Love to Love Her

By Renae Kelleigh

When Blake and Rhiannon meet on the night of her twenty-first birthday, their attraction is mutual and undeniable. At first everything seems perfect -- but then Blake steps forward with a secret he's been keeping, and Rhiannon feels justifiably betrayed. When she's called home to support her younger sister after she's diagnosed with the relapse of a serious illness, Rhiannon struggles beneath the weight of what happened with Blake and is soon to realize her feelings run far deeper than simple attraction.

It was clear to Blake from day one that Rhiannon was someone he would come to care for as much more than a friend. When he tries to make amends, the fate of their relationship hangs in the balance as Rhiannon is forced to consider his complicated past, in addition to her sister's uncertain future.

Contains mature adult themes, including strong language and explicit sexuality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renae Kelleigh
• Release date: Apr 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301186716

Renae Kelleigh

Renae Kelleigh is originally from the Midwest but now lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband and pet rabbit. Besides reading and writing, she also enjoys hiking and photography.

Book preview

Love to Love Her

(Silver State #1)

Renae Kelleigh

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Renae Kelleigh

Discover other titles by Renae Kelleigh at Smashwords.com

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1 – Happy Birthday

Chapter 2 – Composed Young Women

Chapter 3 – Sexting

Chapter 4 – Lucky Number 7

Chapter 5 – M.I.A.

Chapter 6 – The Reckoning

Chapter 7 – Just Friends

Chapter 8 – The Beach

Chapter 9 – Dress for Success

Chapter 10 – Solace

Chapter 11 – Transgressions

Part 2

Chapter 12 – Gone

Chapter 13 – Winnemucca

Chapter 14 – Mystery Solved

Chapter 15 – Mystery Solved

Chapter 16 – The Visitor

Chapter 17 – Fair

Chapter 18 – Ollie’s Omelet House

Chapter 19 – Confession

Chapter 20 – Curfew

Chapter 21 – Ride

Chapter 22 – Apart

Chapter 23 – Serenade

Chapter 24 – Date Night

Part 3

Chapter 25 – Sacramento

Chapter 26 – Done

Chapter 27 – The Other Shoe

Chapter 28 – Happy Halloween

Chapter 29 – Cravings

Chapter 30 – James Bond

Chapter 31 – Theater

Chapter 32 – Concert

Chapter 33 – The Letter

Chapter 34 – Happy Thanksgiving

Chapter 35 – Something to Say

Epilogue – Happy Memorial Day

Acknowledgements

Sneak Preview: Silver State #2

Part 1

Chapter 1 – Happy Birthday

Saturday, September 8

Rhiannon – 8:00 PM

When Ruthie and Corinne first began probing me about how I’d like to celebrate my birthday, I offered a few options, the majority of which included some combination of a rented movie, pajamas, and ordering takeout from Mr. Wong’s China Palace – getting hammered on your twenty-first just seems overrated and cliché. Well, the day has arrived, and knowing these two I can’t say I’m surprised to find myself in the back of a cab speeding toward the center of town and probably a night of debauchery instead.

Two hours ago both girls showed up at my apartment laden with boxes and bags of makeup, curling irons, hairspray, flat irons and enough dresses, corsets, skinny jeans and miniskirts to make me wonder whether half a dozen other girls would be joining us. In actuality, all the garb was culled from their closets with the intention of subjecting me to an impromptu fashion show. Turns out my two best friends had already powwowed and deemed my own wardrobe both too tame and insufficiently stimulating for our night of drunken revelry – also not a surprise. Forty-five minutes and nine outfits into my display of exhibitionism they finally settled on an ensemble that strikes the perfect cross between slutty and licentious and consists of Corinne’s black faux leather leggings and Ruthie’s too-small halter top in midnight blue lace with the plunging V neckline. They compromised on the footwear – I’ve been allowed to wear my own knee high boots with the stacked heel.

Corinne has made dinner reservations at a restaurant in downtown Carson City that serves Spanish tapas paired with overpriced bottles of wine. I suspect this is chiefly to do with the fact that Vince, her crush, works here as a part time kitchen manager. Ruthie and I watch and pretend to gag as the two of them exchange thinly veiled glances dripping with unbridled lust until Vince inadvertently backs into a waiter and causes plates of cheeses and toasted bread to go airborne.

Our next stop is a pretentious looking bar called Gelo. I balk at the $15 cover until I realize it’s karaoke night – these bitches know me so well. Ruthie turns back to me with a sanguine grin and winks before leading the way to a high top table near the bar.

First drinks on me! Corrine says as she sheds her jacket to show off her bare shoulders. What’ll it be, birthday girl?

My eyes sweep to the bar, behind which resides an impressive array of liquors. Upon closer inspection, the entire back wall is a manufactured waterfall that pours a sheet of clear water backlit with several lamps that seamlessly shift color from purple to yellow to red. I’m reminded of the colored lights in a Barbie’s swimming pool.

I cursorily glance over the drink specials written up on a board above the bartender’s head. It’s really more of a formality – Corinne knows what my favorite drink is. I’ll have a grasshopper, please, I tell her before turning back to take in the stage ten yards away. The DJ is still setting up, but a few coeds with enough alcohol already flowing through their veins are consulting the tome that lists all of the available songs.

Ruthie and Corinne are well aware that watching others sing karaoke is a favorite pastime of mine. What they don’t know, though, is that as of this moment, my new intent is to surprise them by partaking of the festivities myself. I may be the kind of girl who needs a shot of liquid courage to dance publicly or initiate a meaningful conversation with any decent looking male, but singing is one thing I can do stone cold sober.

A moment later a waitress arrives at our table balancing a tray of drinks. She sets down my grasshopper, Ruthie’s Blue Moon and Corinne’s amaretto sour before placing a shot glass full of golden liquid in front of each of us. Corinne smiles wickedly before raising her shot glass. Ruthie and I follow suit.

To Rhiannon! Corinne cries. Happy Birthday to the sexiest lady at Winston Sierra!

Hear, hear! seconds Ruthie.

I roll my eyes before gamely tossing back my shot. Tequila. I can feel the fire scorching down my throat and building a home in my chest and then my belly.

"You bitch! sputters Ruthie. You know I hate tequila! Where’s my fucking lime?"

Corinne barks out an acerbic laugh before remembering to have the decency to at least feign repentance. Ruthie immediately starts guzzling her beer to stamp out the bitter flavor of the 80 proof. I chuckle privately while sipping my own minty mélange through the swizzle stick it came with.

Meanwhile, the first brave souls to take the stage are a pair of Asian girls who can’t seem to stop giggling. They end up guffawing their way through a botched-up version of Katie Perry’s Firework. We clap for them anyway, knowing it takes balls to be the first ones up.

We sway and clap to a litany of songs ranging from The Killers’ Read My Mind to Prodigy’s Firestarter (notably not such a great choice for karaoke). Then, after an hour of listening to other people’s singing, which has at times progressed more into the realm of inebriated caterwauling, my own best girls hustle up to the stage, pulling me along with them.

Corinne parks me in front of the platform with a wink and a nod, then joins Ruthie behind the microphone. I couldn’t be more shocked – as far as I’m aware, both ladies have always been strictly spectators in the gruesome sport of karaoke.

This one goes out to the gorgeous blonde in the front row! hollers Ruthie. She gestures emphatically for me to somehow identify myself to the crowd, and I offer an anemic wave in response.

Happy birthday, Rhiannon! yells Corinne, whose mouth is a touch too close to the microphone – her proclamation sends a squall of high-volume feedback rifling through the enclosed space.

The DJ pushes a button and the melodic first notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Rhiannon expels smoothly from the speakers. I throw my head back in gleeful recognition before wildly cheering on my two best friends as they belt out a drunken yet only moderately off-key rendition of the song for which I was named.

Blake – 10:30 PM

Not long ago I would have sworn that I’d never be caught dead in a karaoke bar. As my roommate Adam is quick to point out, however, technically this is not a karaoke bar – it’s simply a bar that happens to have karaoke on the menu for this evening. Now that I’m here, I have to admit it is pretty funny watching people stripped of their inhibitions entertain illusions of grandeur as they croon versions of pop songs with varying degrees of success.

A guy with a beard and backward baseball cap has just finished a rather bawdy performance of I Touch Myself while dry humping the microphone stand when Adam slides my fourth Guinness in front of me and claps me on the back. When are we gonna see you up there, huh man? I know you’ve got what it takes, I’ve heard you in the shower.

I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for that, I tell him. I glance back up at the stage in time to see a tall redhead and a curvy Indian gal take the stage.

This one goes out to the gorgeous blond in the front row! says the Indian girl. She gesticulates toward another girl planted front and center before the stage, and said honoree turns and flutters her long, tapered fingers at the crowd pressed in around her. Holy shit – she’s a knockout. Chin length strawberry blond hair that curls around her face, a lightly freckled nose, creamy skin, a deep cut neckline that frames the deep swell of her cleavage, and long, shapely legs that go all the way up to an ass that is, arguably, perfect.

Happy birthday, Rhiannon! pipes the redhead, and with that the music begins and the girls deliver a passable rendition of the Fleetwood Mac song. All the while, I can’t seem to peel my eyes off the girl in the front row. At first she appears a tad rigid, as if she’s uncomfortable standing there at the front amid all the sweaty, gyrating bodies. As her friends continue their tribute, though, she appears to loosen up, and by the end of the song she’s hopping up and down with her slender arms raised, causing her boobs to bounce—it’s quite captivating. Her fair skin blooms pink as she flushes from exertion, and the overall effect is nothing short of breathtaking. I slide a glance back at Adam, and it’s evident he is deriving just as much enjoyment from her sidebar performance as I am.

The girls wrap up and file back off the stage, where they’re greeted with open arms by the beauty in the front row. The three of them squeeze each other enthusiastically in a display which, from my perspective, can only be described as intensely erotic.

Suddenly I want nothing more than to be up on that stage, witnessing that girl (Rhiannon I guess?) jump and sway to my words the way she had to the one before it. Emboldened by the alcohol and my sudden jolt of yearning, I almost topple the barstool I’ve been occupying in my determination to beat any other aspiring performers to the stage.

I whisper my selection to the DJ and squint back down at Rhiannon and her friends still gathered together close to the stage. I shed any vestigial apprehension as I notice her looking up at me, and just begin to sing. Authority Song is one that typically carries well in my vocal register, my own voice a somewhat less folksy version of Mellencamp’s baritone, but truthfully I’m a bit put off by the sound of the warble in my voice and disappointed by the fact the acoustics in this crowded room can’t seem to measure up to my tiled shower at home.

Once I reach the first chorus things seem to be flying a little more smoothly, and I chance a look out into the audience. She’s still there at the foot of the stage, staring up at me with big doe eyes the color of honeyed caramel and positively beaming at me. Quickly I blink away, wanting if at all possible to avoid the embarrassment of becoming visibly aroused while on stage.

Too soon the song reaches its end and I replace the mic in its stand. The realization of what I’ve just done has set in, and with it a touch of nausea. I stumble off the stage and lift my chin to look for Rhiannon again just in time to notice her squeezing past me on the steps to gracefully assume her own position behind the microphone.

The crowd goes wild, because of course they recognize her as the reputed birthday girl, and likely also due to the fact she looks like a fucking angel standing beneath that glaring spotlight. She turns back to instruct the DJ, then stands still waiting for the music to begin. Her hands hang at her sides, and I smile to myself when I notice she’s popping her knuckles.

The ensuing two and a half minutes will go down in history as the single most enrapturing moment in my life to date…at least that I can presently recall. Rhiannon’s mezzo-soprano rendering of Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle is hauntingly beautiful, and even more beguiling and downright mesmerizing is the confidence and poise she exudes as she rocks subtly back and forth, launching her voice into the now all-but-silent bar. Gone is the awkward insecurity I picked up on earlier when her friends took to the stage–this goddess-like songstress has taken her place, and she’s sexy as hell.

The song draws to a close, and Rhiannon allows her voice to melt into a soft nothingness. She dips her blond head in a diminutive curtsey and is met by…nothing. The girl has effectively stunned an entire room full of intoxicated men and women into reverent silence. The collective intake of breath seems almost palpable.

And then, all at once, we exhale as one, and the applause is deafening.

Rhiannon – 11:15 PM

I alight from the stage with adrenaline still pumping through my muscles and bones like a fist through a wall. Corinne and Ruthie receive me with an effusive chorus of giggles and claps on the back. They swallow me up in their arms, and we edge through the crowd back to our table near the bar.

Damn, girl! Way to bring the house down! cries Corinne. I was practically moved to tears!

Seriously…what other talents are you keeping hidden away from us? asks Ruthie, her striking features masked in suspicion. Are you a champion kick boxer or anything like that?

Sumo wrestler, actually, I tell her with a wink as I slurp up the last of another grasshopper.

Before she can serve up a saucy retort, Ruthie’s eyes go wide as she takes in something behind me, and I peek back over my shoulder to see what has her looking like someone is taking a shit on the dance floor or something.

Mind if we join you? asks a very tall, attractive guy with short dirty blond hair and blue eyes as clear as my little sister’s. He’s dressed like he came from work in khakis and a button down shirt. I recognize the guy behind him as the Adonis who was up on the stage earlier singing Authority Song while drilling Corinne, Ruthie and me with his commanding green eyes, which I can now see are flecked with a flashing gray. He’s only an inch or two shorter than his friend, and his bronzed skin is set off by a longish and semi-unruly mop of sun-lightened brown hair. His chin is strong, his jaw line angular and covered with day-old stubble. My eyes rake over his body, taking in the black boots, jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and long sleeved henley that flaunts the toned musculature of his chest and shoulders. His sleeves are pushed up past his wrists so I can see the curl of the hair on his lean forearms. Oh, and is that a tattoo I see peeking out from under his left cuff?

My eyes meet his once more, and I blush at the fact I’ve been caught staring. The lines around his eyes hold an aspect of amusement that expands to delight when Corinne chirps an enthusiastic Of course, pull over some chairs!

In one fluid movement Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome circumnavigates his friend and guides a stool between Ruthie and me. Ruthie lifts an eyebrow before grinning impishly at me, and I wonder if this is her way of calling dibs. Too bad I’m not going down without a fight.

Happy birthday, he says in a deep tone that belies the softer, more melodic timbre of his singing voice.

My heart stutters in my chest, and I rush to steady my breathing before responding. Thank you. I liked your song. You’re good at it–at singing.

His face spreads into a smile that is very nearly heart stopping and bares a set of teeth any orthodontist would proudly claim credit for. That means a lot coming from you. You’ve got one hell of a voice.

Bolstered by the shimmering buzz of the alcohol, I sit up straighter in my seat. "Sweet of you to say. If you liked that, you’ll be really impressed when you hear me play guitar at the same time."

Shit. Now I sound like I’m bragging. Maybe I should just go ahead and mention the fact I earned first place in fifth grade science fair while I’m at it. And that I had a prizewinning rabbit in 4H as an adolescent.

I dart my eyes back up to his face, and my stomach flips as I watch him flick his pink tongue across his full lower lip. I’ve never seen more perfect lips. Thankfully his eyes are still smiling.

I’ll bet you’re right about that, he says, and already I can tell I’m in trouble. It’s as if every tilt of his head, every twitch of his lips, every word that rolls off his tongue, is calculated specifically to elicit the type of physical response, the deep-seated shudder of yearning, I seem to be experiencing.

A hand is thrust between us that liberates me from my idiotic stupor. I’m Corinne, says the voice that belongs to the hand. He takes her hand in his own and gives it a brief shake. Over there is Ruthie, Corinne continues with her introductions, and it seems you’ve already met Rhiannon. Corinne leers at me suggestively before waggling her eyebrows. I glance away and pretend not to notice.

I’m Blake, says the Adonis, addressing Corinne. And this is Adam. He turns around again to pierce me with his lustful gaze.

Blake – 11:45 PM

Observing Rhiannon on stage was enough to induce the stirrings of a boner, but drinking her in from an arm’s length away has me ready to either take her out to the backseat of a car or race home solo for a cold shower. I make up my mind not to dwell on how wrong it is to feel this way. Her breath is sweet and smells like cream and mint, and her innocence is evident in her beautiful, doll-like features, all fresh faced and glancing eyed. I’d be willing to bet she isn’t even old enough to be here, but of course her secret is safe with me.

She turns to face Ruthie across the table as her friend spouts off something about needing another drink for the birthday girl, and I’m taken aback by the revelation that her small, perfect ear is pierced at the top with three little hoops and in the lobe with a small diamond stud. Fuck me. I lower my gaze to the vellum skin on the back of her bare neck and try to imagine what it would taste like. My hard-on grows, cinching my jeans tighter in the crotch.

Next round’s on me! I say, making an extraordinary effort to snap the hell out of it while discretely re-adjusting the bulge in my pants. I order five shots of Jack, which are served up on a tray moments later. Adam slides me a shot and I grasp it in my hand. Before drinking, I lean in only inches from Rhiannon’s ear and murmur, How old are you, Rhiannon? I could swear I see a faint shiver roll off her, and it drives me fucking wild.

Twenty-one, she replies.

The big two-one? Wow…happy twenty-first, I say and wink at her before downing my shot.

We stay there talking for most of the night, although it’s probably fairly obvious how disconnected I am from the banter. I can’t seem to keep from stealing glances at Rhiannon as she engages in the conversation around her. She’s so animated in her reactions to things, and it’s sort of fascinating watching her run the full gamut of human emotion as the others trade narratives. One minute she’s gasping with eyes the size of saucers, leaning on the table for support, and the next minute her laughter shakes her entire frame and she’s wiping tears from her beautiful eyes. It’s refreshing to witness a female who wears her emotions as much as this girl seems to.

And all the while her body is angled in her seat so that our knees are tantalizingly close to touching beneath the table…

When we finally stand to go, Rhiannon stumbles a bit as she slides from her stool, and it feels like second nature when my hands snap out to steady her. I grip her waist, lightly digging my fingers into her hip bones until she’s had a chance to right herself, and the heat from her body is searing. She regards me from beneath her thick, dark eyelashes before flashing me an easy grin. Sorry, I’m sort of a klutz, she says. Thanks for grabbing me.

Any time, I tell her. And Jesus Christ, do I ever mean that.

Chapter 2 – Composed Young Women

Sunday, September 9

Rhiannon – 2:15 AM

The walk to Blake’s car feels, I suspect, much longer than it actually is.  Not far from the bar Ruthie, flush-faced and at very high decibel, announces for the second time since walking out the door that she needs to pee, and our walk is yet again derailed.

Geez, Ruth, can’t you wait till we get home? Corinne steadies herself against a bike post.  Didn’t you pee like right before we walked out?

Hungh, Ruthie scowls theatrically. Not everybody has the bladder of a camel like you, Corinne.  You, and your big camel bladder! She stumbles a minute, regains her composure, and looks to Blake.  "You, sir, need to stay right here." We watch as she ambles off towards the bushes bordering the parking lot.

"Ruth!  Jesus, Ruth!  Do not tell me you’re going to pee— oh, no."  Corinne starts laughing.  Seriously, Ruth!  What kind of first impression is this?! I look to Blake, who is smirking. 

We’re normally very composed young women, Corinne states flatly to him, and I start giggling.  She clears her throat and adjusts her shoulder bag as if it’ll lend her statement credibility.

Is that right?  He begins to laugh.

Yes, she responds, but I can hear her voice breaking too. She recomposes herself, looks to me and clarifies: Well, Rhiannon and I are, at least.  You never know, she nods somberly toward the bushes, "about that one.  But yeah.  Rhiannon and I try to keep our urination confined to conventional lavatories."

I lose it.  "Conventional lavatory?" I giggle.  This is so Corinne—always going into clinical descriptor mode.  Ruthie and I tease her about how vastly her vocabulary improves after just one beer; she has a tendency to wax poetic.  "As opposed to what, Cori?  A hole in the dirt?"

I like your friends, Blake grins at me, resting against the door of someone else’s banged-up maroon Corolla.  I may be drunk, but the whole sexy-James-Dean parallel is not completely lost on me.  Even if it’s just a Corolla.  Oh, God.

I prop myself up against a nearby truck, facing him. I just met them tonight. I really have no idea who these people are.

He leans in toward me, smelling like aftershave—and real aftershave too, not that Axe body spray bullshit that every guy in high school doused himself in right before every date and then you had to hold your breath each time you came within two feet of them just to stop yourself getting sick on the stench. Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Stop smelling the man and comparing him to your previous boyfriends.

He smiles and I almost lose control of my own bladder. Shut up brain shut up brain shut up brain shut up brain…

Do you guys need help getting home?

As I try to toss my hair casually, some strands get stuck in my lip gloss, which Corinne insisted be reapplied in excess before leaving the bar. I’m kind of a disaster right now. Oh, you know—I think we’re fine. We really just need—

Ruthie’s voice cuts me off mid-sentence. Hey, guys! she yells. I think I might have just peed on a family of rabbits!

I blink at him. We’d love a ride home. Thanks.

2:30 AM

The drive back to my apartment is uncomfortably silent.  That it’s silent in the first place is a true testament to our rather dismal state of affairs. For the first ten minutes of the trip, Ruthie and Corinne were whispering conspiratorially to each other in the backseat. Well, Corinne was whispering—Ruthie couldn’t stop giggling.  Blake and I exchange a look, but other than that, we don’t speak.  I realize after a few moments that the whispering has stopped, and when I glance back in the mirror I see Ruthie’s form sprawled across Corinne, her face buried unceremoniously in her crotch, muttering something unintelligible. I think it might be something about Greek playwrights. Those cranberry vodkas seem to have finally hit Corinne properly, as well; a soft snore escapes her mouth.  Composed young women, indeed.

I stare straight ahead, smiling faintly, my hands in my lap and my eyes burning holes through the front windshield. Blake smells good. Like, really good. Damn whatever it is he’s wearing; it’s taking an absurd amount of willpower not to lean across the center console to smell his shirt.   Maybe ten minutes pass, the entirety of which I spend drunkenly breathing him in.  I close my eyes and revel in this far superior form of intoxication; my mind, in turn, wanders and does what it shouldn’t. Focus, dammit. You are not going to be ruled by your hormones.  I force myself to reopen my eyes.

I loudly clear my throat. So, I say. What happened to your friend?

Adam? He smiles quietly as he brakes before a yellow light. I told him I would pick him up later tonight. I think he was waiting until we left to perform a few Mariah Carey numbers.

I look at him blankly, not sure if he’s kidding or not. Seeing me, he grins. It’s true, he confirms. His favorite song is ‘Heartbreaker’.

I start laughing so loudly that Ruthie and Corinne are roused from their stupor. Ruthie moans melodramatically and raises her head a bit before letting it loll back into Corinne’s lap—Corinne rolls her eyes.  Oh thank Christ, she says as she looks out the window. We’re here.  Ruthie! She shakes Ruthie’s shoulders. Ruth!  Get off me, you lush!

Blake pulls into the parking lot—miraculously, there’s a space open.  There are never spaces open this time of night.  I grin to myself: Blake must be my lucky charm this evening.   As Ruthie and Corinne disentangle themselves from the back seat, I just do nothing.  Corinne’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and she winks at me—it’s a don’t do anything too naughty sort of wink—before she climbs out and turns to help Ruthie. 

I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen, really, but I want something. Badly. We watch in silence as the two of them stumble across the narrow stretch of lawn and then take their time meandering up the sidewalk to the stairwell.  As we watch them go inside, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the silence.  I can feel Blake’s eyes on me and it’s making me feel edgy in a hot, tempted kind of way.  Sitting so near him suddenly makes the car feel like a pressurized container, and I need to open the door.  I do, just a few inches—enough to let the night breeze in. It’s just enough to make me hesitate.  The thought occurs to me that I should probably say something. Something witty and amazing and sexy and clever and…fuck. Nothing is coming to mind.  I rack my brain for it. Finally, enabled by the miracle of tequila and seized by a simultaneous desire for the end of our silence and the smell of his aftershave, I swing around to face him…

…And start choking. It seems I forgot to unfasten my seatbelt first, and now it feels like my throat is being held at knifepoint by the heavy nylon strap.

Jesus, are you okay? He gently unhooks me and touches the mark across my throat where the strap left an indentation large and red enough to be seen from space.  As his fingers brush against the tender skin I feel like I’ve just been electrocuted.  Like, I feel a thousand tiny prickly pins of hot warmth jab through my neck and spread through my body. Who is this man?  I involuntarily shudder, which translates into unintentional mini-grinding against the fabric upholstery of my seat.

I’m fine! I say, my voice several octaves higher than it normally is. Shit shit shit. Why did I drink so much? I’m fine, I reiterate, mostly to myself. I always get caught in these things.

He smiles.  It’s gorgeous.  Gorgeous, and executed in that superior way that someone smiles when they know you’re interested in them. Mmm. I’ll help you get to your door—you seem to be having a lot of trouble with gravity tonight.

Yes. 

Yes, yes, yes. He can’t see the shit-eating grin that completely consumes my face as I turn toward the door and mentally high-five myself.  I knew I could buy more time with him if I really turned on the charm. And tonight, I’m a freaking siren. Kind of a clumsy one, but a siren nonetheless. He pulls the key from the ignition and steps out; I scramble to check myself in the mirror.  Not bad.

In a gesture that seems both chivalrous and ridiculously charming, Blake offers his hand to help me out the door and then winds his arm through mine as we walk up the pathway.  Mentally, I calculate that my time with this Cougar-singing dreamboat is rapidly drawing to a close, and I find myself panicking. 

I sure hope I get to see you again, I blurt out of nowhere.  A bolder move than I’m used to, but inhibitions aside, I find myself in a state of warm, pleasant oblivion, and everything just feels really good.  Especially the warm—and slightly calloused—feel of his hand grasping mine.

He smiles. Oh?

Yeah, I say in an attempt to salvage my wounded image. You know, when I’m sober.  I’m a really awesome conversationalist.  With a really great personality.

I take it you like long walks on the beach?

And candle-lit steak dinners.  With some red wine and some Barry Manilow playing in the background.  Blake twists his face in mock horror.  He’s pulled me in so close I can’t breathe. Suddenly I wish my apartment was much farther away so we could keep going—keep touching.  I imagine him tracing his hand up my arm and then slowly down my torso; gently down, outlining the contour of my breast and down my waist and then softly over the curve of my hip—so soft it’s almost agonizing—and the thought of it engenders another corporeal shudder.  He mistakes the movement for a shiver and tugs me in closer so that our sides are flush. 

"Manilow, huh?  I think I’d rather have you sing.  It’d be a hell