Worth The Wait: A Nature Of Desire Series Novel (6 page)

“Okay, but if the zombie apocalypse breaks loose by lunchtime, it will be your fault for distracting me.”

“I’ll accept full responsibility for that. And fight at your side against the undead to the very end.”

“What if one of them bites me, turns me into a zombie?”

“I will pick up your parts as they fall off and duct tape them onto your sexy, rotting torso.”

She chuckled and put the folder in the car. His teasing helped reduce the uneasy sense that she was giving up her armor before entering a battlefield. Locking the vehicle, she pivoted toward him. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go look at pretty flowers.”

“All right.” As they walked companionably side by side toward the entrance again, he cocked a brow at her. “I don’t usually use this as a lead-in, but I’m guessing it’s why you’re so jumpy. You said no relationships. Care to explain that?”

She couldn’t claim he was being too personal, since she’d brought up the subject, right? “I know I said that, and I hate it when people bring up something that’s an obvious discussion point and then say they don’t want to talk about it, but I’d prefer not to go into it. I just don’t want to give you the wrong idea about why I’m here today. You’re interesting and fun, and I wanted to spend more time with you and learn about the rope part. Is it okay to leave it at that?”

“Absolutely. But I’m going to hold your hand, because you look like you need it.”

She should object, but his grip was strong, and she didn’t feel caught. She felt like a bird who’d been cupped in his very safe palm.

He released her to toss his coffee in the trash and hold open the front door. Inside the lobby, he approached a large horseshoe reception desk and handed the lady a ticket he must have bought before Julie had arrived. When she offered to pay her fair share, he shook his head. “I have a season pass here, and I get guest tickets at a discount. I’ll treat.”

“I’ll buy lunch.”

“No need. I rarely have a date outside a rope session, so paying your way gives me the chance to feel manly. Come on. There’s so much beautiful stuff here, you’ll fit right in.”

He bumped her body at the compliment, a gentle flirtation. He was trying to help her relax. She was impressed by his non-pushy intuition, and annoyed at herself for being in need of it. It really had been a while since she’d tread in these waters, and she hadn’t expected to be so weighed down by the millstones of the past. She could call this not a date all she wanted. They both knew what it was. The heated energy between their two bodies, the sure clasp of his hand on hers, and the little dance inside her when he implied she was beautiful, were all proof of it.

He’d also caught her attention with the rare date comment. Another common ground for them, though she wondered what his reasons were for not dating, when he was so wonderfully, despicably good at it.

“How about before we go to the orchid area, I show you around the park some? I assume you haven’t been here before. It’s also probably smart to scope the terrain so when those zombies come, we’ll know the best defendable ground.”

“A man who plans for the worst. I appreciate that.” Her hand involuntarily—so she told herself—tightened on his and he gave her that smile that made her feel like she’d be okay with him. He was going to be kind.

Kindness had become the quality she valued most in a relationship, one that was far too rare. Though she was well aware of the conflict in her nature that craved a passion that wasn’t always kind, that would be edgy and demanding, she knew wanting both was like pissing in the wind. When the choice had to be made, kind was the better option. She’d learned that lesson.

For the next hour, he gave her an unhurried tour of the outdoor garden areas that he seemed to enjoy as much as she did, despite his familiarity with them. The Canal Garden was a long, rectangular koi pond with a fountain display where sparkling arches of water ran all the way along its length. The Lost Hollow, the children’s garden, enchanted her. It included what Des dubbed the Troll Cave, a stone hollow underneath a wooden bridge with square rock seats where the kids could sit and enjoy the coolness. With a little stooping, it worked for adults, too, so she sat with him under there. Des amused her by singing high note choruses from Air Supply songs to demonstrate the acoustics.

They visited the Serpentine and Ribbon Gardens, then looped back to the White Garden, a sheltered courtyard decorated with beds of white flowers. Tall, slender-stemmed dancing flowers, thick ground covers and medium-sized clusters were interspersed with the variegated greenery.

Throughout his tour, they talked about different topics. Initially about their surroundings, then what gardens she’d visited up in the New York area, and the tomato plants she’d attempted to grow on her tiny window balcony in New York. If she hadn’t forgotten to water them, and the cat upstairs hadn’t discovered them and used them for a litter box while she was caught up in her long theater hours, she was sure the poor things could have supplied the metropolis with tomatoes.

He asked her about hobbies and she confirmed the theater was her main passion. She found out he didn’t watch much TV and preferred music, which launched a discussion of favorite songs, bands and music periods.

During all that, he kept holding her hand. He’d drop it periodically to illustrate a point, or change hands as they shifted around one another on the garden paths, but inevitably, their bodies would bump and the hands would relink. She began to wonder if it was him doing it, or both of them, because it seemed so natural to let her hand find his and their fingers intertwine. As he spoke to her, he kept leaning in, brushing her shoulder and body with his hip, a casual intimacy that heightened her awareness of his proximity in an unsettling way, while simultaneously making her more comfortable with his touch.

It was when they were in the White Garden, surrounded by the lacy purity of those flowers, that she realized she was reclaiming her sense of herself. She was also feeling lighter, no longer carrying around the past relationship worries she’d had in the parking lot.

"So how old are you?" she asked. “You look like you’re twenty-five, but you’re more mature than any twenty-five year old I’ve ever met.”

"I’m old enough to drink, though I don’t."

"Does that have to do with why you check your blood sugar? I assumed you have Type II diabetes."

"Type I, but yeah. Most diabetics can drink, at least in moderation. I’m just not one of them.” He sat down on one of the benches and looked up at her. “But I don't really like to talk about that. Not just for the sake of curiosity.”

"Oh." That stung a little, but since he said it so matter-of-factly, she told herself not to take it as a personal jab. She was surprised to hear he was Type I, but it explained why he didn’t fit the expected profile for a Type II diabetic. She wanted to respect his feelings, but she hoped he’d let her have one follow up. "Is it okay if I ask why you feel that way?"

"Sure.” His casual shrug relaxed her again. “I was diagnosed at six years old, after a near fatal case of DKA. Diabetic ketoacidosis,” he added. “It wasn’t the only health problem I had, so a lot of other shit went along with that. For too long I wasn't a person. I was symptoms and medications and what did I eat today, and have you tested your blood sugar, and endless lectures. 'Des, experimenting with drugs or alcohol could kill you.’ And they didn’t mean it like you say it to normal kids. It was: ‘A couple drinks or try that pill, and kaput. End of you.' Blah blah blah.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t ever care about being in the drug scene or getting drunk, but the endless hyperawareness was like being a specimen in a jar, no matter where I was or who I was with."

"Wow.” She sat down next to him. “That would suck for anyone, but especially for a kid. I get it. I’d never want to talk about that again. I’m surprised you don’t carry a sign that says, ‘You can ask me about my diabetes if I can twist off your left nipple.’"

He laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll get a few T-shirts made up.” He considered her, then he shifted to lift the tail of his black shirt. On his belt he had a wallet holding something that looked like a pager. However, a tube, thin as pencil lead, was connected to it, the other end inserted into his abdomen several inches above his belt. The tube was held in place by a round piece of adhesive tape. Despite her curiosity about the set-up, she couldn’t help noticing he had a very well-defined abdomen.

“When you want to touch me”—his gaze met hers— “I didn’t want this to startle you. It’s an insulin pump.” He tapped the pager-looking device. “You don’t have to worry about dislodging the cannula just by bumping it. The cannula’s the tube part. The adhesive over the injection site is so strong I have to have prescription wipes to remove it.”

He was suggesting he anticipated her touching him, something she rather anticipated herself, despite any pointless admonitions to the contrary. She wanted to trace the muscles of his abdomen now, brush her fingertips over the arrow of silky hair between them.

“So you can shower in it and everything?”

“Shower, sweat like a roofer. It’s not moving.” He flashed her a smile. “Though I sometimes remove the pump when I do roof work because I burn through so many calories I don’t have to worry about insulin. I can use other pieces of tape to hold the connector to my body, unless it’s a day when I’m moving the injection site, and then I just remove it all together and check my numbers more often.”

He’d made the decision to tell her, but she could tell he was ready to move on, so she glanced up at him through her lashes. “If I asked to touch it as an excuse to fondle those awesome abs of yours, would you be okay with that?”

“Well, I told you about it because I wanted to avoid a clinical discussion during a passionate moment. It sounds like you’re right on board with my unsubtle plan to get you to touch me as much as possible.”

His tone was teasing, but mild, as if he anticipated her flipping back to gun-shy again. She was sure he could feel the chemistry between them as strongly as she could. The only way that chemistry wasn’t going to trigger something between them was if she bolted.

The look in his eyes as his attention dropped to her mouth and slid down over her torso to her hands wasn’t conducive to that move, because his expression was no longer kind. He’d mixed his gentle tone with the gleaming edge she craved, and she was losing ground fast.

Her clever wit deserted her and, when his hand closed over hers, she was tense. He didn’t pull her hand toward him. Instead, he shifted his grip to her wrist, holding her as his fingers slid over her pulse, stroked her forearm. She kept her gaze on his throat as he brought his other hand to her face, caressing her cheek. His thumb moved over her lips to her chin, exploring her. She closed her eyes, absorbing his touch.

The breeze wafted through the courtyard, the sun a mild heat on a partially cloudy day. The flowers offered a mixed musk of light fragrance, deep earth, nourishing fertilizer.

At last he drew her hand to him, sliding it up under his shirt. She touched the tube and round adhesive lightly, his grip still guiding her, and then she caressed his abdomen on her own as his hand loosened and he let her do as she wished. He returned to his absorption with her face, fingertips gliding over her cheekbone, back down over her lips, around the back of her neck to thread through her ponytail as she dipped her head, brushing her ear and cheek against his hand.

His abdomen was muscular, but not so overly pumped that it was more rock than flesh. He was a manual laborer, and she liked the way that translated into layers of muscle and warm skin. She pressed her fingertips into it like she would firm, damp clay. As she did that, she also felt small hard lumps beneath the skin.

“Scar tissue,” he told her, as her fingers quested. “Over time, the pump causes that. They don’t hurt.”

His grip returned to her wrist, and he drew her touch away from him, holding their fingers loosely linked on his knee. She opened her eyes, and he glanced toward the entrance to the garden, a subtle pointing. A group of chatting Red Hat ladies were wandering into the White Garden.

“Thirsty?” Des asked as she took in the delightful array of purple and red hat designs, embellished with velvet, feathers and sparkling brooches. “We could grab a drink from the café before we walk over to the Conservatory.”

“That sounds great.”

They rose and he escorted her through the main lobby to the café to get them both a drink, her a soda and him a flavored water. Finding an outdoor table with a peaceful overview of the Four Seasons garden, they settled in. They sat across from one another, and Des slid his long legs out so his calves bracketed one of hers, rubbing companionably against it.

She locked her fingers around her soda. Neither of them had said a word about what they’d just done, what it meant. He seemed as comfortable now as he’d been before they’d entered the White Garden. She didn’t want to be the idiot who had to put a label on it, dress it up, make it anything beyond…feeling. Words ruined things. It had felt sexy, stirring, comforting. Time had stopped and things had balanced, while all the right things somersaulted and tilted. Maybe this was all part of him acclimating her to a future rope session together. That would make sense, right? No need to make more of it than that.

“You know,” she said. “You’ve totally ruined my chance to talk about my traumatic adolescent experiences. Training bra woes, dealing with the cattiness of Paula Winfield and her letter girl squad. Pimples. All that sounds so trivial compared to facing death at six years old.”

His eyes sparkled. He had thick, dark lashes, and his eyebrows were ebony thickets she wanted to trace and smooth. “You’re right, it was selfish of me to bring it up,” he said. “But you can still tell me. I’ll make sympathetic noises. And if you and the letter girls had a fight in the locker room where everyone was half naked, I will listen very attentively. So what was wrong with Paula? Was she too pretty?”

“It wasn’t that. It was what was under the melts-in-your-mouth, not-your-hand, candy coating. That wasn’t pretty at all. ”