Random (Going the Distance) (11 page)

I push my hands against him, and instantly he lifts his head, looking down at me. I can’t come up with anything sensible, and the word that lurches out is “Tea.”

He laughs softly, straightening. “Good idea. Let’s have tea.”

* * *

The action of filling the kettle, a blue enameled number I found at Goodwill for $1.60, and then setting out the cups and sugar and milk, takes some of the tension out of the moment. Tyler busies himself in the living room, looking at pictures and plants, and I give him the space to calm down.

What is this? I glance at him, his brown-blond hair falling around his princely face, and I know I’m over my head. My body is still buzzing, and I’m afraid if he said, “Strip naked and dance on the roof and I will fuck you through the night,” I’d be tempted.

My table fits exactly into the space created by the kitchen walls, with room to the sides for exactly one chair each. I have a tablecloth with embroidery on the edges that someone gave me when I moved in, and I brush away any crumbs that might be lingering, then put the cups and sugar and little spoons down. I have a pile of mismatched cloth napkins I’ve collected here and there, although I usually just use paper towels when I’m by myself.

He comes to stand in the doorway. “Can I help?”

“It’s ready.” I gesture for him to sit down. “Do you like sugar and milk?”

“Please.” He smiles up at me. “This is actual British style tea, then.”

“Technically New Zealand style,” I say, pouring. “But yeah.”

“Was that where your mom was from?”

“No, she was American. She was traveling around when she met my dad.”

He nods. “Where was she from, then?”

I offer the sugar, wishing it was cubes. “I don’t know, really. Some place in Idaho. She never went back, so it must have been a place to escape.”

For a long moment he absorbs this. “You don’t wonder who your grandparents are, all that?”

“No. I did when I was a kid, but if she thought it was better to leave, I trust her.”

A frown draws his brows down. “I can’t quite figure you out.”

I smile and wonder even as I do it if it’s enigmatic. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever met. Any
person
I’ve ever met.”

Sipping my tea, I give him a wry sideways glance. “You just haven’t met many waitresses.”

“Actually, I have had my share of love affairs with bartenders, servers, you name it.” He raises a rueful brow. “Just broke up with one.”

“Let me guess.” I roll my eyes. “The bartender at the Spoon.”

The eyebrows lift in sheepish acknowledgment.

“Great.” I shake my head. “She hated me at first sight. I’ll never get the job now.”

“Sure you will. She’s not hiring you.”

“Oh, it should be a lot of fun to work with a bartender who hates my guts because her ex is—” I blush, trying to think of a way to finish that makes any kind of sense. “Kissing” seems a bit mild for what we just did.

“Her ex is obsessed with you?”

I scowl at him. “Don’t say that. I already have one obsessed person in my life. I don’t need two.”

“Sorry. I was kidding.”

I look at him.

“Really.” He raises his hand, palm out, as if to swear in court. “Is the first one the guy I punched the other night?”

“He’s not really obsessed. He’s just broken-hearted.”

“You broke up with him?”

I nod.

“Because of me?”

I lift one shoulder. “Not really. Partly.” I smile at the eagerness in his face. “Let’s just say you were the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

He looks at my mouth, and his nostrils flare ever so faintly. It makes me shiver. “I wish I didn’t have to go to work.”

“It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t be having sex with you today anyway.”

He blinks, ever so slowly, and puts his cup down. “Really?”

“It’s too soon.”

“I see.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Are you on birth control?”

“Yes, but you’ll need condoms.”

“When?”

I feel more in control over here, but this is a weird conversation. “This is kind of ruining the romance, you know.”

“Being safe just means we can go to the limits of our imaginations.”

A buzz starts on the back of my neck, and he seems to know it, because his thumb moves over the center of my palm in a circle, very lightly. Every ripple moves further up my arms until my torso is engulfed and the hard, hot heat of arousal between my legs is kindled again. “Not for a while.”

“I’m okay with that. More time to anticipate.”

“Good.”

“I would like to ask a favor in the meantime.” He lets go of my hand and takes a sip of tea, as if he’s nervous.

Here it comes, I think. The reason a guy like this is spending any time with me. He likes blow jobs in public places or something. “What?”

His tongue darts out and moistens his lower lip. “I’d like to paint you.”

“Paint me?” At first what goes through my mind is that he wants to put paint on my body, and it’s titillating.

“I do portraits.”

I raise a brow, feeling desperately disappointed. “Nudes, I guess.”

“Not exactly. Will you come over tomorrow and let me show you?”

“I suppose.” I lift the cup and gulp the last of my sweet, milky tea, feeling the magic glitter fall right out of the world and back into the dark hole where it lives, shining in other people’s lives but never mine. “That doesn’t mean I’ll do it.”

He leans forward. “Jess.”

I look at him from behind my armor. “Tyler?”

“It’s not just about the painting.”

“Okay.” But I don’t soften.

For a minute he sits in the chair, frowning slightly. Then he stands up. “I’ve gotta get to work.”

I walk him to the door. “Thanks for coming.”

He halts and turns, sweeping me against him before I realize what he’s going to do. It’s a hard embrace, his face close to mine. His hand slides down my back to my ass and hauls me against him. “Don’t go chilly on me.”

I shove against him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

His embrace tightens, and the hand on my ass pulls my leg close, scissoring us together so that I can feel his erection. He bends and sucks my lower lip into his mouth and I can’t help it—a jolt of extreme lust goes through me, making me want to hit him and fuck him and
devour
him. So I do the one thing I can—I bite him. Not hard, but it does to him what it did to me. He kisses me, hard, pressing his whole body into mine. I nip at his lips and he sucks my tongue into his mouth, and I think I might dissolve entirely into a flame.

He lets go abruptly. His breath is heavy as he reaches out and brushes his thumb over my jaw. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.” We are both breathing hard. “I don’t know if I should just dive in or run while I can.”

“Run?”

He nods slowly. “I have a feeling you’re going to break me into a thousand pieces before you’re done.”

I swallow. It’s not going to be him who will be broken, but I’m not about to let him know that.

“Will you go for a hike with me tomorrow?”

I blink. “A hike?”

“Yeah, you know, on the trails around here?””

“Um…I guess. I don’t have any boots.”

“Sneakers will be fine. I’ll pick you up around eight.”

“I’ll meet you.”

His gaze considers me, then he nods. “Okay. I’ll text you my address.”

I smile, suddenly giddy. “Bye, Tyler.”

He grins. “Bye, Jess.”

Chapter TEN

I
n the morning I dress in shorts and a tank top and my tennis shoes, braid my hair, and drive to the address Tyler texted to me. It’s way up in the hills in Manitou, streets so steep they’re kind of nerve-wracking to drive. I park on the downslope, turn my front tires to the curb, and pull the emergency brake, looking downhill, wondering how it is to drive on that in the wintertime. Horrible.

The whole neighborhood is old houses, with front porches and wrought iron fences and sparse lawns. There’s evidence of a mud flood in the gutters by the steep curbs, and I look upward to the invisible canyon. It was burned in a fire last year, so there’s nothing to stop the rains anymore.

Tyler’s house is set back from the street under a big old elm tree, and his yard is in worse shape than the others. Two metal lawn chairs sit on the narrow porch, with a weathered table between them. I climb up the steps to ring the doorbell, but he’s already opening the door. “Good morning!”

How can
this
guy like
me
? He’s freshly showered by the look of his wet hair, and he’s barefooted. “Good morning.” It comes out quietly, shyly, and that irks me. I’ve worked hard to get rid of my shyness. But there’s something so rare about him that I can’t even think of anything to say.

“I’m running a little behind, sorry to say. I was out listening to music till the bar closed down. Come in. Want some coffee?”

“Sure.” I walk in behind him and smell it, fresh brewed no more than a few minutes ago. I inhale deeply. “Smells great.”

He inclines his head, giving me that one-sided smile. “You do seem to like your coffee.”

He gestures for me to follow him through a living room that’s basic guy—couch, a few posters on the walls. There’s some clutter on the coffee table, but not anything dramatic. Keys, a book, a couple of pens.

The kitchen is bright from the line of windows along the back. Of course he has no curtains, but maybe that’s because of the view. The house faces the city of Colorado Springs, down a hill and past the Garden of the Gods, but the thing that catches my attention is the fact that there are no dishes in the sink and the counters are clean. The stove doesn’t have a year’s worth of splatters over the top, and in fact I can even see that the pans below the burners are relatively clean.

“You live here by yourself?” I ask.

“Just me.”

“Wow.”

“You sound surprised.”

I shrug. “It’s pretty tidy.”

“So is yours.”

“You were surprised at
my
place, too?”

“Not because it was clean.” The light strikes his irises, making the green and blue blaze. “Because it has such a sense of calm.”

“Really?” Something in me blooms. “That’s what I wanted.”

“Unusual. Drama is more often the case.”

“Six years of dirty dishes and sticky floors are the usual with guys.”

He half nods, reaching for the coffee cups, and moves them a quarter inch. “Can’t argue with you on that.”

Is he nervous?

I am, and rather than stand there and wait for the coffee, I move to the windows and look out. A deck juts out over the steep yard. “I bet this is great at night.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the reasons I rented the place.”

“I thought about Manitou, but it’s kind of far from things, and there’s always the gas issue.”

“Gas…?” He pours the coffee, a slight frown on his face. “Oh, got it.”

It’s my turn to smile. “You don’t have any money worries, do you?”

His grin is charming and sheepish and softens me, even when he says, “Well, no. Trust fund from my grandmother. Can’t access most of it until I’m 30, but I have enough.”

“Trust fund?” I echo, half-laughing. It seems like a made-up story. “And you live in Manitou?”

“Not everybody wants the same things.”

I am
so
in over my head, and I still don’t know what he wants with me. When he points to the milk and sugar, I step forward and fix my coffee, thinking. In books, the rich guys like the working class girl, but it doesn’t happen much in real life. I think about asking him straight out what he wants with me, but it’s both too soon and too weird to ask that question. It’s up to me to keep myself safe, guard in place, until I sort out his motives.

“Have you eaten, Jess?”

“Some cereal.”

“Want some eggs with me?”

I shake my hair out of my eyes. “I guess. You don’t have to feed me, though, I swear. I’ve been on my own for two years.”

“Before you graduated from high school? Or didn’t you—?”

“I graduated, but I just wanted a place of my own.” I shrug. “My step-dad is a great guy, but he’s…not all there.”

“I see.” He brushes a hand down my arm. “You’ll want a little more than cereal for the hike. Go sit down and let me make us some breakfast.”

“You cook?” I settle at the table. It’s not fancy, either, just a simple oak round with oak chairs. Maybe the trust fund story is a lie, but I somehow believe him. That car. The way he carries himself, like he expects the world to embrace him.

“I work as a cook, remember?”

I laugh. “Right.” The coffee is really good, and I try to relax as I watch him. His body is long and limber, with a lot more muscle when his t-shirt pulls close than you would expect. His rear end is a thing of beauty, and I tend to think of myself as a connoisseur—his is high and muscular and narrow. “Are you an athlete?”

“I was.” He breaks eggs into a bowl, stirs them vigorously with a fork. A heavy cast iron pan is on the stove, getting hot. His habits are neat—he drops the egg shells directly into the trash, and when he pours the eggs into the pan, the bowl goes in the sink, not back on the counter. “Snowboarder.”

I make a noise and wave a hand dismissively. “All guys snowboard at some level.”

He laughs softly. “That’s a very Colorado thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” Deftly, he stirs the eggs in the pan. “Will you put some bread in the toaster for me? It’s right there.”

“Sure.” I jump up, embarrassed that I didn’t think to offer. Except that he told me to sit down.

Stop it.

I take a deep breath and force myself to do the simple thing he asked. Bread in toaster. Check. “Do you want butter?”

“It’s out. Right there. Plates in that cupboard and silver in this drawer right by my hip.”

His dishes are sparse, only a few cups and plates and bowls, and they don’t match, but they’re nice pottery in swirly patterns, kind of all the same. “Did you make these?”

He snorts. “Yeah, don’t tell anybody. Found out ceramics were not my talent, but I like these pieces. Gotta have some dishes, right?”