Everything You Need (5 page)

When the door closed behind her, Ashton wished that the windows were facing the street so he could observe her. He could still go to the storeroom and lift up the blinds, but instead he satisfied himself with pulling a used-up sketchbook out of the desk drawer. He put the book, with ‘Kate’ written in his narrow, curly handwriting on the cover, on the table and opened it. Kate’s face stared at him from the page. They were so similar, she and Kris. They had the same heart-shaped face, small nose, with Kris’s being slightly wider, and the same shape to their mouth. He leaned his elbows on the desk and buried his hands in his hair. “What am I doing?”

Chapter 5

The big round clock above the coffee station showed quarter to three. Kris lowered her gaze. Only fifteen minutes before the end of her shift, and half an hour before she was going to see
him
. At that thought heat crawled into her cheeks and her breath became laboured. He was going to touch her again, and he was probably going to stand so close that she would feel the warmth of his body and breathe in his manly scent. She was afraid of his closeness, but at the same time she wanted the light-headedness, the daze and the desire that wrapped around her every time his fingers brushed against her skin. She had never lusted for a man like this. It was strange and exciting and frightening, the way she wanted to push herself onto her toes and press his mouth against his. She doubted that she would succumb to that need, she had too much self-control, but she wanted to, oh, she wanted to toss all caution aside and just wrap her arms around him and see where her lust led her.

“Kris.”

She blinked.

“Kris!”

She lifted her gaze from the soapsuds in the sink, in which she was washing the glass pitcher that was too big to fit into the dishwasher, and turned toward her co-worker Callie. “Yeah?”

“Table four wants a check.”

“Right away.” She rinsed the pitcher, laid it upside down on a tray beside the sink, wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the table by the window. She produced the check from the holder, answered a few questions about local sights -- it turned out that the patrons were tourists -- and when she got back behind the counter, it was already three o’clock.

Callie invited her for a quick drink, but Kris refused, saying that she had some errands that she needed to do, and went to go through the rituals that accompanied the end of every shift. After she changed from her yellow staff shirt into her street clothes and slipped on her coat, cap, scarf and gloves, she was off. After fifteen minutes of rushing through the streets, she found herself climbing the gallery steps and nodding to Claudia, who occupied the reception desk. A few more steps and she was before Ashton’s studio door. She took a few deep breaths, then knocked.

“Come in.”

She opened the door and stepped inside.

Ashton stood behind the desk that had been pushed to the middle of the room, a pile of clay shaped into a head and shoulders set before him, a steel knot of wires visible at the side of the bust. “Hey.” He came around the desk, a stupid smile on his face.

There was something weird about him, and as he came closer and she saw his eyes, she knew immediately what. She had seen the same look often, too often and she hated everything about it. Whenever she saw it in her mother’s eyes, her knees ached and softened and she started to shake, while her hands became claws with which she wanted to scratch her mother’s face. “You’re drunk,” she accused him, her jaw locked.

“A friend stopped by and I had a shot -- maybe two or three -- of his blueberry brandy. You should try it. It’s really good.” He crossed his arms.

“I don’t drink alcohol. How can you be drunk from two shots?”

“I’m not drunk.” A line cut into his forehead. “I don’t get drunk so easily. I’m light-headed, and that’s only because I didn’t have breakfast. Or lunch.”

“Okay.” She passed him and lowered her brown bag at the feet of the sofa, slipped out of the coat and took off her cap and gloves and laid everything over the sofa’s back. “Let’s make you something, then.” She walked into the small kitchen, decorated in light green and yellow tones, with a stove, counter, sink and hanging cabinets on one side and a refrigerator, a tall and narrow cabinet and a crescent-shaped table with three stools on the other. Without waiting for his approval, she went to the refrigerator and opened it. There was almost nothing inside but a carton of milk, butter, bread -- why did he put his bread in the refrigerator? -- and some cheese. Since she saw a panini press and grill on the counter, which he must be using instead of a toaster, she could make him grilled cheese sandwiches.

He followed her into the kitchen, then leaned on the wall beside the breakfast nook and observed her as she took out the ingredients.

“Don’t stand there.”

He lowered himself onto the stool and rested his elbow on the crescent-shaped table. “What are you going to make me?”

“Grilled cheese sandwiches.” She smeared butter onto three slices of bread, topped each of them with a slice of cheese and another slice of bread, and put sandwiches onto a plate.

“I like this.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“You cooking for me.”

“It’s not cooking.” She turned on the panini press, opened it, put the three sandwiches on the grill then lowered the upper grill plate.

“Preparing me a meal then. Kate never --” He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking almost angry.

“Kate? Who’s Kate?” She faced him, set her hands on the counter behind her and leaned on them.

“It’s a long story.”

And something that he wasn’t about to elaborate on. She could respect that and relate to it, since there were things that she wasn’t willing to talk about either. Like her reaction to his tipsiness. Why did his slight intoxication bother her so much that she prepared food for him and was thinking of making coffee? Yes, her mother was a drunk, and drunks more often than not got on her nerves, especially the ones stumbling around. He wasn’t that drunk; if she hadn’t seen his eyes and if she wasn’t so familiar with the glassy glaze, she wouldn’t even know that he had been drinking.

“I think the sandwiches are done.”

“Yes.” She took them out, set them on the plate and turned the grill off. She offered him the plate.

He took it, laid it on the table, grabbed a sandwich and bit into it. “It’s hot,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Duh.”

“It’s really good.” He grinned as he tucked wayward strands of black hair behind his ear before he attacked the sandwich like a starving beast.

He was like a child. She smiled to herself. “Shall I make some coffee?”

He swallowed him mouthful. “Yes, please.”

In the cabinets she browsed for a coffee pot.

“There.”

She turned to him to see him pointing at the cabinet between the table and refrigerator. She stepped over to the cabinet, observing his eyes as she passed him, glad that they had lost their glassiness.

He caught her arm and dragged her to his stool. “What is it?”

“What?”

“They way you just looked at me... It’s like --” His mouth curled in a naughty smile. “Were you afraid that I would do something stupid?” He pushed her arm down, forcing her to bend over, until her eyes were at his level. His voice lowered. “Like kiss you?”

Small tremors shook her frame. “As if you would do that.”

“I would like to.” He tugged her closer and his eyes darkened as they lowered to her mouth.

She would like that too. She could already taste it, his kiss. It would be gentle and sensual, like the exploration of his fingers when they stroked her face, making her feel as if he were making love to her. Yeah, she definitely wanted his kiss. She didn’t know who moved, her or him, but the distance between their faces narrowed and she could feel the breeze of his breath against his mouth.

“I really want to kiss you, so badly.” His eyes found hers again.

She drowned in the blue of his irises. The eyes were windows to person’s soul, wasn’t that the saying? If that were true, then his soul was a vast ocean, deep and intense, and so mesmerizing. She swallowed and her eyes fluttered closed.

His mouth touched hers. It was the smallest of touches and yet sizzles of electricity shot up her spine. A wet caress slid against the line of her mouth and she opened up to it.

His hands framed her face and he pulled her into his lap while his mouth stole her breath and her sanity.

Her fingers curled around his strong shoulders for support. She was dizzy, disoriented and utterly lost in the pleasure of his touch.

With a peck, similar to the one with which he had started the kiss, he ended his sensual exploration of her mouth.

She refused to open her eyes yet, just breathing in, the air and his scent, wishing he would kiss her again.

He pressed his lips against the bridge of her nose.

She took a few deep breaths, which calmed the wild galloping of her heart, then she forced her eyes to open. She straightened and, with her hand against the table, she pushed herself away from him.
Just don’t think about it, about him. Empty your head
. “Coffee.” She went to the cabinet and opened it, spotting the coffee pot on the first shelf. She occupied herself with making the coffee, all the while evading his gaze, which she could feel on her back as she moved here and there around the kitchen.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said in the voice that betrayed regret.

“No!” She wheeled around. “No,” she repeated more softly, because if she said yes, he might not kiss her again. Oh, she wasn’t naive enough to believe that the kiss meant something. She knew that he was out of her league, and not only because of his looks, or the way he talked, moved and lived. He was out of her league because of who she was, a cold expressionless mouse, not able to hold a man’s interest for long. If she couldn’t keep the interest of her ex-boyfriend, Peter, who was only an ordinary average guy, how would she be able to keep the interest of a man like Ashton? This was just a moment in time, when their lives collided for a short spell before he moved on, disappeared like a shooting star. If he wanted to kiss her, she didn’t want to stop him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind it.”             

“Don’t mind it. Well, that’s something new.” His fingers combed through his hair. “What about...”

“What?”

He shook his head in dismissal and focused his attention on the remaining toast. He ate the toast and then cleaned the plate in the sink, while she finished making the coffee and poured it into two cups, adding milk to hers and sugar to his. With cups in their hands, they moved into the studio.

She nursed her cup in her hands, thinking of a way to end their session before it even began. She couldn’t stand him touching her right now, when she could still feel his mouth on hers, too afraid that she would lean into him and offer him not only her lips, but herself. She pulled her bag closer and rummaged through it until her fingers found the cold plastic of her phone. She pulled it out and checked its display. It was blank. No missed calls, no messages. She went to messages and browsed through the old ones, most of them from her mother, lists of the things she needed. “Oh.” She glanced up at Ashton.

His eyebrows lifted.

“I just got a message.” She shoved the phone back into the bag and stood up. “I’m sorry, something has come up and I have to go. I’ll -- we’ll do this another time.” She put on her coat and cap and shoved the gloves into the bag.

He rose up too and his gaze gave her an impression of worry. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Not serious
serious
, but important enough,” she lied as she crossed the studio’s hardwood flooring.

“Is there anything that I can do to help?”

“You’re already helping me enough as it is.” Her fingers curled around the doorknob and she gave him a last look over her shoulder, a small smile gracing her lips at the sight of him standing there, hands in his pockets, worry written on his handsome face and his black hair in wild disarray. She was such a coward, running away because a single kiss had muddled her brain enough that she wasn’t able to handle as simple a thing as a touch.
Shame on you, Kris
.

Chapter 6

Ashton’s knuckles pushed into the clay, gliding over it, spreading it more evenly over the metal base while his gaze went to a small clock on the wall, the clock he had just bought two days ago. It was one hour before Kris was due to arrive, if she was going to appear at all. She had run away yesterday. She might have had a not-serious emergency, but it felt as if she had run away, away from him. His fingers pressed too hard in to the clay and made a hole. He scowled and moved away from the desk.

What did he want from her? Everything that she was willing to give. He didn’t have to ask himself why, because he knew why. He selfishly wanted to bring Kate back from the dead through Kris. But Kris was not Kate. He knew that, he was very well aware of that, but the desire for her was there, burning inside him. He wanted to have her, to tie her to him and to possess her. But she wasn’t Kate. It was only an illusion, a dream he wanted to catch and hold onto, because since Kate’s spirit had faded and infection cut the fragile thread of her life, greyness had layered not only his painting, but also his soul. Sometimes life gave you a rainbow of colour and light in the form of a best friend’s bossy older sister and then cruelly took it all away. Now, since Kris had come into his life, a dash of colour had dispersed the greyness. That had happened a few times before, but no matter how much he held onto the light, it always slipped through his fingers like water. But this time he wanted to hold onto the colours that weren’t just a dimmed light, but a bright explosion. He wanted to hold onto
her
.

The hour before her arrival dragged on and he filled it by annoying Claudia, who in the end kicked him out of the gallery with an order to buy lunch for her at the Granny, a small restaurant nearby that offered home-style meals to go. It was always crowded there, at the counter, and it took him quite some time to order and get the food. It was already past three when he returned and, even though he hadn’t expected Kris to be there already, Claudia told him that she was waiting for him.

He hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time, and then when he reached the door, he stopped and slowly pushed down the door handle before he stepped inside.

Kris stood by the window, browsing through something on the desk, the grey light of the winter sky caressing her profile.

He closed the door, lifted his phone and took a picture of her.

At the sound of click, she wheeled around. “What was that?”

He lowered his phone and put it away in his pocket as he stepped deeper into the room. “I took a picture.”

“Why?”

“To use as a reference.” He pulled his jacket off and hung it over the back of the armchair that had found a permanent residence at his sofa’s side. “I was afraid you might not come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Her hand crawled over the pages of the book she had just been browsing through.

Was that his sketchpad? “Because of yesterday. I thought the issues you had might continue into today.” He strolled to her.

“They didn’t.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Yes, it was his sketchpad, the one with Kate’s pictures, the one he had taken out of the drawer two or three days ago and forgotten to put back. And now she had found it.

She half-turned back to the book and the weak sun again traced the side of her face. “She looks a lot like me, but she isn’t me.”

He could feel nervousness gathering at the back of his throat. “No, she’s not you.”

“Is that why you wanted me as a model?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

He steeled himself for a torrent of questions: ‘Who is she? What is your relationship with her?’ but not a single word left her mouth as she focused back on the book and leafed through the pages, while silence descended over them, suffocating and heavy. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, ready to explain, only to shut it again. All he had to offer her were lame excuses that would only obscure that truth and she deserved more that. He moved closer to her. “Do you want to go out?”

“Huh?” Her green eyes looked at him, her expression blank.

It irritated him that he couldn’t read her.
Talk to me, tell me what’s on your mind right now
. “I’m not in the mood for this --” he waved at the studio “-- right now. And I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Would you keep me company anyway? I hate to eat alone,” he said and then added, “The time you spend with me would count the same as if you posed me.”

A moment of silence. “Okay. Are we going right now?”

He inwardly sighed, wishing she would be more enthusiastic about it. “Yes.”

She nodded and went to put on her coat.

He slipped on his jacket.

They went out of the studio, down the stairs and out onto the street. Without any idea where they should go, he led her to the Granny. People still crowded before the counter. They passed it and went into a narrow room decorated in red and beige, with two rows of the tables before them. There was no natural light, only artificial glare coming from the square lights above. They chose the third table from the left and sat down. They ordered, first the drinks, then the food; she spinach-stuffed zucchini, he roast beef and mashed potatoes. They ate in silence, broken by his monologues about the weather and about how he wanted to return to shaping metal, but for that he would need a bigger space.

After the waitress cleared away their plates, he rested his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

Her eyebrows rose.

“This silence. You not talking to me?”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

Yes, he could imagine. “It must have come as a surprise, finding out that I only asked you to pose for me because you resemble somebody else.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Why not?
It was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it, too afraid of her answer.

“I’m grateful.” The hand that had been playing with her glass withdrew and she hid it under the table. “Because of you I didn’t have to find another job.”

That wasn’t what he had wanted to hear. He rubbed the back of his head, then slid his fingers up to catch strands of hair among them, and tugged them. Her words, her attitude, it was frustrating. She should be mad at him; she should hurl words of anger at him, not distance herself. Because that was what she was doing, sliding away from him, becoming the withdrawn closed up girl he had met in the beginning. “Don’t do this, please.”

“Do what?”

“Clam up.”

“Clam up,” she quietly repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re closing up. I’m sorry. I should have told you from the start.”

“I already told you that it doesn’t matter.” She sighed tiredly. “It’s not as if you lied to me. I never asked you why you wanted me as a model, and even if I had known that it was because I resemble somebody you know, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

I knew,
he silently corrected her.
Because you resemble somebody I knew and loved -- love, because the love is still here
. In a form of a small ache it lingered in his heart, showing its teeth every time Kate's face flashed before his eyes. The pain had cut deeply into him the first time he saw Kris, the loss and want so sharp and bitter on his tongue that he thought that he had bitten it off. But now, the loss of his love had lost its raw edges as if Kris’s presence smoothed them out. “If it wouldn’t change a thing, why are you giving me the cold shoulder?”

“I’m not giving you the cold shoulder.” Her two fingers touched the spot between her eyebrows, pressed into it, then slid up and down. “Not everything is about you. I have a small problem. Actually it’s not a problem yet, but it will probably become one.”

“Does this have anything to do with the reason why you needed money?”

“No.”

“Is there anything that I can do to help?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Are you certain?”

“It’s nothing serious. I just...” A tired sigh left her throat. “I’m losing my tenant at the end of spring.”

That was all, and here he had been worrying for nothing. “That’s a few months away.”

“Do you know how hard it is to find somebody suitable?” she said. “Or how hard it is to get rid of jerks once you sign a contract with them?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

The waitress came to ask them if they wanted anything else while she fluttered her eyelashes at him. After Kris shook her head in a ‘no,’ he requested the bill, which he paid and they left.

He stuck close to her as they walked down the street, observing her as she snuggled deeper into the warmth of her scarf, her head lowered. She looked vulnerable and the sadness that had almost faded away in the past few days clung to her again. He opened the door of the gallery for her and followed her inside.

“Ashton,” a voice called.

He stopped and glanced to the side, in the direction the voice had come from. He saw Mary stand up from the armchair in the reception area. She was coming toward him.

Kris, who lingered beside him, pushed off her cap and unwrapped her scarf, letting it hang from around her neck, then started to unbutton her coat.

“Go on up, I’ll be right behind you in a minute” he told Kris before his eyes returned back to Mary, whose stride slowed to a drag of legs, while she scowled at Kris.

Kris started to climb up the stairs.

Mary neared, her eyes following the blonde until she reached the landing and disappeared out of view.

He crossed his arms, aware that Mary would not let Kris’s appearance pass without comment.

As soon as Mary stood before him and opened her mouth, a string of lectures came out of it, with the word ‘crazy’ repeated in every sentence, while her eyes accusingly stared at him. “Seeing her can’t be healthy for you. You have to stop --”

“It’s none of your business,” he cut her off.

“How dare you say that to me?” With her arms akimbo, she leaned closer to him, her gaze dark and her face twisted into something akin to hurt and disappointment. “When I have been there for you all these years? Do you even know what I had to go through because of you? Do you?”

He didn’t like how her voice rose. He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the entrance and away from Claudia’s curious eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said to her, because she was his friend and he loved her, but he had never asked for her help or sought her out; she was always the one who came to him and cooed over him. It wasn’t that he ever minded her presence, but he hadn’t welcomed or encouraged it, either. She might have imagined that she had something to do with his climbing out of his dark hole of despair, but she didn’t. He might have toned down his destructive behaviour -- he fought and drank less and he never raced his bike anymore -- but he was still down there, in the clutches of despair; it just wasn’t as cold and sharp as before. He was still searching for the rope and for a ray of light, for the reason to exist, but that went past her unnoticed.

“Oh, Ash, why do you torture yourself like this?” Her expression softened and she reached out to touch his face.

He evaded her hand. “How do I torture myself?”

Her eyebrows descended low over her brown eyes. “She looks like Kate.”

“Yes, she does.” He pushed his hands into his pockets.

“Are you fucking her?”

“She’s my model.”

“As if that ever stopped you before.”

She had a point. “No, I’m not fucking her.”

“But you want to? Why I am even asking?” She pinched her mouth together. “Of course you want to. She’s not Kate!”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

“Yes, really,” he said in a low, monotone voice. “Mary, you are my friend and I love you, but if you think that you have the power to dictate what I can and can’t do, think again.”

“Ash.” Her hand touched his shoulder. “I’m only concerned about you.”             

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Does Kalen know?”

“No. I have no intention of telling him.”

“Then I will.”

“Be my guest.” He valued his all but lifelong friendship with Kalen, and he valued his opinion, but not even he would be able to prevent him from seeing Kris, something that Mary seemed so set on. “Now if that is all, I have work to do.” He turned on his heel.

“Ash.” Mary’s hand wrapped around his arm.

Over his shoulder, he glanced at her, ready to shake her off, but seeing her face, which looked as if she was going to cry, he said in a soft voice, “Right now, I have work to do, but if you have time on Saturday evening, we could go out drinking, like old times.”

“I have time.” She withdrew her hand.

He frowned, just remembering he had visitors this week. “Next Saturday would be better.” At the sight of the disappointment that slumped her shoulders, he explained, “My parents are in town and my mother insists on me having dinner with them all weekend. If you want to, you can join us for dinner on Saturday.”

Her face lit up. “I would like that.”