The Warrior Within

2. Am I Drooling?

2

AM I DROOLING?

I wake from a deep, nearly dreamless sleep to birdsong and a breathy purr. Whiskers tickle my ear. I squirm away and open my eyes to sunshine peeking around plum-colored blackout curtains covering the two windows over my head. Darcy’s whiskers trail up my cheek and I can’t help but smile, especially when the tips of his ears come into my peripheral vision. “Mornin’,” I reach out and scratch under his chin. The purr ends in a plaintive meow. “Now, that’s pitiful. Just a sec, little man.”

I roll to my side as he leaps from the bed with a solid da dump that belies his delicate frame. I notice it’s after 11. As I didn’t get in until close to 2 this morning, I am grateful I slept so late. I steadily push myself up until I’m perched on the side of the bed. It takes several deep breaths for my body to settle. Slowly, I take stock of my joints, tentatively moving my feet and legs around. My knee remains less swollen than it has been for the past two weeks, and I feel some of the normal stiffness in my lower back, but otherwise, it isn’t bad. Considering the jarring fall I took last night, I’m relieved. Frankly, I should feel much worse and I don’t really understand why I don’t. But I chalk it up to one of those quirks of a complex immune system. Half-heartedly I do some stretches a physical therapist once gave me to help loosen my back before shuffling to the bathroom, trying not to trip over my tuxedo as he weaves figure eights around my legs.

By the time I make coffee, my back and neck are less stiff. As I wait for the fragrant brew, I lean against the counter, thinking about last night. Jo. Oh my, was she provocative. The whole fantasy package. Strong, tall, intense, mysterious. And, since we are talking fantasy after all, rich doesn’t hurt, either. I mean, she had her driver take me home.

Oh, crap. My car. I yawn widely. Yeah, it can wait.

Darcy rubs against my leg and voices his frustration, interrupting my thoughts. “Oh, excuse me! Would you like some food, Darcy?” Laughing, I push away from the counter, and get the can I’d opened the day before. “All right, little guy, here ya go.” I scoop the remainder of the smelly food onto a small plate and place it on the cracked linoleum. He chews wetly, his deep purr rumbling out as he devours it.

The coffee pot beeps and in moments I have my favorite bright lavender mug fixed just the way I like it. My dad and I found the little pottery where I bought it on a weekend getaway to visit the caverns in Luray back when I was a teenager, and I’ve used it almost daily ever since. I alternate between sending small puffs rippling across the creamy surface and taking tentative sips of the slightly sweet brew as I pad barefoot through my small contractor-grade, off-white apartment.

I draw curtains and spin open the plastic blinds on the windows in the front living room. Two narrow panes bookend a large square picture window. The remaining two windows are in the only bedroom. The two sets of windows stand at either end of the narrow, carpeted apartment, allowing for a bit of a cross breeze when the wind is just right. One of the things I love about the apartment is being able to have so much natural light in both main rooms. The apartment isn’t much, but the picture window boasts a wide sill, deep enough to serve as a window seat which sold me on it. Plump cushions in pinks and oranges cover the sill. Before Darcy can settle in like a sultan, I do, enjoying the already slanting sun. I inhale deeply and let it out slowly. I’m so glad it’s not a work day. I finish my coffee daydreaming about Jo.

Deciding it’s time to get moving, I search for my purse, suddenly remembering I shoved it in the glove box when we got to the club last night. Grabbing my jeans from where I draped them last night, I fish out the card Louis gave me. The logo is vaguely familiar. In stylized black font, “JN Conglomerates” also rings a faint bell. Under that is his name and a phone number. No job title, no address, no email. I shrug, grab my phone and call.

He answers on the first ring, sounding very formal and very French. “Louis Bisset, at your service.”

I barely remember him speaking at all last night, so the musical accent takes me by surprise. Louis’ accent is thicker than Jo’s and I’m grateful he’s fluent in English. My five years of French classes were a long time ago now, and it’s true what they say—if you don’t use it, you lose it, and I’d be hard pressed to have more than a casual conversation now.

“Hi, Louis? This is Libby. Um, you brought me home last night?”

“But of course, mademoiselle. I have orders to be at your service today.” Humor in his voice lightens his formal words.

“You know, Louis, just a lift back to my car would be more than enough. I know it will take a chunk of your time. When would you be able to get me?”

“I happen to be in the area of your apartment complex and can be there at a moment’s notice. You have only to say when.”

“Well, then, how about give me 30 minutes?”

“But of course, mademoiselle. It will be my pleasure.” With that, he hangs up.

Feeling bemused, I head for the shower. I steal a few minutes to shave, which is a dire need, while I let conditioner sit in my hair. Afterwards, I comb out my towel-dried hair, but don’t take the time to style it. Instead, I pull the auburn waves into a thick ponytail that hangs down to my shoulders. Finished dressing in denim shorts and an extra-large T-shirt that reads, Don’t Believe Everything You Think, I grab my Asics and go out to the living room to put them on. I expect Louis would be on time, and, in fact, I am still tying my right shoe when there’s a knock on my front door.

I follow Louis, who’s wearing another smart black suit, to an idling SUV parked in my spot. I’m not a car girl—all I can tell is that it’s a huge Lincoln. He opens the rear passenger side door, so I slip into the cool interior and sink into the comfortable seat. If I’m not mistaken, this is the car I rode in last night, though I was too tired to appreciate its luxury at the time. I may drive an ancient Toyota, but I recognize quality. I smooth my hands over the soft leather and indulge myself in appreciation of the sleek polished wood and shining chrome. It’s pristine, and I’m glad I don’t have anything on the bottom of my shoes. I’d be terrified to drink, or, goddesses forbid, eat in here. After a few minutes of this awed inspection, I just stare out of the spotless windows, not sure what to say to Louis or if it’s even proper to talk to him. I feel way out of my element. I sit on my hands before I tell myself I’m being foolish.

My mind wanders and I wonder how late my coworkers got home. Dinner was fun, marginally, but I don’t think I will join them again. I heard things I didn’t want to know about people I work with and for. I hate gossip.

It’s a relief to interrupt my thoughts as I direct him to the parking lot where my car is parked. I make myself wait as he comes around and opens my door, and I thank him. He waits by the SUV while I get into my own vehicle and start it. I am reminded forcibly of my father, who always waits at the door to be sure my car starts, and so I feel a misplaced affection for the proper Louis. Inside my car, it is hot as blue blazes and I quickly bring down the windows. At this time of day, it will be a while before anything other than the winds of hellfire come out of my vents, so I don’t even bother turning on the feeble AC yet.

I call out my thanks to Louis and give him a little wave as I back out of the space. Raising a hand, he watches me pull out of the lot as he talks intently into a cellphone.

A part of me—okay, a big part of me—hoped Jo would show up instead of Louis today. I’m still feeling tired when I get home, so, stifling my disappointment, I make myself a sandwich and settle onto my squishy couch to lose myself in a book while I eat.

I wake with a start, the e-reader forgotten beside me, and Darcy darting to the bedroom. As I gather my wits and try to figure out what woke me, it comes again: three quick raps on my door. Surprised to have a visitor, I open the door to a young man in a white two-piece uniform. His flower-covered name tag reads Harry. He holds a white porcelain bud vase with a single white rosebud. The vase is wrapped with a wide royal blue ribbon, tied into an elaborate bow. The effect is stunning, and I find myself just standing there taking it in.

Harry clears his throat. “Are you Libby?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, this is for you.” He’s smiling as he offers it to me, and I take it automatically. He turns away, whistling.

I close the door in a daze. I’ve never gotten flowers before. Thrilled, I hold out the vase in front of me, turning it this way and that so I can look at it from all sides. The partially opened bud is spotless and the silken petals are edged in delicate peach. A card is tucked into the bow. When I pull it out, I just hold it for a moment, savoring the feeling. My name is in a slanting hand I don’t recognize. Not Dad, not Emma, not Sarah. I run through the short list of people most likely to send me flowers. Certainly no one I work with. Stumped, I decide to satisfy my curiosity. I pull a small card out of the envelope and in the same slanting script are the words:

For a most memorable evening, my humble gratitude. Until next time. -Jo

I pick my mouth up off the floor and read the card about fifteen bazillion more times. How did she know where I live? Oh…Louis. Of course. I feel a moment’s embarrassment for my low-rent apartment and raggedy car, but that chicken has flown the coop. I wonder if Louis was talking to Jo as I drove away.

I shrug. If it’s meant to be, and all that. I can’t do anything about it now.

And why would I? For heaven’s sake, I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not just because I feel unequal. I’m not ashamed. If Jo doesn’t like it, she won’t pursue me. I don’t like how much that idea saddens me. I need to toughen up. I am enough, just as I am, today, right now. I don’t need a relationship to make me whole. Yet, she did send me a flower. For a while, I just bask in the simple delight of it.

Sunday was uneventful. I spent the day resting, reading, and watching Roku on my TV—a typical day off for me. This morning, I awaken early, feeling refreshed. I’m off Mondays and don’t have a plan for the day. I’m watching a pair of fox squirrels chasing each other round and round the trunk of a maple in the apartment complex’s central yard when I have a sudden urge to go for a walk. A run would be better. A wistful urge to do what I used to be able to do punches me in the gut. I’m shocked to feel my eyes tear up. I blink several times rapidly to clear them and get moving.

I decide on what to wear while slathering toast with butter. I eat it, then force down my morning pills. I dress quickly, checking my appearance in the mirror. At 5’6”, with my curves, I cross the line into dumpy in baggy clothes. I admit, I like my hourglass figure. I just wish women I’m attracted to also did. So I never let it show anymore. I mean, what’s the point? Not that anyone will ever notice. Sigh.

Then Jo fills my mind. She definitely noticed. And she liked my curves. Or so she said. I look at the rose on my bedside table and smile.

I gather my hair into a high ponytail to keep it off my neck, enjoying how the periwinkle top complements my blue eyes and brings out the pink tones of my skin. Overall, my skin is somewhat pale and freckled (thanks to my red-headed mom), but smooth and clear. I don’t usually wear makeup other than a little mascara on my naturally long lashes, for which I can (and frequently do!) thank my father. Poor guy. He has endured comments about them since his boyhood.

I slide a black neoprene brace over my left knee. Tying my walking shoes poses a bit of a struggle with the morning stiffness in my lower back. As always, I manage.

Mourning my former runner’s body, I soldier on, promising myself a cold drink if I can make it to the gas station. No sidewalk means my back is increasingly unhappy getting jostled around on the uneven side of the road, and I’m happy I brought the cane. Summer traffic is sparse this time of morning and I enjoy birdsong along the way.

As they have been wont to do lately, my thoughts return to Jo. Friday night was one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. I wonder if I’ll see her again. I really, really hope so.

When at last I step through the gas station door, the blast of cool air dries my sweat and goosebumps spring up on my arms. I hobble to the drink fountain. I’ve just finished filling a cup with ice when a tall figure appears beside me, a little too close, an unforgettable sensual scent curling around me. Startled, I look up into intense green eyes.

It’s as if I conjured her from my thoughts and I have to blink several times to know she’s real. As if it were possible, she looks even hotter in the daylight. About my age, maybe a little older, she has strong cheekbones, an angular nose, and luscious narrow lips—am I drooling?—that are currently drawn up in a wide smile. She is completely yummy in a perfectly tailored tan suit accented with a dark green silk tie.

“Jo! I…what are you doing here?” My memory didn’t exaggerate. She is 100% my type. My fantasy in the flesh. My cheeks heat and I nervously tuck stray hair. I can’t take my eyes off her.

“I was pumping gas when I saw you walk in.”

I stare at her mouth. Oh, Gaia. I’m in trouble.

“Of course. Sure. I was hot so I was…getting a drink.”

“Oui?” My mouth goes dry as she reaches for me, pulls my ponytail forward, and runs her fingers through it. I shiver at the intimate contact. When she opens her palm to reveal the leaf she removed, I feel stupid. Get real. She wasn’t flirting.

I take two steps back and flounder for something to say. “Um, thank you for the rose. It’s beautiful.”

“I am happy you like it.” She steps forward and crowds my personal space, again, so close the fabric of her suit pants brush against my bare thighs. Her deep forest smell sets butterflies aflight in my abdomen. To my utter amazement, my panties dampen. My eyes widen and my cheeks grow warmer as I realize how turned on I am just by being near her. Geez, I know it’s been a long time, but pull yourself together, girl.

Jo’s eyes flash and a slow smile spreads across her face, and I could swear she knows exactly the effect she’s having on me. Instinctively, I know she has a wealth of experience, and I feel like an awkward rube. Her confidently sexy smile makes my n*****s tighten.

Determined to stand my ground this time, I clutch the cup until the plastic crinkles. Her hooded eyes are so passionate, I’m shaken. I’d swear I could detect a sheen of crimson, too, but I know that can’t be right. It’s just my overstimulated brain.

Before I can form any words, she takes a deliberate step back. I expect to feel relief when she leaves my personal space, but instead, it feels a little wrong, somehow. Gah! This is crazy.

“I am more sorry than I can say that I must leave you, but I am late for a meeting. It was…enlightening to see you again, belle. I look forward to the next time.” With those words, she spins on her heels and walks out before I can even process what just happened.