In Pursuit (14 page)

“It’s just pasta.”

“The peanut gallery assures me that you’re a wonderful cook.” He raises an eyebrow, making my lips twist into a half smile at the expression.

He shrugs off his suit jacket and yanks at his tie, draping them both around the back of a barstool. My fingers twitch with need, wishing we were close enough that I could unbutton the top buttons on his shirt and smooth my hands across his broad shoulders.

“Need help?”

By the way he moves around, I can tell he’s slightly unsure of himself. He can’t keep still, tapping his fingertips on the bar, watching every move I make. It’s nice to see he’s human, and not the superhero I built him into in my mind.

“How about you set the table,” I suggest while stirring the sautéing vegetables.

Harris clears his throat, and then
I’m
nervous, wondering what’s about to happen between us.

“Sure. What do we need?”

I can’t contain a soft laugh. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He shakes his head, giving me a sheepish shoulder shrug. I instruct him to take the napkins, silverware and water glasses to the table. We work in silence, and a few minutes later dinner is ready. I’m sipping from a stemless wine glass when he moves into the kitchen and reaches around me to grab the two plates I set out. When his fingertips brush against my waist I splutter, spilling droplets of red wine all over my baggy blue top. I immediately put the glass safely on the counter to avoid further spillage. He freezes, then takes a step back so we are making eye contact.

Mortification blooms, and I put my hands in front of my face to hide. This is the topper on a delicious, three tier banana cake of ridiculous situations that seem to happen every time he is near me. My shoulders start to shake with silent laughter, then I’m full fledged chuckling. I drop my hands from my face and brace one on the counter as I bend at the waist, laughter taking me so hard that my stomach hurts.

When I look up, the sight I see strips the amusement right out of me. Harris is smiling, a huge, shiny grin that lights up his slate-colored eyes. The gesture reveals two rows of brilliantly white teeth, aligned perfectly, and eyes that crinkle at the corners with the shift in expression.

He probably never had braces.

He’s the drain and I’m circling, circling, unable to resist him. If it weren’t for the fact that I already made a fool of myself with the wine, I might have swooned right at his feet.

“Wow,” I say softly.

The grin slips off his face, worry replacing it. “What’s wrong?”

“You really should smile more often. It’s, well, this word doesn’t do it justice, but it’s the only one I can think of; beautiful.”

It’s back again, this time full of the sexy as sin Harris arrogance. “If you like my smile, then we’ll need to spend more time together, so you can draw it out.”

More time with Harris tops my wish list.

He declines my offer for wine and we sit at the table, staring at each other. I break the moment and begin to eat my pasta primavera, eyes darting up to see if he is watching me while I eat. He is.

“Did you notice any new subscribes to
Your Perfect Place
?” he asks, innocently. His lips are distracting me. How does he do this? Oh, right. When he told me that he would kiss me and then just grazed my forehead… Harris watches me expectantly.

“No,” I grate out. Why am I upset?
Because I want him to throw me up against the wall and screw my brains out, and I have no idea how to get him to do that.
“Why?”

“I get it in my inbox every morning,” he announces cheerfully, taking a swallow from the water glass.

“And?”

“My photos from the textile place turned out great. Although, I must admit, I was disappointed that I didn’t get a photo credit.” Our eyes connect, and I can tell by the twinkle there that he’s kidding. “Next time you invite me along to take pictures, I must insist that you drop my name as photographer.”

I shake my head at his statement. Where did this playful side of Harris come from? If you had told me after the first time we met that he would tease me at this very table only a few days later, I would have instructed you to get an MRI and make sure everything’s working properly.

“Maybe,” I say, noncommittally, but inside I’m cheering.

He wants to spend more time with me!

We finish the meal in comfortable silence. When he is done eating, he leans back in the chair and makes a satisfied groan. I wonder what other groans sound like from him, maybe after he’s come inside of me.

Who are you?
I ask myself in shock. I never
think things so dirty.

“The peanut gallery was right. That was fantastic.”

“I’ll cook for you any time.”

He doesn’t respond to that comment, but a ghost of a smile crosses his lips.

Harris rises to remove the dishes, insisting on washing them. When he’s done, we’re both grinning like two goofs at each other.

“Can I get your number?” I ask quickly. He can’t get away without giving it to me. I need a way to get in touch with him, to find him in planned circumstances instead of happenstance.

“No.” He barks out the word, and I flinch backward. He shakes his head ruefully, walking back to the bar stool to grab his jacket and tie. “May I have your number, Edith? I would like to call you sometime.”

I cover my mouth as a giggle worms its way out. He pulls his state of the art phone from his pants pocket, waiting patiently as I rattle off the digits.

We’re standing almost toe-to-toe next to the kitchen bar.

“Until next time,” he says softly. He taps a finger against my nose, that slight smile crossing his lips again. He turns swiftly and strides toward the door.

In shock, I stay in my spot until I realize that I want to ask him something else. I race after him, ending up at the door just as it closes after him. I yank it open and call out to him. “Harris!”

He pauses, looks over his shoulder, a glimmer sparkling in his eyes.

“You – you said I humble you. What did you mean by that?”

He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Good night, Edith. Sleep tight.”

And then he turns the corner and is gone toward his chariot that waits patiently for him on the front drive.

Much later that night, the apartment is still devoid of sounds. A jingle from my phone alerts me to a text message. I swipe across the screen to open a message from a number I don’t know. The message makes my jaw drop open, and renders me utterly speechless.

312-555-0987: Because you’ve shown me that there’s a woman out there who can bring me to my knees. Never thought I’d see the day.

Eddie: I don’t know what to say

Harris: Goodnight edible Edith

Eddie: Goodnight happy Harris

T
he Elevated Train comes to a smooth stop at the Sedgwick station. One more to go, and then I’m at Amanda and Peter’s stop. I’m carrying a couple of mood boards that I put together for the first guest room. Amanda wants to go one at a time.

An incoming text message disrupts the music I’m listening to - from Harris!

Harris: I’m in the middle of a never ending conference call. I need to smile so tell me what you’re doing.

Giddiness rolls off me in waves, I am surprised that the other passengers on the train aren’t covered in my glee.

Eddie: On the EL, going to Amanda’s. Are you smiling yet?

He responds immediately.

Harris: No! I’m frowning. Why are you taking the train by yourself? I’ll send Claire’s driver to pick you up.

The train arrives at my stop, and I depart the platform. Once I descend the staircase I loiter in the station to continue the conversation.

Eddie: Now that would make me frown. Please don’t do that. I can take the train by myself on a Tuesday morning.

Harris: Don’t be stubborn.

Eddie: Don’t be bossy.

The messages stop, so I continue on my way to the brick house. Just as I am about to press the doorbell, I get another text.

Harris: Don’t frown. I don’t ever want to make you frown.

Quickly, I respond.

Eddie: Good thing I’m grinning like a dope.

There’s a pause again, so I lean into the bell. Maybe that was too dorky. I think the rules of dating dictate some aloofness in the opening stages. Oh, well.

When I hear footsteps nearing the entryway, another alert vibrates.

Harris: Let me take you out tomorrow for the near miss.

Amanda pulls the door open, and I drop my phone back into the front pocket of my bag. Her face is a mess of mascara and tears. The hair that usually falls perfectly is barely brushed. She’s in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, the opposite of the polished woman I’ve seen every other time we met.

“Hi,” she says softly. “Maybe now isn’t a good time.” She looks like Scarlett O’Hara after Rhett has left her for the last time – devastated.

“Amanda, forgive me for being so forward, but are you alright?”

Her lips tremble but she keeps tears from spilling onto her cheeks. “How could you tell?”

“Do you want to talk?” I wave the boards up between us. “I can also provide a distraction.”

She steps back in her home, opening the door wide enough for me to enter. Instead of passing her by, I put down my things. Then I open my arms, and she falls into them. Though she is much taller than me, she curls against me and I hold her protectively. I use my foot to kick the door shut behind us so prying eyes don’t get too much of a show.

Amanda clings to me, her body quaking. We stand there, me steadfast and her on the brink of something bad, when she suddenly straightens. Swiping a hand across her cheeks, she leads me silently into the kitchen where Paloma watches us with concerned eyes. Two teacups wait for us at a round table made of distressed wood.

Amanda stares at the beverage gloomily when we sit down. When she speaks, my stomach turns at the revelation.

“I found something in Peter’s drawer this morning.” She rummages in the pocket of her gray hoodie and then slams a piece of flimsy pink lace on the table. A thong. It’s a familiar garment, because I have a similar pair. These are popular because of their comfort and ability to minimize panty lines. Sarah introduced me to them a few years ago, and even though they are way too expensive for underwear, I buy them. They are feminine and sexy and comfortable.

“By your expression, I’m guessing they are not yours,” I say softly.

“Fuck no! Do I look like the kind of whore who would wear these?” she snaps.

A gurgle of a giggle escapes and I cover my mouth with my hand.

“I have a similar pair,” I admit sheepishly.

Her anger deflates at my confession and then a slight smile appears.

“Me, too, in twenty other colors,” she says, giving me an eye roll. “Five years of marriage, and this is how he treats me.” The words croak out, she’s on the verge of tears again. I scoot around the table and wrap my arms around her again, cradling her head on my shoulder.

“Maybe take some time to cool off. Talk to him when you're ready. Do you have anywhere you can stay?”

She whimpers against me and I pull her closer, murmuring words of comfort. We stay glued together like that for a few more minutes and then Amanda extracts herself. She pushes her shoulders back and fixes me with a determined look.

“First you’re going to show me those mood boards, because even if I have to kick my husband out of this house, I want my guest rooms to look nice. Second, I’m going to take your advice and go visit my momma for a few days. Now,” she runs her fingers through her messy hair, arranging it around her shoulders. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”