Authors: Doyle MacBrayne
She looked over at her bag, “So I can go home?”
Ben scoffed, “No, you smacked your head, you’re in shock. Unless you want to explain why there’s a man in your bed to your mom, you’re spending the night here or in the hospital under observation.”
“Ben, the doctor said I’m fine,” she replied.
“Yeah, well tough shit. This is the way it is.” Ben glared.
She turned around, waved her hand and called out, “I’m calling Patrick.”
Ben stood up, shook Gray’s hand and whispered, “Remember what I told you when I first met you Poole?”
“Yes, I do.” Gray remembered his comment about not hurting ‘his’ Jane.
“It’s still true. Richard has business partners; I don’t know how involved they were with this. She’s not to go home until I say so.”
Gray rolled his eyes, “Why does she tolerate you?”
Ben smiled, “I’m like nail fungus, I grow on you after a while and then you can’t get rid of me.” He opened the front door and called out, “Love ya Janie, I’ll call you later.”
He found Jane in his kitchen, familiarizing herself with things while talking on the phone with Patrick.
“I promise you I’m ok, I’m worried about him though. He’s totally gone Rambo. He seriously needs some estrogen.” She listened and then said quietly, “Don’t let him do anything illegal, please. Yes you can, he will do anything for you… How’s Mom?”
Gray ambled up, leaned against his oven with his arms crossed until he caught her eye. He saw her stop, and then said breathily, “I should go, thanks, keep him out of trouble. Love ya, bye.” The room crackled with sexual tension. Her breath turned shallow, and she licked her bottom lip.
“I think I’ll see what Patrick packed me; he said he’s left me a surprise.” She pulled up on the pant legs so they didn’t drag on the floor and looked back, “Although I have to say, these are the softest sweats I’ve ever felt.”
He smirked, “They are my favorite too. I like you in my t-shirt.”
She sat down on the floor in front of her bag and opened it, picked out a pair of black yoga pants, fuzzy socks, and a silk cable knit cream sweater she made years ago.
“What’s that look for?” Gray asked, amused by her angelic expression.
“He knows me; he’s packed my favorite clothes.”
“What’s the surprise?”
Jane peered in the box and then gasped and closed the bag tight, “Well, it appears you’ve passed the best friend’s test.”
Gray motioned toward the bag; he asked drily, “What’s that, exactly?”
“My best friend approves of you. That’s all you need to know.” She zipped the bag up, grabbed the pants and sweater and hurried to the bathroom to change.
When she returned, Gray and her bag were missing from the living room. “Gray?”
“Up here.” She wandered upstairs and moved into the sitting room, it was situated between the master bedroom and two more bedrooms at the back of the house. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, with bookshelves on either side. Above the fireplace was a large framed Seurat painting.
“Hi,” he said wearing that lopsided grin, black sweats that hung below his waist and a grey t-shirt that accentuated his broad chest nicely. He smirked, “I put your bag in here, since you know, I passed the best friend’s test and Ben insists.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Ben is over-protective, a character flaw, in my opinion.” She handed him his sweats and t-shirt. “Thanks for loaning these.”
He grinned, “You look adorable, but I really hope I get to see you in this.” He held up a powder blue thong.
She snatched it out of his hand, and he laughed. “Should I be jealous, Ms. Eyre, that another man knows which lingerie you prefer?”
“No, you don’t need to be jealous. I can’t believe you looked in my bag.”
“My curiosity was piqued, and my imagination was running wild making me insanely jealous.”
“Insane and jealous. That is not a good combination, Mr. Poole.” She said lightly.
“I agree, and yet it’s how I feel.” He looked at her closely, “And how do you feel, Ms. Eyre?”
“What can I say to alleviate your insecurities?” She shook her head, “I don’t need more insanity in my life.” She looked up shyly at him, “Gray, I like what we have.”
She looked at him and softly said, “I could not be jealous of your love for your wife, think of Patrick in that manner. He was my first boyfriend and remains my best friend.” His face changed from amused to suspicious.
She looked at him carefully and teased, “You are jealous, Mr. Poole.”
He nodded and added in a serious tone, “I wish to have you to myself Ms. Eyre, and cannot bear to think of you with another.”
She cocked a brow, wanting to bring him back to a lighter tone, “How am I to feel, Mr. Poole, it is not just for you to wish me a virgin, when you yourself are a widower?”
He groaned, “Perhaps we should agree that today we begin anew?”
She smiled ruefully, “Are you capable of believing such a romantic idea? I cannot imagine it. I am too concrete, I fear, and yet I find solace in that the making of the man before me today is molded by his past. That is where I find my acceptance, reluctant as it may be.”
He could not hold her eyes, “I fear my heart is too invidious. I cannot find peace in the creation of the woman before me as a result of her past experiences.”
She touched his arm, gently caressing it, “You were concerned that I so am young, and now you wish me an infant?”
He looked at her, apologetic, “Yes, I wish to have it all.” He placed his hand over hers, “Jane, I cannot stand to think of you with another man, and yet I cannot stand to think that I would steal your virtue.”
She laughed, “You are in a pickle sir.” She grinned up at him, “Is it like that for all men?”
He shrugged, “I don’t know.” He held her gaze for a moment, “Jealousy is my vice Jane, that and my need to possess you.” Jane’s breath hitched, but she said nothing.
After carefully consideration, she leaned toward him, whispering, “I do not wish to be an object of possession. As for jealousy, I offer myself to you and you alone.”
He placed his hand over hers, “Thank you Jane. Possession has many meanings my dear Jane, I do not wish to dominate or control, although…” he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “That has some merit.”
“Stop right there Gray. I do not want to be dominated, ever. I enjoy our time together because we challenge each other.” She stepped back, “You’re a little intense, you know.”
He rubbed his hand threw his hair and sighed, “I’ve heard that, yeah.” He looked at her carefully, “Too intense?”
Her stomach flipped, “Uh, I can’t think when you look at me like that.”
“No?” his eyes darkened and he closed the distance between them. He grabbed her head, hands on either side, careful to avoid the lump on the back of her head. He kissed her gently on her forehead, her nose, her cheek and trailed kisses to her lips.
“So I may challenge you?” he asked between kisses.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly, wrapping her hands around his biceps and pulling him closer.
“And I may control your tongue?” his hands wrapped around her waist, trailing down and cupping her buttocks. She gasped and released his arms. He didn’t relent, until he realized her hands were now on his chest, pushing him back.
“Yes, you may control my tongue and more, but right now my bottom is bruised.”
He chuckled, “I’m sorry Jane. I got carried away.”
“Really sir,
you
lost control?” She asked teasing.
“Yes, Jane. I find myself lost when you are not with me, and wanting to lose myself in you.” His hand gently cupped her face, and he kissed her forehead, “Come, I am hungry. Feed me wench.”
In the kitchen she turned and asked him “And what does my lord like for supper?”
He rubbed his stomach, and opened the refrigerator door, “How about pasta? I think I have some ravioli in here?” He opened up a drawer and pulled out a package of fresh spinach and feta ravioli.
“Oh, yes please.” She took the package and then nudged him away, “We need tomatoes, garlic, oh my, fresh basil.” She stood up and kissed him on the nose, “You sir, are a pleasing mystery.”
“A pleasing mystery? Because I have fresh basil?”
“Do you cook for yourself?”
He grinned, “Yes Jane, I cook.”
“And do you enjoy cooking?”
“Sometimes, and sometimes I would rather just eat peanut butter on a spoon.”
She giggled, “With red wine or white?”
He pulled her close, “Beer Jane. I believe you are mocking me.”
“No sir, I would never mock Mr. Poole.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, “I am intrigued by all things Grayson Poole.”
“I suggest you start our supper before I start something else Jane.” His eyes had darkened and she recognized he was not threatening, but promising.
She nodded, “Ok food first.” She turned back to the refrigerator, pulled out romaine, bacon, cream, and finally closed the door.
He was grinning stupidly, “First? What do you have planned second, Ms. Eyre?”
She looked at him, and groaned, “Quit, or you will not be fed. Do you have olive oil?”
“Of course.” He went to the pantry and set it on the counter. “What else does my lady require?”
“Pot for the ravioli, and a pan for the sauce, also a bowl for salad, if you please.” She washed her hands in the sink.
“Do you like to cook Jane?” he asked as he set the table.
She turned and smiled, “I find it therapeutic, my mother is herself in the kitchen, and meals between the two of us are diverting.” She grimaced, “Unlike brunch. God, that was a nightmare, I could have killed you that day.”
He grinned, “I’ll make the salad. The problem of brunch, however, was entirely your cousin’s doing.”
Jane began mincing garlic, “Don’t blame James, you could have easily refused to go.”
“Ah, but the problem there Jane, is that I cannot stand the idea of you with another, as we discussed previously. Had I not attended the brunch, you might have found yourself compelled to spend an evening with Mr. Sanders or Mr. Blake.”
She rolled her eyes, added the garlic and some oil to the pan and began heating the garlic. “I’m surprised Mr. Poole, I don’t recall their names and yet you do.”
“I am, in fact, possessive, Ms. Eyre. I believe I have explained that before.”
“You did sir.” She diced the fresh tomatoes, “Gray, why did you take me to the stairwell to talk?”
He looked at her curiously, “Why do you ask?”
Jane turned down the heat on the garlic, started the water for the ravioli and leaned against the stove. “I had assumed you wished to see me privately, and now I discover that was not the case. I am merely curious as to your motives.”
“As was I, at the time. There is no surveillance in my office, and I wished to talk with your privately, but I also realized that if it was too private, you could say I had done something inappropriate and I would have no evidence, other than my word.”
She returned to the pot and said tartly, “So I guess you don’t date much.”
“Other than my regrettable invitation to the symphony, I have not pursued a woman romantically.” He touched her chin and raised her eyes to his, “Jane, since Lizzy’s death, I have been hunted by the most rapacious females your sex has to offer. Forgive me if I was concerned that the predators had found a new method of attack.”
“Do I make you feel like prey, sir?” she grinned sardonically.
“No Jane, you make me feel like the man I want to be.” He held her gaze and grinned when her breath hitched. She returned to cooking, musing over what he had said.
She turned toward him, wooden spoon in hand, “You ask me whether or not I think you’re crazy, and then get all weirdly jealous because Perkins asks me out?”
“I was cautious of your true motives, yes.” He looked at her warmly, “It did not take me long to realize you were more prey than predator.”
She looked at him carefully, “Said the lion to the lamb.” She rolled her head around and looked at the clock. “I think I’m ready for more Tylenol.”
He kissed his forehead and then fetched the medicine. “Do you want red or white wine with dinner?”
“Convention suggests white wine with pasta,” she answered, but preferred a good merlot or an oaky cabernet.
He asked in a mocking tone, “Ms. Eyre, are you conventional? That is an interesting question, is it not? Convention suggests you purchase your evening gowns rather than make them, live in the present day, expose your half-brother, further your own career even at your mother’s expense. Convention? I do not believe you are so fixed. Therefore, I ask again which would you prefer, my dear Jane?”
She grinned, “Red; merlot or cab, please.”