* * *
I slid out of bed half an hour later, dragging the top sheet off with me–toprotectmymodesty, of course. He laughed as I trailed the bedsheet across the bedroom with me in search of last night’s dress.
“I hung it in the closet,” he said, and I spun around to face him.
“What a gentleman,” I said, inclining my head and doing a half curtsey in my makeshift gown. He nodded his own head in acknowledgement, smirking.
“Yeah, well,” he called as I entered a walk-in closet almost as big as my studio, filled with a seemingly endless array of dark, staid suits: a conservative job, then. My dress–a springy green number with pale blush flowers all over it–was immediately obvious, and I removed the straps from the fancy padded suit hanger, wiggling it up over my hips. “I do havesomegood qualities.” I spotted a pale lavender dress shirt among the hangers filled with white and pale blues and smiled. Was that his little private rebellion?
“Oh, I amwell aware,” I said, sticking my head out of his closet as I attempted to do up the zipper, hands behind my back. “I experienced several of them last night. And this morning.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively, and his face crinkled into a wide smile. He was still lying on his side, naked–his sheet now on his closet floor–but as I gave him an exaggerated once over, he laughed, sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed.
“C’mere,” he said, and I went, half-dressed, to stand between his knees, bending forward for a kiss–but instead, he spun me around, his knees on either side of mine, and slid up the zipper, inch by inch. It ended mid-back, and he placed a gentle kiss right at the top as he closed the hook and eye. “There,” he said, and his voice, low and warm and husky, made me shiver. Gettingundressed, sure, but gettingdressed? It had never felt particularly sexy until just now.
“Thanks,” I murmured, feeling the heat creep up on my cheeks–and down into my belly–as he smoothed his hands over the fabric that now covered my waist, down to my hips, where he gave a gentle shove. I stepped away, taking a deep breath.
He stood, moving efficiently to his closet. I was still collecting myself when he emerged a moment later in khakis and a white Oxford he was in the middle of buttoning. I hoped desperately that he wasn’t about to ask me to brunch or something–but the monotony of his closet had made it clear that this was probably casual to him.No ratty sweatpants for the man who lives in a house likethis, I thought.
“Coffee?” he asked, smiling when I nodded gratefully. “Come on. I can probably scrounge up some breakfast, too.”
I followed him down the hallway to the stairs, and down to the main floor of the house. I’d only gotten a glimpse of it in low lighting last night, but this morning–wow. I hadn’t really known that places like thisexistedin the city: homes with wide hallways, with tons of windows, with spacious living rooms containing deep, full-size couches, not the miniscule apartment-size loveseat I had in my studio. With pretty, built-in bookshelves that went all the way up, nine feet, to the ceiling. Ryan turned toward the kitchen, but I wandered over to the last to check out his collection–and my heart stopped as I reached out to pluck a book from a vast array of similar titles.
I stared down at the familiar cover: a tweenage fairy frolicked on a brightly colored background. He must have had a hundred of the things. Almost as many as my school–myformerschool–had in the library. A tendril of worry twined around the base of my skull.Remember, you’ve been laid off, Flora,the vine whispered,as well as laid.
“You’re a fan, too?” Ryan asked from where he stood in a brightly lit kitchen–warm wood and white tile–making coffee. I stared up at him, trying to keep the horror from my face.
“I, uh…” I said as the worry grew roots and my brain whirled out of control:I knew he was too good to be true. No adult man–or woman, oranyone–would ever voluntarily read more than, like, four of these books, at absolute maximum, unless they were a teacher, or a librarian, or…
My eyes snagged on the fridge behind him. A brightly colored flyer with the unmistakable grid of a school calendar. A certificate of completion bearing, in bouncy capital letters, MADDIE. A lovingly drawn picture of a fairy–Jade the Jungle Fairy, if I wasn’t mistaken, looking back at the beginner novel I still had clutched in my hands.
…Or a parent.
“My daughter loves those things,” he said with a twist of his lips as I continued staring at the glittery cover. His voice was hesitant when he added, “Pleasedon’t tell me you loved them when you were seven, too. That will make me feel… older than I already do.” I looked up to see him grimacing shyly at me over two steaming mugs of coffee.
Last night’s hook-up’s reading preferences remained unknown, but they didn’t matter. He was old enough to be the father of one of mystudents.Formerstudents, I corrected myself again, butoh god, what if she was literally one of my students? If I’d had any intention of seeing Ryan again–and I couldn’t say the thoughthadn’tcrossed my mind–I knew that I couldn’t entertain them further. If I was looking for a no-strings-attached hook-up, a handsome older man was one thing, but a handsomesingle dadwas another thing entirely.
Hewassingle, right?
“Sorry, I–” he said, and I realized I’d left him waiting for a response.
“Oh, no, not at all,” I said with a forced smile. “I read, um, the Dead Sea Scrolls. First editions.”
“Older than me, then,” he said with a smile, seeming genuinely relieved that I was joking around.
“Only by a few years, I’d think,” I said, and he laughed. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “You aren’tmarried, are you?”
He froze halfway to the table, mugs in hand, and stared up at me. “Oh, Flora,godno. I’m divorced.”
Well, that was a relief,I thought, followed quickly by,Who would divorcehim?He wore a pained expression, but looking at his handsome face, his elegantly disheveled casual clothes, hishouse, it was hard to imagine someone being so unhappy… Remembering the way he touched me last night. This morning.
I shook myself. What a stupid thought to have. I obviously needed coffee.
“Ah,” I said, non-committal, as I came to sit at the table. What else could I say?I’m sorry? Congratulations? I’ve never slept with anyone divorced before? Is your ex broke now, like my mom was for so long?
“Years ago,” he clarified, as he placed the mugs on the kitchen table, one on his side, one on mine. “It was amicable. That’s who my daughter’s with now. Milk? Sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
He turned back to the fridge, and I watched the drawings and calendars and accolades flutter as he swung the French doors open to reveal an interior stocked with vegetables. Fresh fruit. Brightly colored yogurts and tiny cheeses in their own little wax wrappers. Afamily’sfridge, not abachelor’s.
