True L̶o̶v̶e̶ Story (6 page)

He’s not here. Check.

They’ve updated the living room. Check.

It’s lovely. Check.

My dad and Jeff move to the deck to check the meat on the grill, while Laila ushers my mom into the kitchen. I’m lagging behind, trying not to be too obvious, but I peer through a door or two. Very subtly, of course.

“Sparrow, I was hoping you’d bring Michael,” Laila says loudly.

I round the corner and enter the kitchen.

He’s not here either. Check.

“Michael went to see his family in Seattle this week,” I answer.

“He is
so
good-looking,” Laila laughs, fanning her face.

I laugh. “Yes, he is.”

“He asked Ro to marry him last Saturday,” my mom, the traitor, tells Laila.

“You’re kidding!” Laila looks at me. “How exciting. You’re so
young
, though. Jeff and I got married too young—I was eighteen! I wish I’d waited. You need to live a little!”

I resist the urge to gloat at Charlie. We begin carrying the rest of the food outside.

“He would be extremely hard to turn down. I don’t blame you! When’s the wedding?” Laila laughs.

“Who’s getting married?”

The flames take root again, lapping around my feet, up my legs and chest, sizzling red-hot out my pores … just at the sound of his voice. I nearly drop the huge salad bowl I’m carrying. Fortunately, only the tongs go flying, landing on the deck with a loud
thwack
.

I am pathetic. My girl-ness is betraying me, dangit.

Ian is behind us and I’m not sure how long he’s been there. His hair is wet and standing every which way. He crosses over to the tongs and gives me a blinding smile just before he bends down to pick them up.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I whisper back.

“Our lovely Sparrow here…” Laila answers.

I look at her in horror. Ian sees my expression and looks confused.

“Our lovely Sparrow here what?” he asks, grinning at me again.

“Michael asked her to marry him,” Laila announces. “Later, I’ll pull out the champagne!”

Ian’s smile falters and he looks down at the tongs as if he’s forgotten why he has them. A full minute or two ticks by. I’m not sure if everyone goes on talking or if they’re all watching us. I only see him.

“Lucky bastard … congratulations,” he says softly.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say
yes
.”

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, shoulders sagging for a moment as he stares me down. He steps in closer, standing in what would normally be my personal space. My throat catches as I wait to see what he’s about to do.

“Why, you
little
… heartbreaker.” He’s serious for a moment and then his eyes crinkle and he’s beaming again. In fact, his whole face looks like the Cheshire cat on Christmas morning. “So you came to your senses about Mike, huh?”

“I don’t know about
that
. I’m just not ready to
marry
Mich
ael
.”

He waits for me to say more.

When I don’t, he nods his head and steps back. I get the impression that I’ve just disappointed him and I want to fix it, say more, have a re-do … but the moment passes and he’s taking my arm and leading me to the table.

“Here, Ian, hand me the tongs,” Laila scoffs. “If we left it up to you, we’d find dirt in our steak.” She goes to the kitchen and returns with a clean set.

It’s harder to talk to him in the smaller setting. We mostly listen to my parents and Jeff and Laila. I focus on getting bites of steak in my mouth and not on my lap. And taking a drink without having all the ice rush forward. I hate it when that happens. It’s never pretty or conducive to good timing. Ice just knows when you’re trying to impress someone and always picks that moment to go flying up your nose.

A shift occurs in the conversation and my parents want to know all about Ian. They didn’t really get to talk with him the last time. He answers them respectfully and when they ask about his music, he seems honest, but humble in his response, which is impressive to me. I know he could be arrogant about being so talented.

“I’ve been playing as long as I can remember and it’s about the only thing I’m really good at.” His smile is self-deprecating, but when he looks up at me, I see mischief. I’m absolutely certain he’s good at many, many other things. “I’m fortunate to be making a living doing what I love to do. And as long as people keep listening, I’ll keep playing. Actually, even beyond that—I would have to play music even if no one ever listened. It’s just … like breathing.”

He seems shy when he’s done talking. I didn’t notice him ever being shy the other day. His cheeks are even a little flushed. I’m smitten all the more. My parents also seem intrigued by him and continue grilling him about who he’s worked with, the back story on some of their favorite songs of his and his upcoming schedule. I want them to stop the interrogation, but it’s also affording me plenty of time to study him. He completely weaves them into his spell. He’s good; he’s really good.

After lunch, we carry everything inside and Laila shoos us out of the kitchen, saying she’ll get it later. I’m following everyone into the living room when my arm is tugged another direction. Ian pulls me into what looks to be an office.

“Let’s get out of here.” His eyes pierce into mine.

“What about Jeff and Laila?

“Don’t worry about them. You up for it?”

“Sure,” I say, not exactly sure what I’m agreeing to.

“Your dress might be a problem,” he frowns.

“What?”

He laughs at my tone and runs his hand lightly over my arm, sending a shiver in its wake. “You look
electrifying
. That dress could wake a dead man.” He takes my hand and turns me around slowly, making me very uncomfortable with his sounds of approval. “Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“
No!”
I glare at him.

“Okay, not a problem. We’ll work it out. Come on, let’s go while it’s still so nice out.”

Everything happens so quickly. I let Ian do the talking and before I know it, my parents, Jeff and Laila are saying they’ll meet up with us later tonight. We walk out to the garage and Ian stops in front of a Harley. I’m not into motorcycles, but even I can see that it’s a beauty. Ian pats it lovingly. He looks like a character out of a romance novel—and not the cheesy Fabio kind either—or he could be a movie star, only taller. Or a soap opera star, only one who can pull off his lines. Or maybe a model, only straighter than straight.

I pride myself on my writing skills, but when I consider writing about him, I realize he brings out the cheese puff in me. The coal hair, the ever-changing eyes … are they really just hazel? Such an ordinary word for eyes that are sometimes green, sometimes khaki, with flecks of blue and gold, and then his cushiony red lips. This man is combustible. Add the bike and I feel that if I look at him too long, I’ll electrocute myself.

“Ever been on a bike?” His voice is all husky seduction.

Oh, good grief. And then there’s the voice. All of a sudden, I can’t look at him. He’s too much for me.

“Sparrow?”

“No.” I answer, a couple notches too high.

“Well, how about it?” He’s already raising the garage door as he asks the question, never doubting that I will ride with him.

He hands me a helmet and inwardly, I groan. This is why I should never spend so much time getting ready. What a waste. I take a long look at him.
Get a grip, Fisher!
I am not about to be all googly-eyed over a boy. I never have and I never will.

“Your face is going to stick like that if you don’t relax the grin,” I throw out as I secure the helmet.

He throws his head back and laughs, climbs onto the motorcycle and reaches an arm out to help me on. I hike my dress up past my knees and climb on.

“I was wrong. This is the
ideal
outfit for the bike,” Ian says as he traces a finger up one of my bare thighs.

I feel the sudden need to think about baseball and granny panties. I’ve heard that helps.

But then he leans back, his face an inch from mine as he says, “Hold on for your life.” And all thoughts of huge knickers are out the window.

I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle. I’ve never had any desire to be. But when Ian and I ride through the steep, winding streets, I understand the appeal. Having an excuse to hold onto Ian is liberating; at first, I uncomfortably wrap my arms around his waist, but when we go flying around the corners and up and down hill after hill, I lean into him and hold on with all I’ve got. I
love
it.

We pull up to a stop sign, and Ian looks down at my legs and sees chill bumps. He rubs his hands together and then over my legs to try to warm me up. It just makes my chill bumps hot, but doesn’t actually make them go away.

“Let’s get you warm,” he says before taking off again.

We drive to Fillmore Street and park in front of Peet’s, home of my favorite coffee. He gets off first, still holding the bike up and watches as I hurriedly yank my dress down, grinning mischievously all the while. Either this man is seriously happy or there is something about me that cracks him up. I have a feeling it’s the latter and if I didn’t feel so happy myself, I’d want to put him in his place a bit more.

“Let’s check out this…” He’s stops mid-sentence, mouth slightly ajar, as I take the helmet off and shake my hair out.

“What? Is it bad?” I try to finger through my hair, smoothing out the tangles.

He clears his throat. “Uh,
no
. Not bad. At all.”

He looks unsure of what to do. For a minute, I think he’s going to take my hand, but he pauses and puts his hand on my back. The thought that he is withholding affection leaves me divided. I’m relieved because I know now more than ever that I have to settle things with Michael for good. There can’t be any question whether we’re together or not. Time won’t make me care more for him than I do now.

However … the ache that takes over my body from Ian’s caution becomes a weight the longer I’m around him. My hands
crave
him.

Instead of going to Peet’s, Ian leads me down the street to a cute boutique.

“Let me buy you something.”

“No!” I shake my head and look at him to make sure he’s listening. “You don’t need to buy me anything.”

“You were freezing on the bike. And I just … want to get you something,” he says, ducking his head onto my shoulder for the briefest second. He holds up a pair of wicked jeans. “Will you think of me every time you wear these?”

The jeans are fabulous. I’m swayed for a moment. “They’re great. But no! You don’t need to spend money on me.”

“I’m going to keep you warm. You may as well get the right sizes because we
are
leaving here with an outfit.” He rubs his hands up and down my arms. “See? You’re still chilly. And I don’t want to take you back to the house. Please. Unless you want to go back?”

“No … I don’t. But…”

“Okay, it’s settled. Will these fit?” He hands me the jeans and when I try to look at the price tag, he rips it off.

My mouth drops open. He laughs and lifts my jaw with the back of his hand. He picks up a fitted long sleeve shirt and holds it up to me.

“Yep, you are dangerous in red.”

“It’s really low.”

“I know.”

“You’re a sneaky one.” I accuse him.

“You’re a smart one.”

So far, he always has the last word. I kinda like it.

“Do you see something else you’d like to try?” He asks politely, attempting to look innocent and failing.

I’m not much of a shopper—I think we may have already established this, but when I have a day with Ian Sterling, I
really
don’t want to waste time shopping.

I shake my head and go into the fitting room. The jeans fit like a dream. I didn’t even know I had this booty. My legs look miles long. And well … the top … I’m speechless. This shirt makes me look like a sexpot. I have NEVER … I don’t know if I can do this.

I make one more attempt to adjust my cleavage and glance back in the mirror. My hair almost reaches the waist of my jeans and it’s holding up fairly well, considering the windy ride. I don’t quite recognize myself, but it’s a GOOD THING. Folding my dress, I take a deep breath and step out.

I hear him before I see him. He curses under his breath.

I turn around and raise an eyebrow.
Do you like?
My eyes ask.

“Hell,
YES
,” he says out loud.

He won’t even let me properly thank him, much less pay for any of it. I thank him anyway and he says, “No, thank
you
.”

We walk outside and I’m warm from the inside out now. Ian is quiet, but doesn’t take his eyes off of me. It’s disconcerting. He points to Peet’s when we get back to the bike. I nod and think this is the best day I’ve ever had.

As we drink our warm drinks, we sit and watch each other. Once I realize he’s not expecting me to say anything, I relax and stare back at him. So much is being said without a single word. I’m not sure how much time passes; at least long enough for both of us to finish our coffee/mocha.

Finally Ian breaks the silence. “What are you doing to me, Sparrow Fisher?” He says it completely serious.

I don’t know what to say. How do you answer that?

I’m not sure why or how the mood shifted, but it’s less playful and a dozen notches more intense when I climb onto the back of the bike this time. When I wrap my arms around his chest, he puts his hands on top of mine and holds them there.

He turns his head and says, “You up for a little adventure?”

“I’m up for anything.”

When we’re going up, up, up, I lay my head on Ian’s back and close my eyes. The bike finally levels out and when I open my eyes, we are at the top of Lombard Street, the crooked, brick street with eight hairpin turns in one block. I gulp.

“Do you trust me?” he asks over his shoulder.

“I think?”

He shakes his head. “Wise woman.”

“Let’s do it,” I say.

I’m a bit terrified as we pull around and get behind a couple of cars to go down the steep street. The view at the top is one that would be easy to take for granted when you’re used to seeing it all the time. There are almost too many scenic views to soak them all in, but we both fill our lungs with air and do our best. The billowy clouds are close enough to touch. Coit Tower is in the distance and the Golden Gate Bridge is way past that. I think I might even see Alcatraz.