A Model Romance (True Love Book 3) (10 page)

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I really didn’t mean to frighten you. I was coming from the barber across the street, and caught a glimpse of the most beautiful red hair. I knew it was you; I’ve had dreams about this hair,” he reaches up and runs his fingers through the underside of my hair.

His voice calms me down, but his fingers in my hair revs me up. I must control these reactions if we’re going to take things slow.

“What were you looking for?” He smiles, knowing exactly what I was looking for.

“Well, I’m thoroughly embarrassed, but I was looking for
you
. I saw your car, but I wanted to make sure you were here. I got busy with Melanie today, and I forgot to call. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, really. I was hoping to hear from you, but this is an even better surprise. Come, let’s go inside.”

He smells like barbershop powder, which I never realized until this very moment how much I love.

It’s a quiet afternoon at the station, so he gives me the grand tour, including the fire trucks. He’s especially proud of these.

“When I transferred from the city, this baby was brand new,” he says, banging on the side of a gleaming blue and white fire truck. “I love this job.”

He looks genuinely happy, and it warms my heart.

“Want to see inside?” He hops up on the side, and pops open the large door. He helps me climb into the back of the cab, and then climbs in and over me to the seat behind the driver’s seat. For such a large guy, he’s incredibly limber.

There is equipment in every possible nook. It’s surprisingly large: Four people could fit back here easily. He gets on his knees in front of where I’m sitting, and takes my hands in his.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” he says, kissing the back of my hand, “I was really beginning to miss you. I had a great time yesterday.”

He peeks out the window, judges it to be all clear, and pulls me down to meet him for a kiss. His hands dig deeply into my hair, as he teases me with his mouth. He’s very slow and measured, taking his time to allow the kiss to do its magic. I open my eyes, and see that he’s watching me. We break our connection, and he holds my face as he gazes into my eyes. We stay like this for the briefest of moments, but the feeling is intense. I feel like I’m falling down a well, and I have no desire to grab on to anything to stop the fall.

“Can I come by your place tomorrow? I’m off early, and I’d love to cook dinner for you,” he says, all the while not breaking the intensity of our visual bond.

“I have a meeting with my agent at four, but it shouldn’t take very long. I’d love for my kitchen to be used for something other than heating up takeout leftovers. Thank you, Wick.”

* * *

Unbelievable.

I
never
have to go into the city, except this one day to sign some contracts. Wouldn’t you know it? The trains are delayed, and cabs are nonexistent. Even the Uber drivers are backed up by an hour or more.

I jumped the gun when I left the office, and told Wick I was on my way. He’s waiting in his car at my place now. I shoot him a quick text:
I’m sorry, I’ve never seen a backup like this. I have no idea what time I’ll make it there. There is a key in a fake rock in the plant to the right of the door. Go in and make yourself at home. I’ll keep you updated!

He responds:
Don’t stress, lass. I’ve got it covered. I’ll have a nice cocktail waiting for you when you arrive.

Come
on,
stupid train!

I finally drag myself to my door two hours late. My sympathies go out to everyone who does that on a daily basis. When I open the door, the most heavenly aroma fills my senses. Baked pasta: the models’ forbidden fruit.

“Wickham? I’m here, I final … ” he rounds the corner, and he’s carrying two wine glasses, filled with a blood-red vintage.

“All is well, you made it,” he says, handing me a glass and clinking it with his. “Here’s to long days that help us to enjoy the evening’s pleasures.”

“You Scots have a toast for everything, don’t you? I’ll definitely drink to that.” I swallow a large gulp. This isn’t the cheap stuff I buy at the grocery store for a Wednesday night, this wine is rich, and flavorful. “Whoa, that’s good. And what is that delectable aroma?”

I drop my things at the door, and follow him into the kitchen. He grabs my hand, links our fingers and kisses it.

“Well, I wasn’t quite sure if you’re fond of Haggis, so I made some baked ziti. Italian is my specialty,” he says, laughing knowing that anyone who’s not Scottish would never willingly eat sheep guts cooked in it’s stomach. Just knowing what it is makes me queasy.

“You’re correct, sir, I couldn’t even look at that stuff. I’m grateful you didn’t molest my kitchen with that recipe. I’m starving; is the ziti ready?”

“Just keeping it warm. You sit, I’ll plate.”

My dining-room table has never been used. I don’t really know why I bothered to buy one, except the space needed something there. Wick has set the table, complete with all the candles he could find, and it’s beautiful.

Later, I’m stuffed. I was so famished when I got home, that I overate his incredible food until it finally caught up with me.

“Wick, that was so delicious, I don’t know how to thank you. I’m sorry for being late and making you wait on me,” I say as I push myself up out of the chair like I’m nine months pregnant. I sidle over to the living room and plop down into the overstuffed couch, realizing I may never get out.

Wick sits down next to me, and places his arm around my shoulder. I snuggle into the nook of his arm, and fight every inclination to fall sound asleep. He hugs me into his body, and kisses the top of my head. It feels unusually comfortable for a second date, especially given the fact that all we’ve done physically is kiss.

“Tell me a story, Wick. Tell me about yourself and your family,” I say, my eyes closed, halfway to dreamland.

“My family moved to the states when I was seven …,” he pauses.

“And? Don’t leave me hanging,” I say groggily.

“My story is boring. True immigrant’s tale. I’d like to hear more about you. Did a photographer really call you fat? I would’ve punched his lights out,”

I hear him continue to speak as I fade into a blissful sleep.

When I wake up, I’m in my bed, and he’s gone. I get up to check the place, and everything is cleaned and put away. There’s a note on the kitchen counter.

“I didn’t want to wake you; you were sleeping so peacefully. I’m off work this weekend, and I’d love to take you out again. I’ll call you tomorrow/today. XX Wick  PS: Thank you for sharing your home with me.”

What a gentleman. I must have been knocked out cold for him to have done all of this without waking me up. Nothing like a big pasta meal for a sedative. I may as well go back to bed and try to dream of him and his food.

He’s busy at work the next few days, so we don’t get to see each other. I talk to him at night on the phone before bed, but I miss being around him. He calms me.

* * *

Wick and I went out four times over the last two weeks, and I’m over the moon about him. I only wish he could open up more to me more about his past. He offers bits and pieces, at my pleading, but that’s it. I’ve learned that his brother was an exceptional athlete. It played a large part in the decision for his family to move where they did, so Lachlan could have better opportunities to pursue sports. He was drafted by the Major Leagues in college, left to pursue a professional baseball career. Two years in, he was in a car crash, which ended his career.

That’s where Wick stops. He won’t tell the rest of the story. I don’t yet know about the extent of his injuries, or what he’s doing now. It’s like pulling blood from a stone. All in due time, I suppose.

For as little as I get from him emotionally, I don’t get much more physically, either. He’s attentive and incredibly sweet, but we’re no further along than we were at the beginning of our relationship to hitting the bedroom. We kiss, a lot, no complaints there, and we snuggle, but he pulls back when it gets too hot. I’ve seen and felt some pretty impressive erections through his pants, so it’s not physical, for sure. I know we’re proceeding slowly, but this pace is downright glacial.

Chapter 9

Wick and I each spent Christmas Day with our families, but today is our Christmas. I had no idea what to get him, but when I was shopping I saw a beautiful cashmere sweater the exact color of his eyes. Not very personal, but it’s all I could come up with.

He’s coming to my place tonight so we can celebrate. I spent yesterday with Mel, Brian and the kids, and our parents. I was Lou’s shadow all morning. She brought every gift under the tree to me to help her open it. She’s spoiled rotten, mostly my fault, and no one minded her being the queen of Christmas. I sent Wick selfies of her and me throughout the day, including a photo that Mel took of the two of us curled up together taking a nap.

Wick shares no word at all about how everything goes with his family. That is one tight lid he has on this particular drum. My crowbar is bent trying to get into it, but I know he has to be the one to voluntarily open it up.

He cooks us a delicious meal of steak and potatoes, with salad, bread and wine. On the outside, a simple meal, but the flavors are a complex blend of fine ingredients: The perfect metaphor for something else in my life, perhaps?

“Thank you, Wick, once again for a delicious feast that makes my lack of cooking skills even more humiliating. Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask, trying my best to build on my limited knowledge of one Wickham Dunmore.

“The fire station I worked at in the city. One of the older guys was an amazing cook, and he took me under his wing,” he says, very noncommittally. “Are we doing presents now? Because I can’t wait.”

He hands me a large envelope while we’re still sitting at the table. There’s a small red bow on the front.

“OK, this isn’t the puppy I asked for, is it?” I say, just trying to lighten the mood a little; he seems serious right now.

He’s also nervous. Now
I’m
nervous wondering what the hell could be in the envelope. I feel my hands shake a little as I open it. It’s a brochure for a resort in Wisconsin with spectacular views of Lake Michigan. It looks incredible.

“I’ve booked us for the weekend of Valentine’s Day. I hope that’s OK,” he says, taking a large sip of his wine.

Why is he so nervous? It’s just a weekend away for us. Then it hits me. Maybe he’s planning on this being the weekend we finally consummate our relationship. I walk over to the living room, to get more comfortable on the couch. He follows, with an unsure look on his face.

“Do you like it? Am I being too presumptuous about Valentine’s Day?”

“Wick, I love it. It’s such a kind gesture, and I look forward to it. I do have a question, though. Will we be in the same bed?”

May as well lay it out there, I’ve got nothing to lose.

“Well,
yes
. I know you’ve been frustrated with me, and I appreciate your patience. I have my reasons for behaving the way I do.”

“Will you share them with me? I’m just so curious, why the wait? I will admit, I do feel more aroused when we’re together. It’s like an extended foreplay.”

“I will, I promise, in my own time, OK? This whole relationship has turned my existence upside down, and I’m trying my best to manage pretty unfamiliar ground. I’m hoping that by February, I’ll be ready for this.”

I can’t help but notice he has an erection. Now I’m more confused than ever. I pretend not to see it, and thank him again for the gift. I rise to clear the dishes, and watch him out of the corner of my eye. He takes a long deep breath, eyes closed, and the bulge disappears. Wow. That’s some self-control.

I give him his sweater, and he loves it. He yanks off the tag, as I hold my breath begging it not to rip a hole, and throws it on. I never thought he could be more gorgeous, until now. It makes the color of his eyes absolutely pop from his head, and his dark hair look even darker.

“I’m afraid I’ve outdone myself and must insist that you wear that twenty-four hours a day,” I say, ogling him.

“What if I have a really good reason to take it off?”

Wait, what? Is he teasing me after the conversation before?

“Don’t toy with me, Wick. My poor, weak heart can’t take it.”

He stands up, slowly removes the sweater and pulls me up to standing in front of him. He takes my hands, and places them on the buttons of his dress shirt. I’m frozen for a moment. I’m not quite sure what the means.

“Unbutton it,” he whispers.