Message From Viola Mari (4 page)

His royal-blue T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscular chest. Golden hairs curled over his forearms, which looked so masculine and strong, I longed to reach out and touch them. His proximity shot a bolt of electricity through me that momentarily stunned me.

Once my brain unscrambled, I managed to utter, “Yeah, good to see you too.” Meanwhile, my mind shouted
let me out of here
.

“It’s so close to lunch time and I’ve got an early afternoon meeting—would you mind if we caught a bite to eat while we review your manuscript?” He raised a blond brow at me seductively.

He’s looking at me like he’s asking to remove my dress while he reads it
. I tugged at the fabric at my hip again and cleared my throat. I wished more than anything I wore glasses to make me appear serious, focused, distinguished—anything other than the melting between the thighs nitwit I felt like just then. “It might take too long, don’t you think? To catch our lunch, cook it, eat it, and still get you to your meeting on time,” I said, laughing too loud.
Here I am, back in that elevator during the earthquake.

“Very funny,” he said.

His hand brushed against my arm.
Accidental, or intentional?
“That’ll work for me. I’m in a hurry too.”

“There’s a sandwich shop across the street that’s quiet. Why don’t we go there?”

I nodded. As we walked side by side down the stairway, he asked, “Where do you work?”

“I’m a marine geologist at Scripps.”

“That sounds exciting. So is your degree in oceanography or geology?”

“Both, actually. I studied geology as an undergrad at John Hopkins before moving here to obtain my Ph.D. in oceanography at Scripps.”

“Do you enjoy your work?” He pulled open a door and held it for me.

“I love it.” I stepped out into the warm, dry air.
No good-looking men there to distract me, and little conversation is required.
“But I’m doing all the talking here. I’d like to hear how you became a writer.”

“When I was eight, my parents drove us from Los Angeles to San Antonio. We’d barely gotten out of town when I realized I’d forgotten my notebook, which I wrote in, without fail, every day. I begged my parents to go back and get it. When I started writing a story on my thighs, they finally pulled over and bought me another one at a convenience store.”

I laughed and our eyes met for an instant and then drifted apart. His athletic stride matched mine—without effort we nearly matched each other step for step. We strode down the maze of long hallways toward the street exit.

“Sounds like you write a lot.”

“Every day. If I don’t, I lose my rhythm.” He flashed me a smile and flecks of yellow and amber danced in his green eyes.

Why is it I’m thinking about sex and not writing exercises?
I cleared my throat. “How many books have you published?”

“Just one. My agent’s trying to help me land a contract on my second one.”

“Are your books sci-fi?”

“Nothing other. But I do publish under a pen name. The book I had you read from the other day was my work.”

“No way, really?” I felt a twinge of jealousy. He must have been in love or lust with someone at the time to write such a provocative sex scene.
I wonder if they’re still together.

“Really.”

Wanting to stop the thoughts of his penis swollen and ready for another woman, I asked, “How did you get into teaching?”

“My undergraduate degree is in English Literature and I also have an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Stanford. Over the years, many writers asked me for help with their work, and most of the time I couldn’t say no. I find it exciting to watch others discover their voices, the way I found mine.”

“And how did you find yours?” I asked. Justin opened the door and held it for me as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. We strode along the sidewalk, which cut across a grassy lawn and then met the street.

“I’ve always been an observer. I thrive on watching how people interact with others and the quirky things that happen in day-to-day life. I enjoy putting thoughts that flow through my brain down on paper. As a child, I was a big Isaac Asimov fan. Now I create my own worlds.”

“I used to read sci-fi books all the time, too,” I said, smiling. A gentle breeze blew a strand of hair into my face. I tucked it behind my ear. “But I never thought about writing them.”

We walked across the crosswalk, approaching the sandwich shop.

“Did you know you wanted to be an oceanographer the first time you put your big toe in the ocean?”

“Not really. I imagined wearing so many different shoes as a girl—I wanted to be an Olympic athlete, a scientist, the first female President. In high school, there was nothing I enjoyed more than sprawling out on the floor in the library with copies of
Oceanography Illustrated
and
Meteorites Today
, reading articles about ocean depth profiles and the different varieties of meteorites until my legs went numb. I knew then what I wanted.”

“Science fits you,” he said. “I certainly can’t imagine you as President.”

I opened my mouth and shut it again.
Don’t ask. You don’t want to know the answer.

We paused outside the restaurant, absorbed in our conversation.
“
Can you bring a meteorite to class? I’ve always wanted to touch one.”

“Sure, I’ve got several metallic meteorite samples in my collection that have been sliced and polished. Inside the oxidized fusion crust you can see their amazing Widmanstatten structure.”

“Fusion crust? Widmen what structure?”

“The fusion crust forms as the burning meteorite enters our atmosphere. The Widmanstatten structure is the cross-hatched pattern nickel-iron crystals display in certain types of metallic meteorites.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Justin’s grin displayed sturdy, straight teeth.

“Table for two?” inquired the hostess as we stepped inside.

“Yes, please,” Justin answered. The woman ushered us toward a booth. Justin slid into a seat and laid his briefcase down. I took the place across from him but stopped my descent when he shook his head and patted the place beside him.

“You’re going to have to sit here if you want me to look at your manuscript--I can’t read well upside down.”

I scooted in beside him, trying to maintain a courteous distance, but the booth bench wasn’t wide enough for me to fit without my legs brushing against his firm thighs. As my pulse raced, I knew if I wore a heart rate monitor, it would beep to indicate my target heart rate had been exceeded.

“Don’t you two look cozy,” said the waitress. She handed us our menus.

“Yeah well don’t get too excited.” I reached into my folder and pulled out my manuscript. “This meeting is purely business. I’m having him translate some hieroglyphics for me.”

“That’s what they all say, honey,” she said. Her round face erupted into a smug smile, but she turned away before I could retort.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” Justin leaned in closer until I caught a whiff of his now familiar cinnamon aftershave.

“No, of course not,” I said, loud enough to turn some heads.
I just haven’t sat this close to an attractive male in say twenty years.

“Well I’m going for turkey and Swiss on wheat,” he said. “Let’s order so we can get to the task at hand.”

Do I sense disappointment?
“Sounds good to me.”

When the waitress returned, we ordered and returned our menus. Once she left, I flipped over to the first page. “See what you wrote here, about needing to something or other?”

I pointed to the text and looked at him. He leaned in until our shoulders touched as he slid his reading glasses over the bridge of his nose. As he did, a blond curl dropped across his face. I longed to brush it away from his cheekbones.
I feel like I’m in one of those dreams I know is a dream
—
when I kiss a complete stranger or try to unzip his fly just because I know my unruly behavior has no consequences. And here I am longing to say something like,
Your hair alone is enough to make me hyperventilate, I’m sure sex with you would be a downright scream. What do you say we shelve the whole go over the manuscript charade and head to my place
?

“Oh, that says, need to get inside the character’s head,” Justin answered.

“Why do I need to do that?” I crossed my legs and tried to focus my sex-crazed brain.

“This character has no dimension, or should I say, it’s obvious she really does, but the author is choosing to hide that.”

“She’s a very important scientist,” I argued.

“Yes, and so are you. Aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.” He took off his reading glasses and set them on the table, then raised his gaze to meet mine. “You tell me you work at Scripps, that you love oceanography and meteorites, but I don’t really know you. That’s what I really want to know when I talk to you. And that’s what the reader wants to know about your protagonist. How does she handle a crisis? Who does she care about? What does she want more than anything else?”

“That’s what you really want to know? Um, I mean about the character?”

“Yes, that’s what I want—for you to reveal who she is.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”
Note to self: when it comes to character development, steer as far from the truth as humanly possible.
Moving down two lines, I pointed to another set of words.

“You can’t read that either?” He frowned, creasing his brow.

“No I can’t.”
Do you write these comments while sprawled out in your water bed? There is a certain undulation to these letters…

“You have an odd expression on your face.”

My face flushed as I imagined standing over him, studying his finely sculpted buttocks as he lay on his waterbed reading, his hips moving up and down over the mattress waves. “I do? I can’t imagine why.”
Actually, I can, but…

“You don’t do lying well.”

Oh well, it was worth a try. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—I didn’t even say anything.” Conveniently, the waitress placed our sandwiches on the table.

I picked up half of my ham sandwich and scooted the manuscript closer to Justin, pointing again.

His cheeks bulged with sandwich. After he finished chewing, he said, “It says the character needs to show more vulnerability.”

“And how exactly could I accomplish that? By opening with a scene where Claudia follows her boyfriend to the bathroom? You know, so the reader can see that she can’t go anywhere without her man.”

Justin placed a hand on his forehead like he’d been struck by a sudden headache.

“No, of course not, but you need to show her vulnerabilities. Maybe she’s afraid to let others see that she’s lonely or is used to having other people depend on her, but never had anyone in her life she could lean on, that kind of thing.”

I reached for my glass of ice tea and took a long swallow. Maybe this whole writing my story as fiction wasn’t such a good idea. It meant showing sides of myself I didn’t want to reveal. If I was an adept writer, I could have faked him out, but I wasn’t. Before long—if he hadn’t already—he would identify Claudia as me.

Between bites, I asked him questions about each place I’d marked. I tried my best to pretend I genuinely wanted to improve my work. When we finished our sandwiches, the waitress returned with the check. When I reached to take hold of it, Justin’s hand came out to meet mine. As his fingers worked their way under mine to take the check, I stopped breathing. Titillating tingles raced up my arm and down the back of my spine.

“This was my idea,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

His strong, muscular hand felt so perfect intertwined with my own, protecting me, making me feel momentarily safe. I waited, feeling my heart thudding away in my chest, but still he didn’t untangle his fingers from mine. So I took the initiative.

“Thank you.” I released the check.

“Would you consider having dinner with me this Friday?” he asked as we stood from the table.

“Um, I…” I stammered. My mouth felt dry and I heard a pounding in my head that sounded like African drums.
This isn’t how it happens in romance novels
—
I want to hear violin music, to feel all tingly and giddy, to feel my love-entranced heart palpitating. Instead, I feel like I’ve had a frontal lobotomy.

“Oh, never mind, I guess it was a silly idea.” The sparkle in Justin’s eyes flickered and then went out. His desolation made me want to draw his hands to my lips.

“Sorry, what I meant to say was…”
Is it hot in here?
I feel like I’m going to pass out. I’m a scientist who deals with situations much larger than male teachers. I can deal with th…
I thought to myself until my head swirled into darkness.

Moving forms with soft outlines slowly sharpened into intelligible shapes, some so enticing, I almost lost consciousness a second time. As Justin knelt beside me, his hand brushed my cheek and a renegade blond curl fell onto my forehead. His tight blue jeans clung like a second skin to his thighs and calves.
This can’t be real?

He is real, I thought, as I reached up and brushed a hand across his in-need-of-a-razor cheek, which was rough to the touch and warmed my fingertips. I pulled away, blushing.
What is going on?
Oh crap , now I remember… I came here to have my instructor review my manuscript and everything was going just fine until he asked me out on a date.
It was after that, being the worldly wise woman that I am, that I ended up unconscious in the supine position.

“Should I take that as a
yes
?” Justin asked. Every contracted muscle in his face showed genuine concern and the resonance of his voice comforted me, the same way the strain of my father’s trombone once had. Before our family fell apart, I’d often fallen asleep to the strain of its sliding notes.

I pushed my hands against the tile, righting myself.

“Why not?” I said, aiming for nonchalant. At least as nonchalant as I could appear, lying flat on my back in a public place. “If I wasn’t interested, I would have scratched this spot on my nose.” I pushed up on my elbows and pointed to a scaly spot on the side of my nose. “I just rub it so it bleeds to avoid having to say anything else.” Our faces nearly collided as I stood. The tantalizing warmth of his breath and proximity made me ache for a taste of his full, sensual lips.