Late Valentine Ch 03

Ok, so this is turning into a series... If you've come to this before reading parts 1 and 2, it won't make much sense (and FYI, I'm not planning on there being more than a couple more chapters after this one).

For those of you returning, I hope you enjoy Rob and Elizabeth's burgeoning relationship.

Anyone in this story participating in sexual activities is most definitely over the age of 18.

Thank you so much for reading.

+++

'Ok, all these require your signature, Elizabeth,' my assistant Riley says from somewhere behind armfuls of papers.

'Sure. And after that?'

'And after that, nada. Nothing. Not one single thing more, because in case you forgot, you're taking this afternoon off and you're not due back here til Monday morning, am I right or am I right?'

I fix a look at him over my glasses, simultaneously wondering if I should've managed this relationship on a more professionally formal level, and how I'm ever going to survive working in London without him.

"You are correct, Mr Keeler.'

'Oh no. I'm being Keeler-ed,' widening his eyes back at me, the very image of sass.

'Yes, you are.'

'C'mon, I'm only sharing how thrilled I am you're taking time off, even if it means I get less of you before being abandoned to the high seas of woe once you've jumped ship for London.'

'Have you been drinking?'

He grins back. 'Not even close. I'm simply psyched you're (a) taking some time off work,' he licks his lips while holding up a second know-it-all finger, 'And (b), that your London man is going to be here in less than thirty minutes from now.'

We both stall, the possibility of him outlining whatever his idea of '(c)' might be, and out loud, in my office, hanging between us. Until it drops to earth, mercifully unsaid.

'Lucky escape,' I breathe.

'Made you blush all the same.'

I shake my head. 'Riley, you are the worst.'

'And I am horrified you could even imagine getting that sentiment past your tonsils,' he intones, tapping the pile of papers. 'Think what HR would say.'

I shake my head for a second time, partly to ward off notions of Rob's imminent arrival from derailing what few thought processes I need to keep on track until lunchtime, partly in amusement at Riley's ongoing offensive. I swear he'd smuggle himself into my suitcase if he could, he's so excited and dismayed by my upcoming move to London.

'Right, right. You can leave now. I'll look these over and sign them before I go.'

'But he is meeting you here at the office, isn't he?'

I groan on the inside. How I'd ever let that detail slip, I'll never know. Yes, Rob's coming direct from the airport to the office because he'd insisted on it. Insisted on spending every minute he could with me while he's on American soil. I couldn't fault his logic when he'd made his case during a call last week, and it's not as though I wanted to waste any of those precious minutes either. But I was still warring over the fact it meant him meeting me here, in front of my curious co-workers and God. Right, not God, exactly, but -- but Rob's about to step right into my life, here in Chicago. Right here. And he's going to meet my closest friends.

And I am so not ready.

+++

I pull at my coat collar, following Riley's long strides along the corridor, silently congratulating myself for having talked my way past Melinda at reception, and now Riley, so that I'm currently on course to surprise Elizabeth at her office. It might make me something of a controlling bastard, but I want to catch sight of her in her natural habitat, before she's aware of me. For whatever reasons, Riley seems fine with it too, slinging a complicit smile my way as I'd expressed my intent. He slows and, with a silent tip of his head, indicates the next door is hers. I nod my thanks before he walks away, leaving me to make my entrance.

The internal wall is plate glass, affording me a perfect view of her soft elegance as she leans over the desk, flicking her pen in one hand, the other playing with the crucifix around her neck. The fact I recognise it as a sign of her nerves sends my stomach into a slow roll. I've experienced every inch of this woman in one weekend of the most fantastic intimacy of my life and now, for better or for worse, I've come to Chicago to see if it was all just a mirage.

Her hair is as shockingly coloured as I remember, even more stark against the pure white of her shirt and the pale walls of her office. She's wearing the glasses I like her in. Beyond her is a pretty decent view of the Chicago River, but it's no competition for Elizabeth. Another long roll of warmth, and something like nerves, moves through my body as I stand here, on the threshold. It's then that she turns her head. Just enough to see me.

And there she is. In all her heart-stopping beauty.

I thought I'd committed her to memory. Her warm brown eyes, her generous mouth, the luminosity of her skin, but standing here, caught in her gaze, it's as if I'm seeing her afresh. As if I'm seeing her as I should have done the very first time, instead of staring at my phone chasing down work emails and agitating over what to buy my sister for her birthday. Instead of leaving Elizabeth to do the chasing, of following me into a shop to show me the error of my inattentive ways. I've thought often and hard about the serendipity of that moment, about the torturous possibility of her having walked straight past me, as I'd done to her.

What then?

'Elizabeth.' I push her door open.

'Rob. You're here.'

She stands up, her chair rolling backward into the wall with a quiet thump, a small smile playing over the corners of her mouth.

'I am.'

For a few seconds, it feels awkward. Her eyes dart to the glass wall then back to me. I take a step towards her, because if it's going to fail between us, why wait to find out? Let it crash and burn now. Which is when her smile opens up and sets everything right.

'How did you sneak all the way in here without someone calling me?'

Her words are accusatory but she's still smiling. For all the world I want to hold her in my arms, but I'm not certain it's what she'd want in her work environment, so I hold back, restricting myself to bending down for a chaste kiss to her cheek.

'I talked my way in,' I mutter, chancing a second kiss. 'I missed you.'

She turns, just enough for our lips to brush. 'I missed you too, Rob.'

Gratitude pumps through my blood for the gift of this woman as she straightens up, all business, and begins to talk about options for lunch whilst tidying the papers on her desk.

'Those papers ready for me?'

I turn to see Riley at the door.

'Yes they are, Riley, but don't think we won't be having a conversation about this,' and Elizabeth waves her hand in my direction, 'on Monday morning.'

Riley doesn't look threatened by this at all, so much so he actually winks at me.

'I saw that,' she warns, her voice edging into that quiet throatiness I can't get enough of.

Which earns me -- or maybe Elizabeth -- another wink from Riley before he breezes out of her office.

'That man,' she sighs. And then, 'Let's go get lunch, Rob. See how long it's going to take me to get used to you being here.'

'Excellent plan,' I agree.

+++

I don't need to read the menu since I'm familiar enough with this restaurant to already know what I'm ordering. Which is great, because I can use the time to observe Rob. He looks -- well, honestly -- he looks a little tired around his eyes. But mostly, all I can think about is how good he looks. And how weird it is to see him sitting here, right here in Chicago. If anything, I feel even more intrigued by him than I had in London, and that is a relief. Because what if I'd felt the opposite? What if I'd felt disappointment? Or disbelief that I'd ever felt attracted to him at all? That London had been some form of a wild, transitory insanity?

I fidget in my seat, trying not to let the laughter bubble up and out of my unruly mouth. It feels completely ludicrous to me now that I could ever think I'd lose this magnetic pull to him, it feels so fundamental. How did my body ever operate without it? It's as though someone's dialled my senses up to ten. I stare at his hands as they hold the oversized menu, a little mesmerised by memories of what those fingers have already done to me.

'What are you having, Elizabeth?' he asks, setting the menu down on the table.

I watch as he reads my expression, wondering if he's recognising just how far into the deep end I've already plunged. And, well, I've missed those dark blue eyes, for sure. Something fiery passes through them until he leans back in his chair, as if to put some distance and manners between us.

'You're really here,' I blurt, right as the server materialises over Rob's shoulder and begins his spiel about today's specials and the wine list.

Rob's eyes flash with amused frustration until he turns his attention to the server. One hundred percent attention. It takes me right back to our first meal together, in a tiny place around the back of Chinatown, when he and the restaurant owner had engaged in a thorough, familiar discussion about the merits of each dish. Listening to my mom's advice is rare for me, but the one thing she'd said which has rung true down the years was to notice how a man treats bartenders, janitors and receptionists -- people who are so often ignored, or worse -- because that will give you the insight you need to decide if he is worth any of your own attention.

Their conversation appears to have concluded; wine has been ordered and both men seem to be waiting on my decision about food. I rouse myself from my wool-gathering and order the gnocchi.

'Wine too?' I tease.

'Yes. It's not often I can drink on a Friday lunchtime, and,' he zeroes in on me, 'as you've already pointed out, I'm here, which means we're both on the same continent for the first time in weeks.'

I laugh. 'You make it sound as though we've been separated for months, not weeks.'

'It's felt that way. To me.'

His words steal the air from my lungs. How had I forgotten just how visceral it feels to be near him?

'For me too,' and I'm rewarded with a smile that brings light to his eyes.

'I don't know about you, Elizabeth, but haven't felt like this since school. First love, flush of youth stuff,' he adds.

Oh, and so now, how greedy am I to know everything about that? Not just to shore up all the holes in what I know of him, but for the sake of knowing more -- everything -- about him.

I lean in, nerves abandoned. 'I so need to know all about your first love.'

He blinks. 'Do you?'

'Yes! I can't believe we haven't covered this ground already. In fact, I can't believe how little I know about you. I've felt dumb and then even dumber trying to answer my friends' questions about you. You have no idea,' I grumble, except it's not really a grumble at all.

I observe the little flickers of hunger in Rob's eyes; a hunger to be known and examined and loved. And at the same time, it crimps at my heart that he should be in such need. The repeated motif of this whole situation -- how can a man this wonderful be so single?

'What do you want to know?'

'Everything. Don't be obtuse, and don't spare the details. Start with her name and how you met and we'll work our way out from there,' I demand.

He laughs -- that quiet sound I've been searching for since leaving London. It tugs at my belly and I move around on my chair again, feeling the constriction of my work clothes more keenly than usual.

'Ok. Well, what can I tell you? She was called Arabella and she was about a year older than me. We met in a pub because my school was boys only.'

'Weren't you too young to be going into bars and drinking?'

He smirks, not a look I'm familiar with but that casts a boyishness across his face. 'We found ways around that. And this particular pub wasn't especially fussy about who it served. It wasn't much more than someone's front room. In fact, they served the drinks straight out of the pantry.'

'Get out.'

'No. I'm not exaggerating. It was a rough old place. Probably the sort you only get in rural settings where scarcity makes for more latitude about things like comfortable seating or underaged kids.'

'Ok, so then what happened?'

He hesitates. Then, 'She told me to buy her a drink, so I did. And the same the next weekend, and the one after that. Until she told me to kiss her, so I did that, too.'

I lean closer, enchanted with this glimpse of a younger Rob. 'She was your first?'

He laughs another of those short, quiet punctuations. 'Yes. In everything. First kiss, first everything.'

'Wow. Lucky her.'

'I'm not so sure about that. She had to show me what to do more than once.'

My questions are really lining up now, but all that comes out of my mouth is, 'Ok, that is something I find hard to believe.'

Which, frustratingly, is when the wine arrives. I sit back, but Rob slides his hand onto the table, palm up in invitation. I take it, both the invitation and his hand, and it feels good. His fingers close over mine and I wonder what he's thinking. The wine pouring, swilling, tasting and more pouring takes an age until, finally, it's done. Then the food arrives, and he releases his hold of me.

We eat for a few minutes, my awareness of the restaurant around us increasing from zero to the point where it's a happy sort of white noise; a benevolent buzz of chatter and china.

+++

If I'd had any time at all over the last couple of weeks to do anything beyond work and sleep and take dinner at John's on Wednesdays, I'd have liked to research some things about this city. For one, the architecture, because as I walk alongside Elizabeth, my eyes are full of it.

'So, this is my neighbourhood. My apartment's three blocks this way,' Elizabeth flicks a hand to the left.

'It's very handsome. Lovely architecture.'

'Right, yes. It's sort of renowned for that, actually. A lot of this was built after the fire of 1871 when so much of the city south of here was destroyed.'

'Oh yes, I think I have a vague recollection of hearing about that.'

'When you visited? Did you take a city tour?'

'Yes, although we were pretty hungover that day, as I recall.'

'Who were you with?'

'John. And a couple of other friends we'd picked up along the way. Sisters from Madrid, or maybe Seville? Anyway, I think the tour guide said the fire was so fierce it jumped the river, is that right?'

'Yes. Twice, in fact. It jumped the river twice. Burned for a day or more and made something like a third of the population homeless. Oh, and you know, that's how Chicago got its first free public library. A Member of Parliament proposed that England send books to the city as a sign of sympathy or something -- I think it was the author of "Tom Brown's Schooldays". Does that sound right? Whatever, we'll be able to see the Public Library building when we take the 'L' tour tomorrow.'

I catch hold of her hand and the nervous flow of words halts, a wry twist tucking itself into the corner of her mouth.

'I'm babbling, aren't I? I'm suddenly nervous, that's all.'

'S'ok,' I squeeze her hand before releasing it, since it would appear we've arrived at her building. It's Victorian, five storeys in total, with some beautiful, dark red ornamental pressed brick around the windows.

'Well, this is it. I hope you don't hate stairs because it's a walk-up and I'm right at the top.'

I follow her into the building, heart-rate elevated before I've even tackled the stairs, because she's not the only one suffering from nerves. She's wearing a dove grey suit, the skirt of which is a beautifully close fit, and I allow myself to appreciate this fact as she makes her way up. By the time we're inside her apartment -- original floors, ceilings and a beautiful built-in cupboard she refers to as the "china hutch" -- her fingers are twisting the crucifix and her shoulders are up around her ears.

'Elizabeth?' and I so love the way she steps closer.

'Yes?'

'Is everything alright? I can stay elsewhere if you'd rather.'

'What? God, no. I mean, not unless that's what you --'

I wrap her into my arms. 'I want to be right here, Elizabeth. Nerves and all.'

She smiles and softens in my hold, which is when I remember to trust my instinct it's going to work out. After a few seconds, she pulls away a little.

'Right. So, we've settled that. How about we shower or change or whatever we need before taking a walk around the neighbourhood? We've got plenty of time before we need to meet Nicky at five.'

Ah. Yes. There's an itinerary of sorts for the weekend. Walking the neighbourhood and a drink with a friend of Elizabeth's, followed by dinner here at the flat. And tomorrow, a tour on the 'L', perhaps the art gallery, before dinner with more of her friends, one of whom is her significant ex from college. Because they're "still good friends". Sunday -- well, Sunday is free, before I fly back to London in the evening, and as soon as that deadline enters my head I do my level best to bury it. For now.

+++

I stow Rob's coat on the hook next to mine for the second time this weekend. We've dawdled around my neighbourhood for almost two hours straight, and it's time for a drink, perhaps a nap, before venturing out once more to meet with Nicky. I take a second look at our two coats side by side before throwing out some suggestions about drinks. The walk felt good. It'd helped ease us back into a semblance of familiarity with each other; every inadvertent brush of our hands or arms bringing us closer to the way we'd been before, in London.

'I'm going to change my shoes at least. What about you?'

'I might watch you change your shoes.'

I open my eyes a little wider at the tone of his voice.

'What? Don't tell me you've forgotten our origins? Dressing rooms are good places for us.'

I laugh. 'Ah, well I hardly have one of those. This is my one bedroom apartment we're talking about, not a penthouse suite.'

'All the same, I'd still like to watch if there's any changing of apparel going on,' he insists, placing emphasis on the word 'apparel' in continuation of one of our themes this afternoon -- the differences in our so-called common language.

I lead him into my bedroom, flicking my hand in the direction of the piano bench. 'Sit there, then,' before opening my closet doors with an exaggerated flourish. 'And see now, this is what we in America call a closet.'

He doesn't rise to my bait, so I glance over my shoulder to find out why. And the view. Well, it's a view to die for, honestly. All that dark male beauty dwarfing the bench. All of him here, in my bedroom. It's been a while since any man has been in this room, and never has there been such a wonderful man as this. He holds out his arm for me and drops it around my waist.

'When are you going to play this piano for me? I didn't even know you play, much less own a piano that lives in your bedroom.'

'Mmhm. It's probably the only thing I've kept from my childhood.'

'The piano?'

'The music. What do you want to hear? I can do some passable jazz, blues or classical.'

'You choose,' he replies, getting up from the bench for me.

I flex my fingers, thinking back to the piece I'd been practising last night, but instead, I go for a favourite. After a few chords, Rob murmurs 'Joy. Bach,' and I have to catch my breath. My fingers stumble a little, so I begin again, stealing enough of a look to see he's sitting on the edge of my bed behind me, a little to my right, leaning back on his hands. I concentrate better so that, this time, my fingers and brain slipstream a little more easily into the piece, until it's done.

'You played that beautifully -- in a slower tempo than usual,' he comments, as I try to bring my heart-rate and emotions into check.