8
1031 Words
He smells delicious.
I hadn’t noticed that at the café. Most likely because all my other senses were too scrambled from looking at him to function properly. But now I’ve got his scent in my nose, and it’s just as delicious as the rest of him. The only sensible thing to do is chug the rest of my bourbon, which will sear his smell right out of my nostrils, so I do.
“Hello,” he says after a while, not looking at me.
I debate on a dozen different responses—including bolting from the room—before settling on a reasonably calm sounding, “Hi.”
I couldn’t even manage the two syllables that would be required for hello. This person is not healthy for me to be around.
But I’m a grownup who’s been through much tougher s**t than standing beside an attractive man, so after a quick mental pep talk, I speak to Mr. Delicious again.
“So apparently you really are an artist.”
A hint of laughter warms his voice. “Apparently.”
“I hear you’re very talented.”
He turns his head and looks at me. It feels like standing in the sun.
“Are you a fan of the arts?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean, sort of. It depends. Some arts more than others. Cinema. Music. Literature. Those I like. But I don’t know anything about art art. Like you do. Drawing and painting and such.”
He’s silent for a moment, probably wondering just how far advanced my brain cancer is. Then he says, “You don’t like me.”
I finish the rest of my bourbon and set the glass carefully down on the bar. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. That full body cringe of yours is doing the job pretty well.”
“That’s not dislike.”
It’s out before I can retract it, hanging there as dangerous and raw as an open wound.
“No?” says James quietly. “What is it, then?”
Shit. “I…don’t enjoy parties.”
“Hmm. So your obvious discomfort now and at the café yesterday has nothing to do with me.”
He sounds unconvinced. I really hate it when people are too observant. And by “people” I mean men. Why is he just standing there, looking at me?
Seeing me?
I say drily, “You are inconveniently perceptive.”
“I can pretend to be stupid if it will get you to look at me.”
I think about it, aware that I’ve made myself a vow to never again look his way, and also aware of the growing urge to do so. With his lovely smell in my nose and the rich timbre of his voice in my ears, my resolve is quickly crumbling. But I can’t give in without setting some boundaries.
“I’ll look at you if you promise not to ask to draw me or say anything weird about my eyes.”
“Deal,” he says promptly.
That was too easy. “And maybe try to dial down that stare of yours a few thousand notches.”
“Stare? I don’t have a stare.”
“You definitely do.”
His voice drops an octave. “If I do, it’s only because you’re such a pleasure to look at.”
“Ha! Flattery will get you nowhere, Romeo. I’m immune.”
I had to go with sarcasm so he didn’t notice the little shiver that went through me at his words, how all the hairs on my arms stood on end.
I’m in danger here. Serious, imminent danger of being charmed senseless by a handsome artist who arouses in me the dueling urges to run away screaming or strip naked and fling myself onto his torso and cling there like a crab.
My mind takes the opportunity to present me with a Technicolor memory of the fantasy I conjured up of him while m**********g. The fantasy of him f*****g me like a champ and slapping my ass.
“Bartender! Another bourbon, please!”
She returns and fills my glass again without giving me a reproachful look that I’ve ordered three drinks in as many minutes, bless her.
When she drifts away, James and I lapse into silence again, but this time he’s staring at my profile, and I’m wishing I had something to fan myself with.
When I don’t turn to look at him, he gently chides, “C’mon. You can do it. I promise I don’t bite.”
“Sure. That’s what all biters say.”
“Really? You know many biters?”
“Oh yeah. I’m kind of a biter magnet, to be honest.”
“How interesting. Do you work at a kennel?”
“Worse.” In publishing, where the piranha are only outnumbered by the sharks.
“If I guess your job right, will you look at me?”
“You’ll never guess. But go ahead.”
“You’re a writer.”
I whip my head around so quickly to stare at him I’m surprised my neck doesn’t break.
“There you are,” he says, smiling into my eyes.
Jesus, yes, here I am, all ten thousand degrees of me. My veins have begun conducting fire. “How did you know I’m a writer?”
“I heard Edmond introduce you to Gigi.”
“Heard? You were across the room. Talking with other people.”
“Yes, but I was paying attention to you, looking like you’d wandered into the seventh circle of hell, wearing this dress that nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Speaking of heart attacks, I’m having one. I can’t think of anything to say, so I simply stare into the endless blue depths of his eyes and hope he can’t see the smoke rising up in curls from my skin.
After a long, blistering moment, he murmurs, “Tell me I’m not the only one standing here feeling like I just stuck my finger into an electrical outlet.”
I say faintly, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
- Writer
