53 Letters For My Lover (28 page)

I shake my head.

“What?” he asks.

“My lover thinks I’m a bundt cake.”

“Say that again.”

“My lover thinks I’m a bundt cake?”

“I love when you call me your lover,” he growls.

It’s another few hours
before we manage to drag ourselves out of bed.

“Farm fresh eggs, homemade preserves, strawberries, peaches...You picked up a lot more than take-out last night.”

“I stopped by a farmer’s market.” He kisses me on the cheek. “You want tea or coffee?”

“Tea,” I reply, watching the oil sizzle on the frying pan.

“What’s wrong?” he asks when he catches my frown.

“I don’t know how you like your eggs.”

His arms encircle me. “Fuck the eggs. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It
is
the eggs,” I reply. “It’s just...being so close and yet not knowing anything about you.”

He switches the stove off and turns me around. “I like veggie omelettes. I like my steak medium rare. I could eat a whole pan of your brownies. I like rock bands. Cordless drills. Monkeys. I love ‘The Godfather’. My bike. I don’t like that color when you mix green and brown. And I absolutely hate being possessed by a goat.”

“That’s the worst.”

“Right? When you can’t stop bleating and you’re pooping pellets all over the place.”

I rest my forehead against his chest and smile.

“Are we okay?” he asks, playing with a stray tendril.

“As long as you don’t start pooping pellets.”

“I’ll do my best.” He grins.

We have breakfast on the deck, under a cloudless sky, to the sound of loons and gently swaying trees.

“It’s even more beautiful in the day.”

“You like it here,” he observes over the rim of his cup.

“I’ve always wanted a place by the water,” I say.

He gives me a look that catches my heart like a flick from barbed wire.

I slip into the
yellow dress that Judy helped me pick out. With its flowy skirt, halter neck and nipped-in waist, it’s pin-up perfect for a sunny day. The white bird print adds a touch of whimsy that makes me smile.

Troy stops in the middle of his conference call when I walk into the living room. His eyes follow me into the kitchen as I tidy up.

“Fine,” he speaks into the phone, “but I want to see the reports. Have them couriered to my office.”

I look out the window, washing the dishes, listening to his voice, without listening to the words. If a parallel universe existed, this could be our life.

“You were wearing a yellow dress the first time I saw you.”

I spin around and find him leaning against the wooden beam by the counter.

“And you were wearing a grungy sweatshirt.”

“You smelled like roses.” He pulls me away from the sink. “No. Wait. Don’t say it. I was reeking of sweat.” He laughs.

His arms wrap around me and we shuffle around the kitchen to a silent waltz.

“Shayda.” He strokes my hair. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

He stops moving and traces the scar on my lip.

“It was a long time ago,” I whisper.

“I know.” The tenderness in his expression stuns me. “I knew something was up when you fought me off that first time. But I didn’t know what until after Zain’s accident. You wouldn’t take any of my calls. I had no news. I was going out of my mind. I looked you up, and there it was.”

“You looked me up?” I frown. “But it happened before Zain was born.”

“A man died, Shayda. That kind of stuff doesn’t just go away. And the sick, twisted fuck is lucky he’s dead. I couldn’t think straight for days. I’m so sorry for what he did to you.”

He did worse to Hafez. But you won’t find that in any archived news article.

In a strange way, Pasha Moradi was responsible for bringing us together. He is the reason Bob offered me the job, how I came to meet Troy, why I’m standing here today, in the circle of his arms. Had it not been for a monster, I would never have known this glorious love. And yet, had it not been for the same monster, Hafez would be whole and our relationship might have taken a different turn.

“It’s funny.” I start half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Life is funny.”

“Shhh.” He rocks me gently.

When I’m done, he wipes my cheeks. “I’ve changed my mind,” he declares.

“About what?”

“About being possessed by a goat. I’d much rather poop pellets for the rest of my life than see you cry.”

“I’d rather we skip both.” I break into a smile.

“Agreed. You know what else?” He grabs my hand. “We need to get out of here and make the most of this beautiful day.”

We follow the rustic
tiles past the gazebo, to the long, narrow strip of sand that hugs the lake. The shoreline is tucked away between tall pines on either side. Lounge chairs rest in shady spots.

“What’s that?” I point to a circle of grey pebbles with a white ‘X’ painted on it.

“Beats me.” He stands in the middle, inspecting it.

“The water is so clear,” I say, pulling him towards it.

We take off our shoes and wade into the lake. It sparkles with a million diamonds, cool, calm and serene.

Holding hands with him, walking in the sun, the swishing of the waves—the making of a perfect moment.

“So what are we doing today?” I ask.

“I thought we’d go into town, do a little sight-seeing, maybe some lunch.”

“Mmmm.” I stand on tip toe and taste his lips.

“Mmmm.” He holds the back of my head, deepening it.

He lowers me to the ground without breaking the kiss, or maybe I pull him down with me. It doesn’t matter. The pebbles on the beach, the water in the lake, the sun in the sky, fade away.

“Yessss,” he hisses between hot, breathy kisses as I rub against the outline of his desire.

I unzip his jeans and free him, gasping at the hard, sinewy weight of him. My need for him turns fierce and urgent. I give in to the whirl of raging emotions and kiss him with reckless abandon. He pushes my panties aside. I barely notice him pulling out the tampon before he embeds himself deep inside me.

“Ahhh.” I drag his mouth back to mine, clutching his shoulders, digging little crescent marks into his skin with my nails.

He pulls the hair back from my forehead, holding my face motionless as he starts a relentless rhythm that rocks my whole body.

“Tell me.” His eyes pierce mine with a ferocious need.

I moan, squeezing my eyes shut, but he presses his thumb and forefinger into my cheeks, squeezing until my lips purse open.

“Tell me,” he rasps, harder and faster, driving to a harsh staccato drive.

The intensity builds up to a fevered pitch. White hot bolts of lightning shoot through me. I wrap my legs around him as my toes curl in ecstasy. “I’m yours, Troy. Yours.”

“Mine!” He lifts my ankles over his shoulders and slams into me, his body shuddering with a jarring release.

“Mine, Beetroot. All mine.” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth as he spirals down from the heights of passion.

After wards, he flips me over so I’m lying on top of him, and brushes the sand off my back. Then he wraps both arms around me like he’s never going to let go.

August 6th, 2000 (2)

“Turn,” says Troy, holding
the shower head over me and letting the water trickle down my back.

Gritty sand gathers around my feet. “I think I have half the beach in my hair.” I laugh.

“It’s the price you pay for your sexy curls, Medusa.” He hands me the shower and lathers up my hair.

“Heyyy!” I laugh as his soapy hands move lower, cupping my breasts. “There’s no sand there.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” he replies. “The only thing I want chafing your nipples is this...” His teeth graze a soft peak before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking on it until I moan. The steamy stall feels hotter as he moves to my other breast, catching a droplet of water before it slips from the rosy tip.

“Your breasts are so incredibly yummy. They make me forget how sore you must be.” He steps back and smiles as I turn crimson at the thought of his hard, urgent possession by the lake.

“My turn.” I take over and start soaping him.

The hard, warm muscles of his pecs glisten under the shower. My hands slide across the tightness of his abdomen, and lower, to long, powerful thighs.

“You better stop, unless you want to keep waddling like a duck.”

“I’m not waddling like a duck!”

“You’re right. It’s more of a penguin shuffle.”

“Troy!”

“But it’s the sexiest penguin shuffle ever. You have no idea how much it turns me on, knowing I’m the cause of it.” He lets me feel just how true that is. “But I think you need some time to recover, Beetroot.” He turns around, giving me his back.

I gasp.

“What?” he asks.

I trace the long red lines my nails have left down his back.

“Ah. Well, I didn’t get away scot-free either.” He laughs.

We step out of
the shower and into fluffy, white towels. I dry myself, watching him wipe a circle off the steamed-up mirror. He shaves the old-fashioned way, with a brush and shaving cream, applying lather in swirling motions until his face is covered.

“That is so hot,” I say, watching his very male ritual.

His razor halts mid-stroke as our eyes meet in the mirror. He completes the stroke, elongating his neck, making me want to press little kisses along the exposed flesh.

“Come here.” He turns around and anchors me between his legs.

The fresh, male scent of him is amplified by steamy heat, sending a hot zing to the pit of my stomach.

“Will it always be like this?” I ask.

“Always.” He hands me the razor.

“I don’t think I can do it.”

He takes my hand and guides me. “Keep your hand steady, keep the razor angled. Like this.”

We do the first few strokes together. Then he lets go, giving me his cheek, his chin, his neck, all the while watching me with eyes that make me want to lick him all over. His hands stay on my hips and he sits very still, his breath fanning my face in an incredibly erotic way.

“Again,” he says. “This time, feel with your hand first.” He takes my palm and rubs it against his skin. “Feel how the hair grows, then shave in that direction.”

I close my eyes and memorize the planes of his face, the space between his nose and lips, the line under his jaw, the feel of rough stubble, the patches of smooth skin.

“I get it,” I say.

I get this face. I get the man behind this face. I get the love rushing to my fingertips.

“Shayda.” His breath is soft and warm. Always the way he says it, like wind in my hair. He leans his forehead on my chest.

I kiss the top of his head. Then I reach behind him and draw on the foggy mirror.

“Come on.” I pick up the brush and start lathering his face. “We need to finish what we started.”

This time, my strokes are smooth and steady. I hand him a towel and turn him around. “What do you think?”

At first he doesn’t notice it. He splashes cold water on his face and looks in the mirror again. That’s when he sees the writing in the lower left corner.

BB♥SC

His fingers touch the pane, leaving two smudges underneath.

“I knew that.” He smiles. “But it’s nice to have it in writing.” He turns to me with a gaze that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. “Beetroot Butterfly, you just made Scary Cherry the happiest man in the world.”

“Wow,” I remark as
we drive down Queen Street, past charming inns, boutiques and elegant architecture. It’s like a glimpse into a well-preserved 19th century village.

“It isn’t called the prettiest town in Ontario for nothing.” He covers my hand with his. “You haven’t been here before?”

I shake my head as he backs into a parking spot.

“In that case, we’ll have to take a trip back in time.”

I turn down the visor and adjust my wig in the mirror. “Where are we going?” I ask, slipping on the classic aviators I picked up at Ken and Judy’s.

“Somewhere where that outfit is going to feel a little out of place,” he replies.

I look down at myself. Frye harness boots in vintage leather, black jeans and a heather grey t-shirt with ‘The Beatles, Liverpool 1962’ printed under a photo of the group. “I thought you said you like it.”

“I said I
love
it! You look like a sexy rocker chick.”

“But?”

“But nothing. It’s perfect.” He smiles with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Come on.” He tucks my arm under his and leads me down the strip.

Baskets full of colorful flowers hang from old-fashioned lamp posts, lining beautifully maintained heritage buildings. We walk past eclectic shops, outdoor cafes and charming window displays.

“Oh, look.” I peer into a store, admiring a claw-footed bathtub with brushed nickel legs.

“That’s just begging for you, me and bubble bath.”

“You have a totally one track mind.”

“I think that’s already been well-established,” he grins.

At the intersection of Queen and King Streets, he pulls me into an elegant red brick building with an ornate victorian façade. The sign reads ‘Prince of Wales Hotel ESTABLISHED 1864’.