounty hunger, and then slid into her favorite pair of jeans.
Tying her tendrils into a damp bun on the top of her head, she walked into the kitchen to see Sam pushing eggs around a pan. “Yum,” she said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “Did you add salsa?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Something in his voice caught at her, making her frown. She stepped back, moving to his side so she could see his expression. About to ask him what was up, the words died on her tongue when she saw a massive bouquet of white roses on the table, partially obscuring what looked like a bar of chocolate.
“Did you . . . ?” she began, mind calculating. She didn't take that long of a shower. Where could he have gotten the flowers and chocolate from? “Did you . . . order me flowers?” A smile played around her lips, loving the surprise even though she couldn't figure out the logistics of its possibility.
“I didn't.” That same something was in Sam's reply again, and this time she could see his brow furrowed in – what? Anger?
“Then how –?”
“They're from your boyfriend,” Sam spat out, throwing the spatula he was using down and moving the pan of cooked eggs off the hot burner. “You know, the one you didn't tell me about.”
“My boyfriend?” Ruth asked, shaking her head. What the hell was he talking about? “I –”
“You made a cheater out of me, Ruth.” Sam crossed his arms, turning to face her, his hazel eyes burning with hurt, his voice no less powerful for its lack of volume.
“No –”
“And maybe,” he continued, ignoring her protestations, “that doesn't matter to you. But it matters to me. I do not want to be a cheat, and you made me one without telling me. That is seriously not okay.”
He headed for the bedroom, shoulders slumped. Ruth followed after him. “Sam, please. I'm really sorry . . . but I honestly have no idea what you're talking about.”
He snorted. “Well, the man who brought the chocolate and flowers seemed to know all about it.”
“Man? What man?”
“I don't know, some guy who looked like he could model for a living.” Sam pulled a shirt over his head. “His name was, I don't know, Dylan or Derek or something.”
Ruth froze. “Derek? Derek brought the roses and chocolate?” She stared hard at Sam, trying to figure it out. How could Derek have brought it, after he'd betrayed her yet again?
“Yeah, I guess. Things sounding a little more familiar now?” Sam retrieved his shoes from the corner where he'd kicked them along with his socks, starting to tug them on.
“No, not really.”
“I don't understand why you're lying to me about this, Ruth. I know you're dating him. Stop denying it. It's kind of ridiculous.”
“I'm not lying,” she said, hands on hips. “Yes, I know Derek, but we are certainly not dating. I don't know what he said to make you think that –”
“How about, 'we're together'?” Sam snorted.
“Well, we are not dating. Not as far as I know, anyway. We met two nights ago, and in that time he's apparently been with two other women. And,” she added, veins throbbing with the injustice of the situation, “just to be clear, neither one of those women were me.”
Sam pursed his lips, staring at her long and hard. “Fine,” he said at last. “So, why'd this guy show up on your doorstep with presents if you're not together?”
Ruth shook her head, shoulders going limp. “That,” she said, her brain tumbling with possibilities, each as mystifying as the last, “is an excellent question.”
Chapter 6
Ruth was laying a sheet of morning work on each of her students' desks when Padme swung into the classroom's early Monday morning quiet.
“So,” Padme's voice filled with anticipation, “you have got to tell me how this weekend went.”
Ruth paused in her work, unsure of what to say. “It was . . . interesting,” she finally said, continuing on her route.
“Interesting how, exactly? I have been tied up in knots, waiting to hear what happened with Derek. And I'm really hoping for a saucy, coital tale that is completely inappropriate for work. So, dish.”
Finished passing out papers, Ruth leaned against one of the desks, shrugging. “Well, I guess there was some sauce,” she began slowly.
Padme squealed, stamping her feet in excitement. “Yes! That is amazing.”
“Um, that probably depends on how you define amazing.”
Her friend frowned. “That sounds decidedly less coital than I was expecting. What happened?”
Ruth shrugged. “Well, I met this guy. A poet, if you can believe it. His name is Sam and –”
“Wait. Wait. Are you telling me that said sexiness happened with not Derek?”
Nodding, Ruth continued, “I met him at the coffee shop I went to write at on Saturday night. And he was really nice, and . . . I don't know what got into me, but I basically invited him home with me We went out for a couple drinks, and then after . . . well, you know. The coital tale.” Ruth felt herself blushing.
Padme gaped at her. “That is insane.”
“It is so insane. And in fact, I only even met him because he was getting on my nerves.”
“So . . . in the space of twenty-four hours you, who had all but sworn off men, attracted two guys and slept with one of them?”
“Um, yes?” Ruth said, unsure if this was a truth she wanted to own up to.
But Padme was practically jumping up and down. “That is amazing!” Then she hesitated, the frown returning. “But wait. You'd said that maybe it wasn't quite as amazing as I think.”
Ruth sighed. “Well, Sam and I spent the night at my place. And then in the morning, when I got out of the shower, Sam was mad and there were these white roses –”
“Uh oh,” Padme breathed, forehead creasing.
Ruth continued, “Apparently, Derek of all people had stopped by. Can you imagine? What in the world would he be doing at my apartment?”
“Well,” said Padme slowly, “why wouldn't he be? I mean, you said you gave him a chance to prove himself, right? On Saturday?”
“Yeah, and I called him that evening, like you told me to. And you'll never guess what happened.”
&nb
sp; “Um, I think I can.” An uncomfortable expression spread across her friend's face.
Ruth narrowed her eyes, taking in the guilty twist of Padme's lips. “What do you mean?”
“I am so sorry, Ruthie.” Padme grabbed Ruth's hands, squeezing tight. “I ran across Derek when I was heading home Saturday night. And he told me about everything, and it's my fault he showed up at your place with roses. I told him to.”