Clear and Bright: Chapter Six: Something More

                                   

It’s dark when I wake, the only light a sliver of moonlight and the soft glow of the fire that has nearly burned out.  I know where I am, I can hear him breathing beside me, feel his fingers still entwined with mine. We are lying on the floor, nestled in a haven of pillows and blankets he had arranged in front of the fireplace. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. He was like a young child making a grand fort, his face beaming with pride when he was finished. It was another mush moment for me, to his unhidden delight. No one has ever had that effect on me before. It’s new for me, like so many things I’m feeling now. My pulse quickens as I replay the events of the last several hours in my mind. He stirs next to me, somehow feeling this subtle change.

He lifts our hands, and brings my wrist to his lips. "Is something wrong?" he asks, kissing it gently.

It’s such a tender gesture, it derails me. All I can do is shake my head in response.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" he asks, and again, I shake my head.

"Are you cold?" he asks, tucking the blanket more tightly around me with his free hand. Another shake of my head.

Worry crosses his face then, "Frightened?"

He thinks I’m frightened? How could he think such a thing? He has been a complete gentleman. We spent the day talking, about everything and nothing. He made us dinner, my God, the man can cook. We watched a movie. Well, sort of. He turned it on, but we mostly just watched each other. When it got late, and I said I should go, he got tense. He didn’t want me to leave, like I would be lost to him if he let me go. He didn’t have to do much to convince me to stay; I didn’t want to go. Another new. I’ve never spent the night with a man I’ve just met. It isn’t me. I just don’t do things like that.

Didn’t,  I hear now in my head.

Where did she come from? To my pleasant surprise, she had been silent for most of the evening. I should have known it wouldn’t last. What’s her problem, anyway? He’d been nothing but sweet to me, and maybe I’m naive — although I don’t think so — but I didn’t believe he had any hidden agenda. He just didn’t want me to leave.

Nothing happened!, I scream silently at her, he didn’t even kiss me!

I wait, but hear nothing. Silence. Good. It was the truth, and she knew it. He hadn’t even tried. We sat close, often with fingers entwined, like now, but nothing else. It was enough. He’d given me something to sleep in, and we’d settled into our little nest and talked until we fell asleep. He’d done nothing to frighten me in any way.

I realize when I look at him, and see his troubled expression, that I haven’t answered him, too lost in my own thoughts. "Do you always worry so much?" I ask him.

His brows crease together, but he doesn’t answer. It tugs at my heart. I lean forward, and kiss the place where they meet, hoping to soothe him. Almost instantly, I feel his tension slip away. He releases my hand and places his own on either side of my face, gently holding me in place. He seems so vulnerable in this moment, as if I hold all of the power. Maybe that’s what it feels like to him.

"I’m not frightened," I say, his skin warm against my lips. "Nothing is wrong, and everything I need is right here."

He raises his head at my words and looks at me, and it is him that now appears derailed. He sits up and pulls me into his lap and buries his face in my hair, wrapping his arms tightly around me. He whispers a simple "Thank you", but I know these words are anything but simple to him.

We sit this way, not speaking, not needing to. I feel many things, things I haven’t felt for a very long time, some I’ve never felt until now. I feel happy. I feel adored. I feel protected, and safe. I feel hope, not in my usual way — I’m a confident, optimistic person, and I’ve always been hopeful about what life would bring, what I would achieve — this is different. I am overflowing with excitement and anticipation for something new. Someone new. I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t lonely. I was content, happy with my life, but now… what? I’m not sure I know. The only thing I’m sure of, being here with him, is that now I want more. Yes, I feel hope. Hope for something more. Hope for this. It’s my last conscious thought as I drift peacefully to sleep, still nestled in his lap, with his arms wrapped tightly around me.

                                                  
                                                 ~


It’s light when I wake this time. He’s no longer next to me, or holding me, and there’s a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen. It’s a familiar smell, but I think I must be dreaming — he couldn’t possibly be making that. I jump up and grab my bag, grateful for my be-prepared-for-anything compulsion, and dash to the bathroom. I know I don’t have much time, but I’m nothing if not efficient. I must have slept like a baby, there’s barely a hair out of place. I don’t wear a lot of makeup, so not too much of a mess there either. I can be presentable in three minutes. I can see him in three minutes. Whoa … did I really just … ? Yikes. I’m in more trouble than I thought. Perhaps I should wash my face with cold water. Very cold …

Exactly three minutes later, I stroll somewhat shyly into the kitchen. I feel a bit nervous, like a child on the first day of school. I don’t know why, nervous is another new for me.

"Perfect timing," he says without even turning around.

How on earth did he hear me? His back is to me, giving me a glorious view of his sinfully-fitting jeans. Mercy! He’s making ‘art’ of breakfast, just as he did with last night’s dinner.

"Good morning, I hope you slept well. Breakfast is rea... "

He doesn’t finish his sentence as he looks at me. He’s standing with our plates in his hands, just staring at me, mouth dropped open in … what? Oh no. What did I do?

"Good morning," I say tentatively. "What’s wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"Yes, apparently. Did I do something?"

He places the plates on the breakfast bar, and motions for me to come to him. I oblige, of course I do, but I’m feeling uneasy now.

He takes a deep breath, and gently lifts my chin, tilting my face upwards. "You’re beautiful. That’s what you did. You took the breath right out of me."

What? Is he serious? Beautiful? I’m still in his sweats and t-shirt, my hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and all I’ve done is brush my teeth and wash my face. Beautiful? I think he must be crazy. Maybe he drinks. Before 7:00 AM? Hmmm …

He laughs, as though he could hear my thoughts. "Adorable," he says, shaking his head, "and yes, very beautiful. Now sit." He kisses the tip of my nose, and pulls out my stool, and like the good girl that I am, I sit.

I know I am blushing, I can feel it. Again, something new. I don’t blush.

Didn’t.


Oh, shut up! I need to distract myself. Miss Smarty Pants is making me question my sanity. I can feel his eyes on me. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Or maybe I don’t. I focus my attention on the plate in front of me. What the … ? It is definitely familiar. It’s my weekly indulgence, Brouillade de Truffes, and it looks exactly like the plate I pick up every Monday, though not without unnecessary difficulty, on my way to work. Exactly. Maybe he frequents my favorite restaurant with it's temperamental Chef. It’s near where I saw him yesterday…

Well, he may have exacted the look, but taste is another thing entirely. Good cook or not, he won’t have matched it. No one makes it like him. I take a bite, expecting disappointment and hoping I can conceal it. Boy, am I wrong. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect. It’s exactly the same. How in the… ? I look at him in complete astonishment.

"You don’t like it?" he asks with a look of incredulity.

Well, aren’t we cocky? "It’s delicious, actually. I was just wondering if pirating another’s creations was a hobby of yours?"

"Excuse me?"

Oh, now he looks mad. And it’s… hot. I ignore his stunned glare, and my own rising temperature, and take another bite. It really is delicious.

"Claire?"

"Yes?" I ask innocently.

"Would you please explain your question?"

"Was it not clear?"

Oh! He’s definitely pissed. It really wasn’t my intention to make him angry, but the result is not unpleasant. I’m rather enjoying it. I can see that he’s trying hard to control his irritation, anger, whatever it is.

"Jouissance," I say simply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his arrogance.

He looks even more stunned now. Busted! "Do you know it?" I ask, although I’m sure the answer is yes; my breakfast is too perfect for it not to be.

He smirks at me. "Why, Claire… yes, I know it. Is that a request? It would be my honor to fulfill it."

What? What is he… oh. OH! I break out into what must be a thousand shades of red. That wasn’t…

He’s laughing at me now, quite pleased with himself. I might be mad if it wasn’t so absolutely…

"Adorable." He takes the word right out of my head.

"That wasn’t what I meant," I say timidly.

"Wasn’t it?" He’s smirking again.

"No, it wasn’t. I think you know that. It’s a restaurant, a very pretentious one, but I think you know that, too."

He tries to feign innocence with his expression, but gives it up quickly. "Perhaps, and yes, I’m familiar with it, but pretentious? That seems a bit harsh."

"Harsh? As if the name itself didn’t warrant the term, the Chef is the epitome of it."

He nearly chokes on his coffee. He seems to be taking my remarks personally. Maybe he knows him? Maybe it’s a friend of his? Would a friend share his trade secrets? I don’t think so. Certainly not him.

He’s regained his composure, but I can’t quite read his expression. It appears to be confusion. I continue my attempt at getting a confession out of him. "Do you frequent the ‘establishment of pretentiousness’?"

His mouth twitches. "I spend a fair amount of time at Jouissance. I’ve never seen you there. We’d certainly have met sooner if I had. You seem to have an aversion to the Chef. May I ask why? You haven’t even met him. Of this I’m sure."

"No, I haven’t, although I don’t know how you could possibly know that?  In any case, he’s an arrogant bastard. He’s pompous, pretentious, rude, and he infuriates me. If he wasn’t so God damn brilliant, I’d find another source for my indulgences."

He regards me intently, a hint of a smile on his lips. He’s amused by something, "Indulgences? And what might those be?"

"Actually, you’ve just unknowingly replicated one of them to perfection. You asked me to explain my question… your ‘Brouillade de Truffes’ are exactly like his. He adds something… it’s distinctive… it’s heaven. No one else in Paris prepares them that way, that I have found; believe me, I have looked. Now you… so either you pirated his recipe, or perhaps he shared his secret with you?" I smile at him sweetly, and add, "You know, you could save me from him, at least one day a week… are you free on Monday mornings?"

Something has changed. It happened the instant the words were out of my mouth. His face… his eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open. Then something else… I’m not sure what. Recognition? Clarity? Then his eyes narrowed, and his lips formed into a mischievous grin. And now, he breaks the silence with an eruption of ear-splitting laughter. I don’t understand. What is so funny? He is literally cracking up, I think I may actually see tears forming in his eyes. Oh, what now? His laughter isn’t the only sound I hear - she’s joined him. She’s laughing, too. Traitor. WHAT? I’m clueless. What the hell is so funny?

He finally decides to take pity on me, and gathers himself. He wipes his eyes — I knew I saw tears! — and stands. He spins me around to face him, takes my hand, and, kissing it, says, "Allow me to introduce myself: Pompous, pretentious, rude, infuriating-yet-brilliant, arrogant bastard. It’s a pleasure to meet you."

OH. MY. GOD.

He can’t contain his amusement at his revelation, or at my shock. He is beaming at me as he continues. "As to your inquiry, my Monday mornings are quite busy. You see, I have a beautiful, and equally infuriating, woman to indulge. She’s stubborn, difficult, and as I have just come to realize, absolutely adorable. It has also just come to my attention that she thinks she needs saving from me. Although I admit I find this amusing, I assure you I won’t be allowing it to happen. Not a chance in hell. I have a lot invested in this woman… she’s single-handedly responsible for a plentitude of broken dishes, although she may not have been aware of this fact, not to mention the large collection of plates she has managed to assemble for herself from my ‘establishment of pretentiousness’. I have to place frequent orders, at substantial cost and annoyance, to replace these items. Add to this the ‘Gallery of Her’ that adorns these walls… the countless hours of searching for her — clueless to the fact that she was just a few feet away from me the entire time — and the unabashed bliss that has so recently filled this arrogant bastard’s life… well, Claire, it would appear that my Monday mornings already belong to you. That being said, I think a change of routine is certainly possible. In fact, I insist on it. I will continue to indulge you with breakfasts made of heaven, and anything else you may desire, but you have had your last insulting-to-this-pretentious-chef ‘to go’ order."

And with that, his hands are on my face. His lips crash into mine with an intensity I’ve never known. I can feel his passion in every part of me. I can feel how much he wants me. I can feel every moment he searched for me. I can feel the moment he found me. It’s intoxicating. He’s intoxicating. The scent of him… the taste of him… pure heaven. I’m floating, weightless. I’m sure I’ve forgotten my own name. I’m on fire. He’s not gentle. I don’t want him to be. Mr. Sweet and Sensitive has left the building. The arrogant bastard is here claiming me with his kiss.

Oh… it’s a pleasure to meet you, too...