“How about you? This your first festival?”
“Heck, no.” Should she be honest with him? She really wanted this. Might as well be daring. “First one I’ve really enjoyed, though.”
“Me too.” He grinned and headed down Biltmore Avenue.
****
As the first colors of twilight painted themselves onto the clouds overhead, Leyla and Arran walked through the rose garden at the UNCA botanical gardens, hand in hand. She could hardly believe this was happening. She’d hoped for a simple meeting, a conversation. Instead, he’d swept her off her feet.
They’d lingered over a late lunch of roasted vegetable panini, followed by strawberry-and-lemon custard pie at the Stable, a casual restaurant built on the site of the former stables of the estate, the booths constructed from the wrought iron and solid wood of the old stable panels. When the staff politely eased them out at closing, they’d left the restaurant and strolled the gardens.
She learned that he refused to wear the glasses he’d been prescribed in junior high, because he thought they made him look old; that she’d been right that he didn’t drink, since he came from a family of alcoholics; and that his fear of needles had kept him from getting the typical rock star tattoos.
She shared that her mother had left just before Leyla went to kindergarten, that she’d always thought cats sucked the breath out of people while they slept, which is why she wanted a cocker spaniel puppy, and that science fiction shows had always been her favorite.
“So you grew up fast,” Arran observed, reaching out to gently touch one of the tea roses along the walk.
“Had to. My dad worked all the time, and I kept house, cooked, you know, all that.”
She walked beside him, close but not touching, noting others’ glances at them. People stared. Did they recognize Arran, or was it the smile on her face, the one she couldn’t control, her delight warm and shining through?
He laughed, but it wasn’t an amused sound, more a bond of understanding. “My parents really quit keeping track of me about the time I turned fourteen. They spent more time finding the bottom of their bottles.” He hunkered down to examine the leaves of a plant. “So it seems like we both had to grow up on our own.”
“Well, kind of.” She didn’t feel sorry for herself. She really didn’t want him thinking she was just another loser. “I had plenty of friends, too. So I got out of the house a lot. Spent a lot of time running from reality, actually.”
“Oh, I know. Me, too.” He grinned. “Some pretty bad years there, about age fifteen, sixteen. I’m surprised I’m still alive, actually.”
She wondered what he’d done that was so bad. She knew her own sins. She’d bet everything in her wallet that they’d echo each other.
We’ve got time to discover all our shadows.
“Amazing,” was all she said.
The scent of flowers all around them, she added, “I did write some pretty bad poetry.”
“See, now, poetry—well, lyrics—saved me. I had a lot of friends who liked to jam, so I got a guitar and started writing music.”
“You’re very gifted,” she said. “Can I say that without sounding sappy?”
He stood up, close enough to look deep into her eyes. “You can say it all you like.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. “I mean, I guess everyone tells you that. For me, it’s so true. Like your song ‘That Girl’s the One I Love
.
’ The details you put in there, about that girl, the taste of her, the way her hair looked in the sun, the soft pitch of her voice. I know she’s real.” She kept her gaze locked on his. “Isn’t she?”
“She is. Was.” He looked away, his jaw set. She could tell he’d felt pain with that relationship, and she was sorry to have reminded him.
By the time they got to the greenhouse, she felt like she’d known him for months. They seemed to be on the same wavelength or cellular vibration or something; they synced like no one else she’d ever met.
The biggest surprise of all came as they toured the greenhouse.
He stood in front of the shelf where several purple orchids decorated the delicate stems they were attached to, so many of them it seemed impossible the stem could hold them upright. “Did you know orchid seed is so small it would take thirty thousand to weigh as much as one grain of wheat?”
“What?” She eyed him with some dubiousness. “Why would you say that? How would you know that?” She glanced around them for the fact sheet he must have pulled that trivia from.
“It’s true.” He shrugged. “I could tell you almost anything you’d want to know about horticulture. I was going to be a farmer when I grew up.”
Still in disbelief, she laughed. “You. A farmer. For real?”
Quite solemn, he nodded. “Got three-quarters of the way through Florida A&M, working on a degree in agronomy. Would have made it, too, except my…my old man drank up all the money I’d hidden in the bank for school.” He bit his lip, trapping whatever pejorative term he’d been about to call his father. “I always meant to go back, but once I started playing guitar seriously, I never made it.”
He continued to stare at the flowers, lost now in some memory of the past, one that obviously hurt him. She changed the subject, wanting to lighten the mood again. “I like this one,” she said, pointing to a bright pink flower identified as oleander.
“I’d make a different choice. That one’s poison.”
She yanked her hand back. “Oh, my gosh!”
He laughed. “Here. Now if this was my greenhouse, I’d give you...” He studied her a minute. “A string of white dendrobium, like little butterflies. You could pin them in your hair, right here.” He reached over to tap her head gently, then his hand slid down her hair to her neck, while he looked into her eyes.
She felt such a connection that almost without conscious thought she moved a little closer. His hand drew her in, till they stood inches apart, gaze still locked. Her lips parted, as if she intended to speak. Nothing came out. Before she knew it, he’d stepped in to kiss her. Right then she knew they wouldn’t leave each other till the morning.
He seemed to feel the same way, because after they left the greenhouse at the estate, they went down to the Grove Arcade, looking in shop windows, then out to the botanical gardens, all the time holding hands and talking. If she could have predicted what a “soulmate” might be for her, someone who seemed to share so many common qualities, right down to their favorite peanut butter cup ice cream, she’d have chosen someone like Arran. A man who took no effort to be with. Someone she could really be herself with. No matter what she was wearing, or how her hair looked, or how much she earned.
It was time.
When they reached the end of the path at the rose garden, she whispered, close to his ear, “Why don’t you come home with me?”
He drew back, his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? You’ve just met me.”
Another surprise. She’d always believed men were hardwired to say yes any time they were propositioned.
Arran was indeed out of the ordinary.
“I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve even got a couple of Danish in the refrigerator for breakfast. And coffee.”
“Breakfast, hm?” He studied her a long moment. “Leyla, I don’t want you to think that because I sing in a band means I just use women. I’d never take advantage of you.”
Now, that could be one hell of a line. Maybe it was. But his eyes were so sincere. She didn’t want to frighten him off, not now. That kiss had promised much more. “Guess I don’t usually stalk guitarists and throw myself at them, either. Does that make us even?”
He actually blushed. “Hey, I’m the one who asked you to lunch.” He held out his right hand. “Let’s call it a draw.”
She took his hand and shook it. “Deal.”
He let go and slipped an arm around her waist, his hold on her possessive. She did the same. “Which way to your place?”
****
In the morning, the sun was high when she woke up to find him gone.
A magnet held a scribbled note to the refrigerator.
What a great night! You’re amazing. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so beautiful sleeping there. Got a call I’ve got to answer—we’ll get together soon.
He signed with an oversized A.
Her disappointment that he’d left her faded as she focused on his words.
You’re amazing…beautiful.
She tucked them away inside, treasured morsels of warmth, like soft chocolate kisses to savor in the weeks to come.
She made half a pot of hazelnut coffee from the free trade shop, taking in the wonderful smell as it brewed, reliving the highlights of the night before. She’d done it. She’d really done it. She’d been in the right place, at the right time, to meet Arran. He had depths she’d never suspected.
And he’d loved her in so many good ways.
When they’d arrived back at her place, their interaction could only be described by one word: heat.
They undressed each other, lips tasting each other’s skin as each new piece of clothing came off, holding each other, sweat slick and salty on the tongue. Each kiss reached deep into the other’s soul, tying a connection there, a marker so they could find their way back. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom the first time, but made love in a burst of passion on the throw rug in the living room.
As they lay there, recovering from the shattering collision of their libidos, Leyla listened to the stillness, no sound but their ragged breathing. No wonder it was hot. She hadn’t left the air conditioning on. “Come on,” she whispered.
She flipped the switch to the ceiling fan overhead, then slipped into the bedroom to turn on the small window unit, so it would be cool when they returned. He stumbled after her as she dragged him into the shower. “Cold or hot?” she asked.
“You’re pretty hot,” he said with a lazy smile. “You’re pretty pretty, too.”
She felt the blush hit her all over and knew he could see it, too. “I think cold.” She turned the knobs and they both shrieked as the cold water hit them full force. His hand reached over hers and he moderated the water temperature to lukewarm, just warm enough not to sting, but cool enough to bring their burning skin temperature down.
“You are a wicked, wicked girl,” he teased.
“And that’s why you’re here with me.” She slipped her arms around him, the water running down her back. The manly scent of him, the sense of his skin against hers, made her feel drunk, even though she hadn’t had one sip of alcohol.
He reached for her shower gel, something that smelled of raspberry and coconut, and began to slather it over her. When she would have protested, he laid his lips over hers, effectively cutting off any objection, and kept his hands moving, washing every part of her, coming to know her entire body as if it could be read in Braille. He took down the shower head to rinse her, then washed her hair, too. She’d never felt so pampered, so loved.
When she was thoroughly clean, she kissed him to express her thanks. “But you’re still dirty,” she said, her voice soft as a summer cloud.
“I suppose I could go home and wash up.” His eyes danced with mischief.
“I suppose not.” She eyed the shower gel. “But I don’t have any macho soap here. You’ll have to smell like a tropical drink, too.”
He chuckled. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to me today, I think I’ll be fine.”
She switched places with him, admiring his broad shoulders as he stretched back to wet his hair under the falling water. He couldn’t claim a six-pack, though he wasn’t overweight by any means. Again, he was comfortable; no need to build his body to impress others. He had no lack of muscles, as her fingers discovered as she rubbed him with soapy bubbles. When she reached up to wash his hair, he pulled her body hard against his, his insistent lips not the only evidence of his growing desire. She surrendered to his fevered excitement, which only the water cooled again, once they were both spent.
When they finished, they took turns drying each other with thick spring-green towels, one of the only luxuries she’d allowed herself in her limited effort at housekeeping. He insisted on combing out her hair before they retired to the bedroom, nice and cool now, since it was hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. Still wrapped in towels, they snuggled under the sheet and the light blanket, his arm under her neck, watching the blades of the ceiling fan rotate, enjoying the quiet lull as the fires of their passions took time to rekindle.
They drowsed, then talked, then took the time to discover each other all over again. Leyla found that as the night drew to a close and the morning came near, the early rays of the sun tinged the wall over her closet with a faint blush. They’d been talking about their dreams—his wish to touch the lives of his fans with songs from the heart, songs that really meant something, but never to lose himself in that life; her long-held aspiration to tell stories, to write down the ones that would express what she felt in herself and others.
He pulled her gently to him and kissed her forehead, half asleep already. “All we need is for the right phone call to come, baby doll. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Like that will ever happen,” she said, but mostly to herself. So many people had those big dreams, and the new wave of television fueled them even farther with those reality shows where people off the street could hit the big time. But no one she knew. Heck, no one most people knew. She snuggled close into the safety of his arms and let the world fade away.
She must have slept like the dead, because she’d never heard his phone, never heard him get up, never heard him latch the door behind him. Who’d called him? Maybe it was Jack, the music agent he’d been waiting to hear from for weeks. Surely he’d call her as soon as he had news.
She waited till mid-afternoon, then called him, leaving her number when he didn’t answer. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he’d already written her off.
No. Arran wasn’t like that. Soulmates might be just a hokey concept those matchmaking companies made up to sell their services, but if she’d ever met someone whose soul fit exactly with hers, she knew now Arran Lake was the one.
Just when she thought her heart would explode with not hearing from him, he called her, late that night. She’d already climbed in bed, exhausted from a long day at work, lying between the pale blue sheets, letting her mind wander back to the night before, and Arran. When the phone rang, she practically dropped it in her haste to get it into her hands.