Wow - it's true. Time is good for a lot of things. It gives perspective and lets levelheads start to come through. Wow, what a week.
Besides the action packed stuff (Val was in an electrical storm, Val was trapped in an elevator, Val was almost in a drunken brawl at the airport), the thing that's changed everything the most is that I got that teeny, tiny bit of validation I was looking for.
I know, I know, we shouldn't pull our worth from other people and all that matters is your own opinion but, come on, I'm a writer, that can't ever be 100% true. And when I was feeling down I gave my book to someone to read and they loved it. As in couldn't put it down, stayed up all night reading it, sent me an email at 2am to tell me how much they enjoyed it loved it. As in sent me a really long explanation on thier opinion and quoted parts of my book back to me loved it. As in is making their husband read it loved it. Gotta say, that is just the best kind of loved it that you can get.
And that inspired me to reread my book a little bit and rediscover what I loved about (dude, I totally forgot I was kind of funny) and reaccess what my genre is (though I still have trouble calling it romance because it does not end that way but romanitc comedy I'll take). And, well, yeah - I have reread that email more times than I care to admit out loud. *guilty look*
Ahh, but what a difference a week makes . . .
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sleepless Nights
Wow, I must really be out of it - it took me 3 days to figure out what my insomnia meant. 3 DAYS!
I get intermittent bouts of insomnia when my life is off. Hasn't happened for awhile (which I guess is a good thing) so it totally didn't dawn on me that the fact that I can't sleep is all my fault.
Now I just have to figure out what it means - but that ain't too hard to do either. It's about my book. About how I'm not writing and too worried to get on with it. But realizing this is a good thing because this morning I took a shower, got back into bed, and tried a different approach to my query letter. Didn't finish and don't really know if its any better (I swear, this query letter thing is going to kill me if I let it) but it made me feel better.
So I've made two decisions - one, that I have to keep writing, something, anything everyday and not don't because I'm afraid it's bad because, well, first drafts are always bad, and two, that I am not going to make my arbitrary June 15th deadline. I wrote my story and I reread my story and I fixed things here and there but I didn't really edit my story like it should truly be. I have to spend more time with it, make some hard decisions, and then it'll be ready to go out. My new goal is before summer ends so once summer hours are over I should have everything good to go. And that's a deadline I'm going to make.
I get intermittent bouts of insomnia when my life is off. Hasn't happened for awhile (which I guess is a good thing) so it totally didn't dawn on me that the fact that I can't sleep is all my fault.
Now I just have to figure out what it means - but that ain't too hard to do either. It's about my book. About how I'm not writing and too worried to get on with it. But realizing this is a good thing because this morning I took a shower, got back into bed, and tried a different approach to my query letter. Didn't finish and don't really know if its any better (I swear, this query letter thing is going to kill me if I let it) but it made me feel better.
So I've made two decisions - one, that I have to keep writing, something, anything everyday and not don't because I'm afraid it's bad because, well, first drafts are always bad, and two, that I am not going to make my arbitrary June 15th deadline. I wrote my story and I reread my story and I fixed things here and there but I didn't really edit my story like it should truly be. I have to spend more time with it, make some hard decisions, and then it'll be ready to go out. My new goal is before summer ends so once summer hours are over I should have everything good to go. And that's a deadline I'm going to make.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Critics and the Like
I think I'm in the middle of learning a lesson. I guess the question will be if I'm actually going to learn it.
I've been struggling for some time now (understatement of the century, right there!) with this whole beast of getting published. I wrote a novel - yes. I love that novel - God yes. And I am fully aware that everyone in the world is not going to, that literature is art and art is always subjective. I know that I'm going to get more nos than yeses but all I really need is one yes and I'm good to go.
But it suddenly dawned on me that I may not be ready for this, that I might be completely out of my league here. I'm not a research girl, I don't love to hunt for information, and I already wrote my novel so why do I need to look into what sells? But that's all stuff that you got to do if you're serious. I'm supposed to be serious, right?
I signed up for this "class" through the FWC which pretty much is me sending my query letter to an agent to read and critique - a little polishing if you will. But I'm finding that there seems to be a hell of a lot of coal left and I'm not even sure if there's a diamond inside that's worthy of this. I'm starting to think that this whole exercise is more like finding a husband than an agent and, well, this perpetually single 27 year old certainly has mastered that skill, hasn't she?
It's not like you just need to find someone that takes interest, you have to find someone that takes enough interest and sees enough potential to hunker down for the long haul. Trying to write a letter to communicate why you're awesome and worthy is like writing a dating profile (I tried that and failed miserably - there's a reason why I write novels and not vignettes or poems, okay) with everything worth knowing there. But there's a lot more worth knowing about my novel than the first summary line can tell you.
So anyway, I sent my query out and got it back with revisions. I tried my best making them but I was super confused - I followed the instructions in her book and checked all the samples and then she gives me advice that never popped up before. I agonize, I attempt, I send it back. When I get her response I find out that she hates my hook and doesn't think that it can sustain a whole book and that I can't claim the genre as "literary fiction" because that is an agent's decision and I wrote a romantic comedy.
What else did she say? Don't know - can't bring myself to read the rest. I stared at the unopened email for two days and then when I opened it I read two lines and closed it again. I went through the requisite feelings: denial (Screw you, I'm brill ant!), anger (How the hell can you tell me it's not literary fiction from four sentences in a letter about my book, not even my book itself, huh?), bargaining (Maybe it is a romantic comedy? I could change that for an agent.), depression (It's horrible! I can't write worth a damn! Why did I even try this again?), acceptance ( . . . . yeah, I'm still in depression, haven't really gotten here yet).
If this was like finding a husband, what would happen next? Well first I'd have to bump into some available agent at work and then, if Betsy has her way, obsessively myspace/ facebook stalk them until we can figure out if they really are an agent. Then I'd screw up the courage to write the query and I'd get back a response that says either um, they don't have time for any new books or should interested until they saw the length of my book and then blow me off. Hmm, this isn't sounding very good here either.
Because here's the deal - I can't not be a writer. It is, was, will always be, everything that I am. I can wear disguises for awhile (like the ones I'm sporting now of unaffected observer, obedient office drone, and content procrastinator) but it's never true. I have too many ideas floating around my head, too many words just dying to be written down that I can't NOT do it. But maybe I'm stuck to always be a writer, never an author, never with the title published.
I'm starting to worry that this is flute lessons all over again. I never thought I was great at the flute but I thought I was adequate and no one ever told me otherwise - years and YEARS down the road it came upon me one day that I truly sucked at playing the flute. I worked really hard at it and determination helped me power through but yeah, I was bad. Is that the same as this, just a few years away from looking back and realizing I'm living a kind of cruel delusion.
Lots of people showed interest in the beginning of my book and I think they liked it but I've handed it out to people like those guys in Vegas with the stripper fliers and only two people have finished it (one of them because she was reading it as I wrote it). Maybe it's too much to take in one sitting. Maybe it's not good.
Maybe my hook can't sustain a whole novel . . . but dear God, where the heck do I go from here?
I've been struggling for some time now (understatement of the century, right there!) with this whole beast of getting published. I wrote a novel - yes. I love that novel - God yes. And I am fully aware that everyone in the world is not going to, that literature is art and art is always subjective. I know that I'm going to get more nos than yeses but all I really need is one yes and I'm good to go.
But it suddenly dawned on me that I may not be ready for this, that I might be completely out of my league here. I'm not a research girl, I don't love to hunt for information, and I already wrote my novel so why do I need to look into what sells? But that's all stuff that you got to do if you're serious. I'm supposed to be serious, right?
I signed up for this "class" through the FWC which pretty much is me sending my query letter to an agent to read and critique - a little polishing if you will. But I'm finding that there seems to be a hell of a lot of coal left and I'm not even sure if there's a diamond inside that's worthy of this. I'm starting to think that this whole exercise is more like finding a husband than an agent and, well, this perpetually single 27 year old certainly has mastered that skill, hasn't she?
It's not like you just need to find someone that takes interest, you have to find someone that takes enough interest and sees enough potential to hunker down for the long haul. Trying to write a letter to communicate why you're awesome and worthy is like writing a dating profile (I tried that and failed miserably - there's a reason why I write novels and not vignettes or poems, okay) with everything worth knowing there. But there's a lot more worth knowing about my novel than the first summary line can tell you.
So anyway, I sent my query out and got it back with revisions. I tried my best making them but I was super confused - I followed the instructions in her book and checked all the samples and then she gives me advice that never popped up before. I agonize, I attempt, I send it back. When I get her response I find out that she hates my hook and doesn't think that it can sustain a whole book and that I can't claim the genre as "literary fiction" because that is an agent's decision and I wrote a romantic comedy.
What else did she say? Don't know - can't bring myself to read the rest. I stared at the unopened email for two days and then when I opened it I read two lines and closed it again. I went through the requisite feelings: denial (Screw you, I'm brill ant!), anger (How the hell can you tell me it's not literary fiction from four sentences in a letter about my book, not even my book itself, huh?), bargaining (Maybe it is a romantic comedy? I could change that for an agent.), depression (It's horrible! I can't write worth a damn! Why did I even try this again?), acceptance ( . . . . yeah, I'm still in depression, haven't really gotten here yet).
If this was like finding a husband, what would happen next? Well first I'd have to bump into some available agent at work and then, if Betsy has her way, obsessively myspace/ facebook stalk them until we can figure out if they really are an agent. Then I'd screw up the courage to write the query and I'd get back a response that says either um, they don't have time for any new books or should interested until they saw the length of my book and then blow me off. Hmm, this isn't sounding very good here either.
Because here's the deal - I can't not be a writer. It is, was, will always be, everything that I am. I can wear disguises for awhile (like the ones I'm sporting now of unaffected observer, obedient office drone, and content procrastinator) but it's never true. I have too many ideas floating around my head, too many words just dying to be written down that I can't NOT do it. But maybe I'm stuck to always be a writer, never an author, never with the title published.
I'm starting to worry that this is flute lessons all over again. I never thought I was great at the flute but I thought I was adequate and no one ever told me otherwise - years and YEARS down the road it came upon me one day that I truly sucked at playing the flute. I worked really hard at it and determination helped me power through but yeah, I was bad. Is that the same as this, just a few years away from looking back and realizing I'm living a kind of cruel delusion.
Lots of people showed interest in the beginning of my book and I think they liked it but I've handed it out to people like those guys in Vegas with the stripper fliers and only two people have finished it (one of them because she was reading it as I wrote it). Maybe it's too much to take in one sitting. Maybe it's not good.
Maybe my hook can't sustain a whole novel . . . but dear God, where the heck do I go from here?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I Won!
I did it! It was a hard, uphill battle but I have persevered. At times I didn't think that I had any words left in me and I had to pull them out, kicking and screaming until I wanted to tear my hair out. Sometimes I was on a roll, words spinning out of me uncontrollably and creating a massive confusion pile-up that I had to clean up one sentence at a time. It wasn't always easy. It wasn't always fun. But, it was always worth it.
I am now a NaNoWriMo 2008 WINNER!! I stand at 50,139 words and still counting (my story needs another 5 to 10K before it's done and I'm going to strive to get that done before the night's over as well. Last time I NaNo'd I finished with 56 K and I'm striving to break that this year.)!!
But that swell of accomplishment is in the air. Whoever thought writing a short novel in a month (that might possibly be loads of crap) could feel so good. I love words!
:))
I am now a NaNoWriMo 2008 WINNER!! I stand at 50,139 words and still counting (my story needs another 5 to 10K before it's done and I'm going to strive to get that done before the night's over as well. Last time I NaNo'd I finished with 56 K and I'm striving to break that this year.)!!
But that swell of accomplishment is in the air. Whoever thought writing a short novel in a month (that might possibly be loads of crap) could feel so good. I love words!
:))
Friday, November 28, 2008
Let's Get Intuit, Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Delilah sat on her couch fresh from the shower, water slowly dripping down her shoulders from her wet hair, slippered feet tucked up under her for warmth, methodically turning the pages of the worn Intuit manual her mother had left her.
She wasn’t sure what she was trying to find there, just skimming the pages of wisdom of the ages and Intuit history and practical tips about keeping the sinuses clear (eat a raw pepper once a week) and the long hair tangle free (comb lemon juice through the stands every other day and braid immediately afterwards). But that kind of information wasn’t what Delilah was looking for.
At that moment she wished for nothing more or less than insight but not into the future, into the past. She wished with all her heart that she could look into a crystal ball and get clarity on that which has already past instead of that which has yet to come. She knew exactly what she would ask it – what happened to my mother?
Telling Jensen hadn’t been hard and she didn’t regret it but speaking it out loud had brought that tug for an explanation back to the forefront of her mind. She had started wondering if maybe it was their gift that had gotten their mother killed but was, once again, stymied by indecision over whether she actually wanted to know or not. If Intuit’s, or at least Intuit’s in her family, were destined to lead short lives she’d rather not hear her death sentence at the moment. Maybe the letter would explain though . . .
It all kept coming back to the letter, she thought, reaching the end of the book and running her fingers down the fold where it had been hiding for so long She pressed her palm against the page, thinking that her mother might have done the same thing many years ago and wishing she could feel her across time itself. It had been getting harder and harder to remember what her mother had looked like, what kind of person she had been. Madge helped, telling her amusing little anecdotes about things they had done in their youth, but it was such a far cry from the person that she remembered raising her that she craved for an answer even more. She had never seen her mother do any type of magic, still had a hard time believing it even after everything she had seen and learned.
Why hadn’t her mother told her about her future? Her hand reached up and caressed her necklace and it calmed her though it did not give her any answers, simply another question. If the necklace was so important, why wasn’t her mother wearing it when she died? Come to think of it, she didn’t remember ever seeing her mother with the necklace on her whole life.
She grabbed the phone and dialed without thinking. It rang three times before a groggy but cheerful voice picked up on the other side. “Hello?” it asked, clearly still asleep.
“Oh Madge I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how early it was. Did I wake you?”
“No,” she answered and Delilah immediately knew it was a lie but instead of being angry she was excited. She was becoming better at doing the things other Intuits took for granted. It buoyed her confidence a bit and her question suddenly seemed less preposterous.
“Sure,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Just then the floor started shaking, her cabinet doors clapping and dishes rattling crazily. Things started leaping up off of her floor like kernels in a popcorn machine, jumping here and there. It lasted only for a moment but when it was done it looked like a tornado had ripped through her apartment, glasses shattered on the floor, clothes flung over the back of her kitchen chairs, books tumbled from the shelves. “What’s that? Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake?”
“What?” she asked groggily.
“Nothing,” Delilah murmured with a few sidelong glances around her apartment. “Sorry, nothing. I guess I’m just a little jumpy and tired.”
“Sweetie was there something you wanted to ask me?” Madge asked in tired amusement.
“Oh, yeah, there was. Remember when you told me that my necklace was very powerful and sacred and I shouldn’t take it off.”
“Mmmhmmm,” she replied drowsily before the question woke her with a start. “Oh Delilah, please don’t tell me you took it off and lost it. Please, please, Please.”
“No, no, nothing like that. I still have it, no worries.” She reached a hand up into the hollow of her neck to check, just to be safe.
"Oh good," Madge said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. Delilah could picture her with a dramatic hand over her heart and smiled. "Because you can't ever honey. That is irreplaceable. It's protected by being close to you so it can't be broken but you have to be very careful with it."
"How did I get it?" she asked, picking it up and peering down into it, still getting the odd sense at times that if she looked at it just the right way it would give her all the answers she was looking for.
"What do you mean sweetie?"
"Well, where do you get them? Where are you going to get the one you give to Jam one day."
"Oh I thought you were asking where the gifts come from that is an entirely different and unanswerable question that we really shouldn’t be getting into around seven am on a Saturday. You get them at Gilded Hill of course but once you try it on, that's it. It bonds with you and becomes an irrevocable part of what makes each of us so special."
"What happens if you lose it?" she asked, thinking again about her mother. "Or if you take it off?"
"Your magic is always stronger when you wear it so I suppose your powers would become weaker."
"You mean," she gulped, her heart starting to race at the possibilities, "that if I get tired of this whole smelling emotions, seeing the future thing then I can just take it off?"
Madge’s voice came out angry, a thread of power running beneath her words. "No that is not what I said! These are your gifts, they are yours whether you wear the stone or not but you should not take the necklace off. It protects you."
"How? Like from danger?"
"Well it doesn't make you indestructible or anything of the sort. You get hit by a bus it's still going to hurt though it might not kill you. And at times it has been known to send out distress signals so if you were in trouble, real trouble, my necklace should burn and let me know that I need to get to you."
"How come it didn't work then?"
"What do you mean?" Madge asked in confusion though no longer from drowsiness but from the sudden edge of emotion and hysteria in Delilah’s voice.
"How come it didn't work for my mother? How come no one came to rescue her when she died? And why wasn't she wearing her necklace if it’s so sacred and important?"
Madge was shocked by Delilah's questions for a moment, sitting in bed simply grasping for any kind of answer that she could give to not only help her find peace of mind but peace of soul as well. As Delilah waited she heard the sounds of the children in the background, probably running around in morning cheer, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and without a care in the world. She hadn't been like that for a long time now, couldn't remember if she had ever been like that actually, so unaware and unworried over the things that life would bring.
"Forget it, forget it," Delilah said. She heard Madge's voice protesting as she pulled the phone away from her ear and severed the line, keeping the phone off the hook so she couldn't call back. She drew her knees up under her chin and stared without seeing at the book on the coffee table which might as well have been written in Swahili for all of the answers it was providing her with.
She sat there for what felt like minutes but must have been longer, had to have been. The knock on her door scared her and she jumped up in fright as it sluggishly pulled her away from her dark thoughts and persistent fears. And Madge wondered why she hated change? Every change, every new piece of information she found, only dug a bigger hole into her heart.
The knock sounded again, insistent, persistent. "Coming," she grumbled, quickening her pace to the door so they wouldn't knock a third time and annoy all of her neighbors so early in the morning.
Madge was standing on the other side, hand raised in mid-air to pound again, when she finally pulled the door open. She had a long jacket pulled over a pair of pajamas, looking like she had hopped straight from her bed to Delilah's entryway. Delilah didn't even get a chance to say anything before Madge made a maternal clucking and rushed her, enfolding her into her arms.
Delilah didn't know how long she stood there wrapped in Madge’s embrace, tears falling freely from her eyes but it was long enough to drain away the whole pool of sadness and tears inside of her. After she had cried herself out she sniffed inelegantly and backed away, rubbing a wayward hand across her eyes. She turned from Madge so she couldn't read the feelings in her face (though considering who Madge was she needn't have bothered) and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She gasped out loud at what she saw there. Her eyes were white, only the inky iris peering out from behind her eyelids. She started to panic but Madge was behind her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder and guiding one of Delilah's stray fingers to her necklace, calming her on contact.
"I hate it," she spat, wishing to wrench the thing from her neck and hurl it across the room. "I hate that it has so much control over me, can calm me with a single touch. If it's so special than why didn't it protect my mom? Why didn't it save my mom?" Her eyes were pleading with Madge who sighed and led Delilah to the couch.
"You don't mean that. It's hard to get used to and understand, especially at such an old age, but it's a good thing. It's good that it can clear your head when need be. We're taught, trained, to see and feel emotions everywhere. It's a good thing that it can clear our heads. That it keeps us sane and from going crazy at the overload from the emotional fight the neighbors are having or the depression of the guy walking down the street or the anger at the commuter in the car beside you. It is necessary for our survival to have that bond, this gift. It is essential."
"I know," she pleaded, her voice full of tears even though none fell from her face. "I know it's true but then why didn't any of that help my mom?"
Madge looked at her for a long time before she answered, choosing her words carefully. "Truth?"
"Truth."
“I don't know. When your mom found out she was pregnant with you, she changed. We didn't see her as much as before and then finally she turned her back on the community, just up and left. I still saw her but not nearly as often. I don't think anyone but me had seen her for at least a year when she was killed."
"Then why were you waiting for me? Why did you think I would come if my mom didn't even want this anymore?"
A sad smile appeared on Madge’s face. "Your mother came to see me at least once a year, usually around your birthday and she came to see me that year, two days before she died. And after we talked and caught up, just as she was leaving, she repeated what she always said to me in parting, every time. She'd say ‘Take care of my daughter Madge if anything happens to me. Teach her the things that I no longer can’ and then she’d smile sadly and walk out.”
“Did she know something bad was going to happen to her?” Delilah asked.
Madge shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. The older you got the more and more anxious she became until she barely ever came to visit and that youthful spark she used to have was completely gone. I always thought it was from the strain of being a single mother – she was so stubborn and would never let any of us help her, which we would have done in a heartbeat – but maybe there was more. Maybe I should have tried harder to find out.” She looked away from Delilah, staring off to the side with blank eyes, seeing something else besides the bookcases and furniture before her.
“It’s not your fault Madge,” Delilah whispered, leaning her head on her shoulder.
“She was my best friend and even though she pushed me away, I should have found some way to help her. None of us knew where you lived and I still pray every night now in thanks that the Conrads took you in and kept you safe when I couldn’t. Your continued happiness and safety was my last promise to Genevieve and I fully intend to keep it.”
She turned big, compelling, deep purple eyes to Delilah. “That’s why you can’t ever take the necklace off honey. I need you to be safe. I need to know that you are safe,” she implored with feeling, tears shining brightly in the depths of her eyes. There wasn’t much Delilah could do – she simply shook her head in agreement, hoping that it was a promise she’d be able to keep but doubting it all the same.
Delilah sat on her couch fresh from the shower, water slowly dripping down her shoulders from her wet hair, slippered feet tucked up under her for warmth, methodically turning the pages of the worn Intuit manual her mother had left her.
She wasn’t sure what she was trying to find there, just skimming the pages of wisdom of the ages and Intuit history and practical tips about keeping the sinuses clear (eat a raw pepper once a week) and the long hair tangle free (comb lemon juice through the stands every other day and braid immediately afterwards). But that kind of information wasn’t what Delilah was looking for.
At that moment she wished for nothing more or less than insight but not into the future, into the past. She wished with all her heart that she could look into a crystal ball and get clarity on that which has already past instead of that which has yet to come. She knew exactly what she would ask it – what happened to my mother?
Telling Jensen hadn’t been hard and she didn’t regret it but speaking it out loud had brought that tug for an explanation back to the forefront of her mind. She had started wondering if maybe it was their gift that had gotten their mother killed but was, once again, stymied by indecision over whether she actually wanted to know or not. If Intuit’s, or at least Intuit’s in her family, were destined to lead short lives she’d rather not hear her death sentence at the moment. Maybe the letter would explain though . . .
It all kept coming back to the letter, she thought, reaching the end of the book and running her fingers down the fold where it had been hiding for so long She pressed her palm against the page, thinking that her mother might have done the same thing many years ago and wishing she could feel her across time itself. It had been getting harder and harder to remember what her mother had looked like, what kind of person she had been. Madge helped, telling her amusing little anecdotes about things they had done in their youth, but it was such a far cry from the person that she remembered raising her that she craved for an answer even more. She had never seen her mother do any type of magic, still had a hard time believing it even after everything she had seen and learned.
Why hadn’t her mother told her about her future? Her hand reached up and caressed her necklace and it calmed her though it did not give her any answers, simply another question. If the necklace was so important, why wasn’t her mother wearing it when she died? Come to think of it, she didn’t remember ever seeing her mother with the necklace on her whole life.
She grabbed the phone and dialed without thinking. It rang three times before a groggy but cheerful voice picked up on the other side. “Hello?” it asked, clearly still asleep.
“Oh Madge I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how early it was. Did I wake you?”
“No,” she answered and Delilah immediately knew it was a lie but instead of being angry she was excited. She was becoming better at doing the things other Intuits took for granted. It buoyed her confidence a bit and her question suddenly seemed less preposterous.
“Sure,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Just then the floor started shaking, her cabinet doors clapping and dishes rattling crazily. Things started leaping up off of her floor like kernels in a popcorn machine, jumping here and there. It lasted only for a moment but when it was done it looked like a tornado had ripped through her apartment, glasses shattered on the floor, clothes flung over the back of her kitchen chairs, books tumbled from the shelves. “What’s that? Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake?”
“What?” she asked groggily.
“Nothing,” Delilah murmured with a few sidelong glances around her apartment. “Sorry, nothing. I guess I’m just a little jumpy and tired.”
“Sweetie was there something you wanted to ask me?” Madge asked in tired amusement.
“Oh, yeah, there was. Remember when you told me that my necklace was very powerful and sacred and I shouldn’t take it off.”
“Mmmhmmm,” she replied drowsily before the question woke her with a start. “Oh Delilah, please don’t tell me you took it off and lost it. Please, please, Please.”
“No, no, nothing like that. I still have it, no worries.” She reached a hand up into the hollow of her neck to check, just to be safe.
"Oh good," Madge said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. Delilah could picture her with a dramatic hand over her heart and smiled. "Because you can't ever honey. That is irreplaceable. It's protected by being close to you so it can't be broken but you have to be very careful with it."
"How did I get it?" she asked, picking it up and peering down into it, still getting the odd sense at times that if she looked at it just the right way it would give her all the answers she was looking for.
"What do you mean sweetie?"
"Well, where do you get them? Where are you going to get the one you give to Jam one day."
"Oh I thought you were asking where the gifts come from that is an entirely different and unanswerable question that we really shouldn’t be getting into around seven am on a Saturday. You get them at Gilded Hill of course but once you try it on, that's it. It bonds with you and becomes an irrevocable part of what makes each of us so special."
"What happens if you lose it?" she asked, thinking again about her mother. "Or if you take it off?"
"Your magic is always stronger when you wear it so I suppose your powers would become weaker."
"You mean," she gulped, her heart starting to race at the possibilities, "that if I get tired of this whole smelling emotions, seeing the future thing then I can just take it off?"
Madge’s voice came out angry, a thread of power running beneath her words. "No that is not what I said! These are your gifts, they are yours whether you wear the stone or not but you should not take the necklace off. It protects you."
"How? Like from danger?"
"Well it doesn't make you indestructible or anything of the sort. You get hit by a bus it's still going to hurt though it might not kill you. And at times it has been known to send out distress signals so if you were in trouble, real trouble, my necklace should burn and let me know that I need to get to you."
"How come it didn't work then?"
"What do you mean?" Madge asked in confusion though no longer from drowsiness but from the sudden edge of emotion and hysteria in Delilah’s voice.
"How come it didn't work for my mother? How come no one came to rescue her when she died? And why wasn't she wearing her necklace if it’s so sacred and important?"
Madge was shocked by Delilah's questions for a moment, sitting in bed simply grasping for any kind of answer that she could give to not only help her find peace of mind but peace of soul as well. As Delilah waited she heard the sounds of the children in the background, probably running around in morning cheer, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and without a care in the world. She hadn't been like that for a long time now, couldn't remember if she had ever been like that actually, so unaware and unworried over the things that life would bring.
"Forget it, forget it," Delilah said. She heard Madge's voice protesting as she pulled the phone away from her ear and severed the line, keeping the phone off the hook so she couldn't call back. She drew her knees up under her chin and stared without seeing at the book on the coffee table which might as well have been written in Swahili for all of the answers it was providing her with.
She sat there for what felt like minutes but must have been longer, had to have been. The knock on her door scared her and she jumped up in fright as it sluggishly pulled her away from her dark thoughts and persistent fears. And Madge wondered why she hated change? Every change, every new piece of information she found, only dug a bigger hole into her heart.
The knock sounded again, insistent, persistent. "Coming," she grumbled, quickening her pace to the door so they wouldn't knock a third time and annoy all of her neighbors so early in the morning.
Madge was standing on the other side, hand raised in mid-air to pound again, when she finally pulled the door open. She had a long jacket pulled over a pair of pajamas, looking like she had hopped straight from her bed to Delilah's entryway. Delilah didn't even get a chance to say anything before Madge made a maternal clucking and rushed her, enfolding her into her arms.
Delilah didn't know how long she stood there wrapped in Madge’s embrace, tears falling freely from her eyes but it was long enough to drain away the whole pool of sadness and tears inside of her. After she had cried herself out she sniffed inelegantly and backed away, rubbing a wayward hand across her eyes. She turned from Madge so she couldn't read the feelings in her face (though considering who Madge was she needn't have bothered) and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She gasped out loud at what she saw there. Her eyes were white, only the inky iris peering out from behind her eyelids. She started to panic but Madge was behind her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder and guiding one of Delilah's stray fingers to her necklace, calming her on contact.
"I hate it," she spat, wishing to wrench the thing from her neck and hurl it across the room. "I hate that it has so much control over me, can calm me with a single touch. If it's so special than why didn't it protect my mom? Why didn't it save my mom?" Her eyes were pleading with Madge who sighed and led Delilah to the couch.
"You don't mean that. It's hard to get used to and understand, especially at such an old age, but it's a good thing. It's good that it can clear your head when need be. We're taught, trained, to see and feel emotions everywhere. It's a good thing that it can clear our heads. That it keeps us sane and from going crazy at the overload from the emotional fight the neighbors are having or the depression of the guy walking down the street or the anger at the commuter in the car beside you. It is necessary for our survival to have that bond, this gift. It is essential."
"I know," she pleaded, her voice full of tears even though none fell from her face. "I know it's true but then why didn't any of that help my mom?"
Madge looked at her for a long time before she answered, choosing her words carefully. "Truth?"
"Truth."
“I don't know. When your mom found out she was pregnant with you, she changed. We didn't see her as much as before and then finally she turned her back on the community, just up and left. I still saw her but not nearly as often. I don't think anyone but me had seen her for at least a year when she was killed."
"Then why were you waiting for me? Why did you think I would come if my mom didn't even want this anymore?"
A sad smile appeared on Madge’s face. "Your mother came to see me at least once a year, usually around your birthday and she came to see me that year, two days before she died. And after we talked and caught up, just as she was leaving, she repeated what she always said to me in parting, every time. She'd say ‘Take care of my daughter Madge if anything happens to me. Teach her the things that I no longer can’ and then she’d smile sadly and walk out.”
“Did she know something bad was going to happen to her?” Delilah asked.
Madge shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. The older you got the more and more anxious she became until she barely ever came to visit and that youthful spark she used to have was completely gone. I always thought it was from the strain of being a single mother – she was so stubborn and would never let any of us help her, which we would have done in a heartbeat – but maybe there was more. Maybe I should have tried harder to find out.” She looked away from Delilah, staring off to the side with blank eyes, seeing something else besides the bookcases and furniture before her.
“It’s not your fault Madge,” Delilah whispered, leaning her head on her shoulder.
“She was my best friend and even though she pushed me away, I should have found some way to help her. None of us knew where you lived and I still pray every night now in thanks that the Conrads took you in and kept you safe when I couldn’t. Your continued happiness and safety was my last promise to Genevieve and I fully intend to keep it.”
She turned big, compelling, deep purple eyes to Delilah. “That’s why you can’t ever take the necklace off honey. I need you to be safe. I need to know that you are safe,” she implored with feeling, tears shining brightly in the depths of her eyes. There wasn’t much Delilah could do – she simply shook her head in agreement, hoping that it was a promise she’d be able to keep but doubting it all the same.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Let's Get Intuit, Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Jensen stopped flipping haphazardly thorough the book in his hand. It started to slip from his fingers and he made a wild grab for it, narrowly missing the floor. “I, um, didn’t know that.”
Delilah smiled but wasn’t looking at him to see the shock register on his face even though the sudden appearance of the scent of sea spray, as if they’d been transported to a sandy beach during high tide, should have tipped her off that something was different. “Didn’t Stephen tell you how we know each other?” she questioned in distraction, her eyes still preoccupied with all of the books laid out before her.
“Nope, uh, I don’t think he ever did mention it.” He dropped the book in his hand, cleared his throat and pulled against his collar, looking like he was suddenly in need of more air.
“It’s not that great of a story to tell you the truth,” Delilah said, looking up to meet his eyes for the first time. He saw a little hesitation in them and it scared him for a moment.
"I'd like to hear it anyway."
She took a deep breath and grabbed a book idly from the shelf, just so she could have a prop in her hand to distract her. "Well when I was sixteen my mom died. They found her randomly in the middle of a field, no sign of how of why she died, perfectly healthy except for the fact that she was dead. It was like something out of a book, you know?
"I didn't have any place to go and Amelia was my best friend so the Conrads took me in and let me stay with them until I graduated from high school." She shot him a teasing smile that was unable to completely masquerade the sadness behind it. "See, all totally harmless."
"So you weren't shacking up with him then?" Jensen asked. His face was sympathetic and his heart panged for her but he could tell, by the way she was leaning against the bookcase, by the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, by the way the lines of her body had stopped moving as if waiting for something to happen, that she did not want to talk about what she'd just revealed. She wasn't ready for that yet but he'd be there when she was so he obeyed her unsaid wishes and passed it by.
"Ugh, God no," she said, a look of disgust passing across her face as she shivered at the terrible thought.
Jensen laughed and came around the room towards her. "Good because I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. I think we just found our angst."
"Jealous already? You know that's not a very attractive quality." She addressed her comments to the slight dimple in his chin, her lips almost brushing it as she spoke. Jensen didn’t see the need to keep much space between them and Delilah was hard pressed to find any disagreement inside of her.
"I think I have a few others to make up for it."
"Really?" she asked with that laugh in her voice that hadn't been absent since she'd started talking with him that evening, the levity she was sorely missing in the other parts of her life bursting full blown into the air when she was with him.
"Really,” he asserted confidently, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her even closer to kiss her again.
"So, what's next on this list of yours?" he murmured in her ear, his lips softly brushing her hair.
"Well . . ." She opened her mouth to speak but was taken aback by what caught her eye in the mirror on the wall across from them. She had raised her hands to brush at the nape of his neck and spotted something bright underneath the few tendrils of his hair brushing down that far. "What is that?"
"What?" he asked, following her eyes to the mirror.
"That," she murmured, pushing his hair up off of the back of his neck. She circled him and climbed up onto a chair to get a better look.
"Oh, that," he laughed with a sheepish and charming grin. "I was hanging out with my niece this afternoon and I foolishly allowed her to give me a tattoo with markers I didn't realize were permanent." He shook his head a bit ruefully and tried to catch a glimpse of it in the mirror.
"I can't actually see what it is. She told me she wanted it to be a surprise. Care to enlighten me?"
"It's a buzzing bee and a smiling sun." Delilah could barely breathe. What was the universe trying to tell her? That tonight the future held for her Jensen. Was she ready for that? Was she ready to be manipulated like that? Was it even manipulation? A headache was starting to form right between her eyes and she raised a hand to try and rub it away.
Jensen laughed. "Okay, that is definitely some creative license she took there. I told her I wanted something manly."
"Would you have preferred a bee riding a motorcycle into the angry sunset."
"Much more masculine," he answered. She stopped playing with his hair and leaned against him, letting her arms drape down around his neck and resting her chin on the top of his head. His slightly callused hands felt so good running up and down her arms that she was having trouble coming up with a reason why she had to move.
But she was suddenly inspired. What was it that she had been seeing in her dreams about knitting needles? She grabbed her right hand back and slid it across the breath of his wide shoulders, down his massive back, and down over his backside. She bit her lip in concentration as she slipped her hand into his back pocket.
"I can't believe it," she murmured to herself when she came out with a pair of knitting needles.
"You know if you want to feel me up I don't have a problem with that." Jensen turned to look at her, the husky timber of his voice causing shivers of awareness to grate along her skin.
“What are you doing with these, cowboy?” she asked in a breathy voice, unsure on if she wanted an answer or not since it probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Why he had them wasn’t as important as the fact that he did and it looked like her prophetic visions of the future, no matter how scattered or random, were actually coming true.
He looked a little ashamed and cleared his throat, reaching up to take them from her outstretched hand. “What am I doing with these?” he repeated.
“Yes, what are you doing with knitting needles in your back pocket?”
“Would you believe I use them to play the drums?” he asked hopefully, twirling the needles idly in his hand like he had down it numerous times before.
“No.”
“Knitting keeps dexterity in the fingers. I got into the habit of knitting when I was doing my medical residency and a few of the girls in my year convinced me it would get me all the ladies. Plus . . .”
“Plus . . .” she prompted, reaching to grab his face and tip it up to look at her, still standing on the chair. She liked utilizing the height to her advantage and slipped her hand back into his hair, running it slowly through her splayed fingers.
“Plus,” he began once more, having to clear his throat to push the words out, “I heard that you liked to knit from Stephen and I thought it might be a quirky gift to get your attention.”
“You were carrying the needles around for me?” she asked in surprise, taking a step back but upsetting her balance in the process. Jensen had to reach out to steady her, his hands sparking her to life again where they settled on her waist. He pulled her down off of the chair and held her close.
“Sure was.” Excitement and elation bubbled over inside of Delilah. Not only had she sparked his interest she had also captured his attention. The party was cluttered with girls shooting covetous glances at him but he couldn’t see any of it, his eyes focused only on her.
She cleared her throat and smiled blindingly, causing Jensen to blink at its brilliance. “The next thing that Amelia told me to find was A Star Is Born. Do you know that movie?”
“I like old movies,” he said, sliding a strand of her hair behind her ear, “My decorator centered that one over my bed.” He punctuated that statement with a kiss.
“Is that so?” she asked breathlessly when they parted.
“It’s a fact ma’am. What you don’t believe me?”
“Nope,” she said, the smile she was trying to hide teasing itself around the corners of her mouth. “It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
“Maybe I’ll just have to show it to you.”
“Maybe you will.”
They stood there for a second together, each trying to figure out if they were serious or not. “I can get Stephen’s kayak tomorrow,” Jensen murmured, running his hands up her bare arms and unhooking them from around his neck. But he didn’t let them go immediately, holding them gently between them like a set of prepubescent lovers unsure of what to do next. “Okay then,” he said at the look on her face, clearing his throat and dropping her hands.
“I’ll meet you out front,” she said, “I just have to get my coat.” They parted at the doorway as he slipped out the front door and Delilah wound her way around the ever growing crowd of people. She spotted Amelia leaving the bathroom and followed her through the pulsing crowd, catching up with her near the living room sofa.
She had to reach out and grab her arm to get her attention, the bass on the stereo making it hard to talk as it punctuated every word. “Hey, there you are.”
“Hi,” Amelia responded, her annoyance at her best friend not yet drained away.
“Look Am, I’m sorry I was being a colossal grouch. I swear, sometimes I don’t know what is wrong with me but I’m really glad that you dragged me here. Really.”
“Really?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with the hope of juicy gossip to follow, “why? What’s going on?”
“I – ” she began but didn’t get very far before Jensen popped up beside her.
‘’Ready?” he asked before noticing that Delilah was in the middle of a conversation. “Oh, I don’t want to interrupt.”
“That’s fine,” Delilah said, grabbing his arm as he backed up and pulling him closer before he could disappear into the crowd. “Jensen this is Amelia. Amelia, Jensen.”
“Stephen’s sister, right?” he asked, extending a hand for her to shake.
“Mmmhmmm,” was all she said, her tone speaking volumes. She shot a look at Delilah out of the corner of her eye and she just barely managed not to laugh.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” Delilah asked as she started to leave, pulling Jensen along beside her.
“You better!”
Jensen took her hand in his, reluctant that she would slip away from him again, her elusivity before tonight making him wonder on more than one occasion if he had only just dreamt the stunning redhead with charm to spare, and led her through the house. As they left the house she was so preoccupied at the way that their hands fit perfectly together that she was barely noticed when they stepped out into the brisk evening. "Where's your car?" she asked, barely glancing away from his captivating smile to see where she was going, let alone notice it parked in front of them.
"You're looking at it," he answered with a laugh and pointing at a gleaming, beautiful piece of machinery. It was parked haphazardly in the driveway, the back half sticking out into the street at a rakish angle.
"This is your car?"
"I am a doctor after all you know," he replied, taking great delight at the appreciation in her suddenly light gray eyes.
She let out a low whistle as she released his hand to walk around it in admiration. "I've never ridden in a Ferrari with the top down before."
"Well get in." He didn't need to ask her twice; he didn't even have time to open the door for her before she slipped into the leather interior. "Wow" was all she could say.
He laughed. "The color makes it so much better, right?"
"Oh, so much."
"Shall we?" he asked with a quick look at her in his passenger seat. "I like you sitting next to me," he murmured, reaching a hand out to push another one of those flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. Every time he did it a rush of emotion started skittering down along her limbs and making her wonder if the spark Madge had talked about was real, was about to jump from her like an electric conduit and catch the house on fire.
He took to the roads like a teenager in his first solo drive, taking the turns quick and revving the engine to speed the car along to dizzying heights, so fast that the wind was the only thing keeping them down, holding them against the seats with its strength. After fifteen minutes as they were coming off of a tight curve on an old, country road, he slowed the car.
"Are you cold?" he asked, twiddling confidently with the knobs and buttons on the dash until heat came blasting out of the vents and warming her from head to toe. The top started rising and she couldn't hold in the sigh of sadness that escaped her even as the car gratefully warmed ten degrees.
"You liked that then I take it?"
"Definitely," she smiled. He returned it but it took her breath away and she could only hold his gaze for a moment before she had to look away and at the countryside whizzing by the window much slower now. The car slowed to almost a snails' pace, so slow after the intense speed up the mountain that she wasn't even sure if they were still moving. "Why are we stopped? Did we run out of gas or something?"
He shined that half-cocked grin at her again and the air seemed to leave the car. "This is where I live."
"All the way out here? In the middle of nowhere? Is there a house to go along with it?"
"Yes, there’s a house – right up there, see. And no, not the middle of nowhere. I have neighbors. See there, and there, and oh, there's one over there to." He reached a hand out to run through the ever-lengthening strands of her hair. "Why, are you afraid to be alone with me now?"
"I guess that depends on what you plan on doing with me," she whispered softly. He moved his hand to cup the back of her head and pulled her towards him to capture her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. He rested his forehead against hers when they broke apart as they both tried to catch their breath.
"This is beautiful," he murmured, moving his hand down to the hollow of her neck.
"Thanks. It was my mother's," she replied, her eyes following his finger as he ran his hand over the ever present orange stone.
The minute he touched it, she knew what Madge meant about a spark. That calm that she felt when she touched it suddenly exploded inside of her, into a thousand sharp fragments cutting holes into her, burning white hot and intense. She felt it, all of the possibilities of Jensen and Delilah, against her skin, inside her mind, through her heart. Everything that had been, everything that could be, every single moment of togetherness and apart was sitting there for her to take.
He only touched it for a moment but when his fingertip had skirted across and landed on the other side, touching her skin again, she was gasping for breath, as if she had been drowning and was just able to come up for air.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concern, dropping nicely into competent caregiver and grabbing her wrist to take her pulse.
"I'm fine," she panted, closing her eyes and pressing a hand to forehead to try and quiet the noise that had exploded there at his touch.
"Your pulse is racing."
"I'm with you - what would you expect it to do?"
"Delilah," he said, worry and hesitation evident in just that one word.
"Take me inside Jensen" was her reply. Reluctance was clearly evident in the planes of his face. She leaned over and did her best to remove it with her lips, pressing softly against the hollow of his neck. "Take me inside," she whispered in his ear, her breathing all but back to normal.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Then sign me out against medical advice and you don't have to do anymore thinking." He met and held her gaze for a moment, running that stray hand down the side of her face again before giving in and exiting the car. She waited for him to come around to her side and open the door with a satisfied smile. Surrender, she thought, could be so nice.
Jensen stopped flipping haphazardly thorough the book in his hand. It started to slip from his fingers and he made a wild grab for it, narrowly missing the floor. “I, um, didn’t know that.”
Delilah smiled but wasn’t looking at him to see the shock register on his face even though the sudden appearance of the scent of sea spray, as if they’d been transported to a sandy beach during high tide, should have tipped her off that something was different. “Didn’t Stephen tell you how we know each other?” she questioned in distraction, her eyes still preoccupied with all of the books laid out before her.
“Nope, uh, I don’t think he ever did mention it.” He dropped the book in his hand, cleared his throat and pulled against his collar, looking like he was suddenly in need of more air.
“It’s not that great of a story to tell you the truth,” Delilah said, looking up to meet his eyes for the first time. He saw a little hesitation in them and it scared him for a moment.
"I'd like to hear it anyway."
She took a deep breath and grabbed a book idly from the shelf, just so she could have a prop in her hand to distract her. "Well when I was sixteen my mom died. They found her randomly in the middle of a field, no sign of how of why she died, perfectly healthy except for the fact that she was dead. It was like something out of a book, you know?
"I didn't have any place to go and Amelia was my best friend so the Conrads took me in and let me stay with them until I graduated from high school." She shot him a teasing smile that was unable to completely masquerade the sadness behind it. "See, all totally harmless."
"So you weren't shacking up with him then?" Jensen asked. His face was sympathetic and his heart panged for her but he could tell, by the way she was leaning against the bookcase, by the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, by the way the lines of her body had stopped moving as if waiting for something to happen, that she did not want to talk about what she'd just revealed. She wasn't ready for that yet but he'd be there when she was so he obeyed her unsaid wishes and passed it by.
"Ugh, God no," she said, a look of disgust passing across her face as she shivered at the terrible thought.
Jensen laughed and came around the room towards her. "Good because I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. I think we just found our angst."
"Jealous already? You know that's not a very attractive quality." She addressed her comments to the slight dimple in his chin, her lips almost brushing it as she spoke. Jensen didn’t see the need to keep much space between them and Delilah was hard pressed to find any disagreement inside of her.
"I think I have a few others to make up for it."
"Really?" she asked with that laugh in her voice that hadn't been absent since she'd started talking with him that evening, the levity she was sorely missing in the other parts of her life bursting full blown into the air when she was with him.
"Really,” he asserted confidently, wrapping his arms around her again and pulling her even closer to kiss her again.
"So, what's next on this list of yours?" he murmured in her ear, his lips softly brushing her hair.
"Well . . ." She opened her mouth to speak but was taken aback by what caught her eye in the mirror on the wall across from them. She had raised her hands to brush at the nape of his neck and spotted something bright underneath the few tendrils of his hair brushing down that far. "What is that?"
"What?" he asked, following her eyes to the mirror.
"That," she murmured, pushing his hair up off of the back of his neck. She circled him and climbed up onto a chair to get a better look.
"Oh, that," he laughed with a sheepish and charming grin. "I was hanging out with my niece this afternoon and I foolishly allowed her to give me a tattoo with markers I didn't realize were permanent." He shook his head a bit ruefully and tried to catch a glimpse of it in the mirror.
"I can't actually see what it is. She told me she wanted it to be a surprise. Care to enlighten me?"
"It's a buzzing bee and a smiling sun." Delilah could barely breathe. What was the universe trying to tell her? That tonight the future held for her Jensen. Was she ready for that? Was she ready to be manipulated like that? Was it even manipulation? A headache was starting to form right between her eyes and she raised a hand to try and rub it away.
Jensen laughed. "Okay, that is definitely some creative license she took there. I told her I wanted something manly."
"Would you have preferred a bee riding a motorcycle into the angry sunset."
"Much more masculine," he answered. She stopped playing with his hair and leaned against him, letting her arms drape down around his neck and resting her chin on the top of his head. His slightly callused hands felt so good running up and down her arms that she was having trouble coming up with a reason why she had to move.
But she was suddenly inspired. What was it that she had been seeing in her dreams about knitting needles? She grabbed her right hand back and slid it across the breath of his wide shoulders, down his massive back, and down over his backside. She bit her lip in concentration as she slipped her hand into his back pocket.
"I can't believe it," she murmured to herself when she came out with a pair of knitting needles.
"You know if you want to feel me up I don't have a problem with that." Jensen turned to look at her, the husky timber of his voice causing shivers of awareness to grate along her skin.
“What are you doing with these, cowboy?” she asked in a breathy voice, unsure on if she wanted an answer or not since it probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Why he had them wasn’t as important as the fact that he did and it looked like her prophetic visions of the future, no matter how scattered or random, were actually coming true.
He looked a little ashamed and cleared his throat, reaching up to take them from her outstretched hand. “What am I doing with these?” he repeated.
“Yes, what are you doing with knitting needles in your back pocket?”
“Would you believe I use them to play the drums?” he asked hopefully, twirling the needles idly in his hand like he had down it numerous times before.
“No.”
“Knitting keeps dexterity in the fingers. I got into the habit of knitting when I was doing my medical residency and a few of the girls in my year convinced me it would get me all the ladies. Plus . . .”
“Plus . . .” she prompted, reaching to grab his face and tip it up to look at her, still standing on the chair. She liked utilizing the height to her advantage and slipped her hand back into his hair, running it slowly through her splayed fingers.
“Plus,” he began once more, having to clear his throat to push the words out, “I heard that you liked to knit from Stephen and I thought it might be a quirky gift to get your attention.”
“You were carrying the needles around for me?” she asked in surprise, taking a step back but upsetting her balance in the process. Jensen had to reach out to steady her, his hands sparking her to life again where they settled on her waist. He pulled her down off of the chair and held her close.
“Sure was.” Excitement and elation bubbled over inside of Delilah. Not only had she sparked his interest she had also captured his attention. The party was cluttered with girls shooting covetous glances at him but he couldn’t see any of it, his eyes focused only on her.
She cleared her throat and smiled blindingly, causing Jensen to blink at its brilliance. “The next thing that Amelia told me to find was A Star Is Born. Do you know that movie?”
“I like old movies,” he said, sliding a strand of her hair behind her ear, “My decorator centered that one over my bed.” He punctuated that statement with a kiss.
“Is that so?” she asked breathlessly when they parted.
“It’s a fact ma’am. What you don’t believe me?”
“Nope,” she said, the smile she was trying to hide teasing itself around the corners of her mouth. “It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
“Maybe I’ll just have to show it to you.”
“Maybe you will.”
They stood there for a second together, each trying to figure out if they were serious or not. “I can get Stephen’s kayak tomorrow,” Jensen murmured, running his hands up her bare arms and unhooking them from around his neck. But he didn’t let them go immediately, holding them gently between them like a set of prepubescent lovers unsure of what to do next. “Okay then,” he said at the look on her face, clearing his throat and dropping her hands.
“I’ll meet you out front,” she said, “I just have to get my coat.” They parted at the doorway as he slipped out the front door and Delilah wound her way around the ever growing crowd of people. She spotted Amelia leaving the bathroom and followed her through the pulsing crowd, catching up with her near the living room sofa.
She had to reach out and grab her arm to get her attention, the bass on the stereo making it hard to talk as it punctuated every word. “Hey, there you are.”
“Hi,” Amelia responded, her annoyance at her best friend not yet drained away.
“Look Am, I’m sorry I was being a colossal grouch. I swear, sometimes I don’t know what is wrong with me but I’m really glad that you dragged me here. Really.”
“Really?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with the hope of juicy gossip to follow, “why? What’s going on?”
“I – ” she began but didn’t get very far before Jensen popped up beside her.
‘’Ready?” he asked before noticing that Delilah was in the middle of a conversation. “Oh, I don’t want to interrupt.”
“That’s fine,” Delilah said, grabbing his arm as he backed up and pulling him closer before he could disappear into the crowd. “Jensen this is Amelia. Amelia, Jensen.”
“Stephen’s sister, right?” he asked, extending a hand for her to shake.
“Mmmhmmm,” was all she said, her tone speaking volumes. She shot a look at Delilah out of the corner of her eye and she just barely managed not to laugh.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” Delilah asked as she started to leave, pulling Jensen along beside her.
“You better!”
Jensen took her hand in his, reluctant that she would slip away from him again, her elusivity before tonight making him wonder on more than one occasion if he had only just dreamt the stunning redhead with charm to spare, and led her through the house. As they left the house she was so preoccupied at the way that their hands fit perfectly together that she was barely noticed when they stepped out into the brisk evening. "Where's your car?" she asked, barely glancing away from his captivating smile to see where she was going, let alone notice it parked in front of them.
"You're looking at it," he answered with a laugh and pointing at a gleaming, beautiful piece of machinery. It was parked haphazardly in the driveway, the back half sticking out into the street at a rakish angle.
"This is your car?"
"I am a doctor after all you know," he replied, taking great delight at the appreciation in her suddenly light gray eyes.
She let out a low whistle as she released his hand to walk around it in admiration. "I've never ridden in a Ferrari with the top down before."
"Well get in." He didn't need to ask her twice; he didn't even have time to open the door for her before she slipped into the leather interior. "Wow" was all she could say.
He laughed. "The color makes it so much better, right?"
"Oh, so much."
"Shall we?" he asked with a quick look at her in his passenger seat. "I like you sitting next to me," he murmured, reaching a hand out to push another one of those flyaway strands of hair behind her ear. Every time he did it a rush of emotion started skittering down along her limbs and making her wonder if the spark Madge had talked about was real, was about to jump from her like an electric conduit and catch the house on fire.
He took to the roads like a teenager in his first solo drive, taking the turns quick and revving the engine to speed the car along to dizzying heights, so fast that the wind was the only thing keeping them down, holding them against the seats with its strength. After fifteen minutes as they were coming off of a tight curve on an old, country road, he slowed the car.
"Are you cold?" he asked, twiddling confidently with the knobs and buttons on the dash until heat came blasting out of the vents and warming her from head to toe. The top started rising and she couldn't hold in the sigh of sadness that escaped her even as the car gratefully warmed ten degrees.
"You liked that then I take it?"
"Definitely," she smiled. He returned it but it took her breath away and she could only hold his gaze for a moment before she had to look away and at the countryside whizzing by the window much slower now. The car slowed to almost a snails' pace, so slow after the intense speed up the mountain that she wasn't even sure if they were still moving. "Why are we stopped? Did we run out of gas or something?"
He shined that half-cocked grin at her again and the air seemed to leave the car. "This is where I live."
"All the way out here? In the middle of nowhere? Is there a house to go along with it?"
"Yes, there’s a house – right up there, see. And no, not the middle of nowhere. I have neighbors. See there, and there, and oh, there's one over there to." He reached a hand out to run through the ever-lengthening strands of her hair. "Why, are you afraid to be alone with me now?"
"I guess that depends on what you plan on doing with me," she whispered softly. He moved his hand to cup the back of her head and pulled her towards him to capture her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. He rested his forehead against hers when they broke apart as they both tried to catch their breath.
"This is beautiful," he murmured, moving his hand down to the hollow of her neck.
"Thanks. It was my mother's," she replied, her eyes following his finger as he ran his hand over the ever present orange stone.
The minute he touched it, she knew what Madge meant about a spark. That calm that she felt when she touched it suddenly exploded inside of her, into a thousand sharp fragments cutting holes into her, burning white hot and intense. She felt it, all of the possibilities of Jensen and Delilah, against her skin, inside her mind, through her heart. Everything that had been, everything that could be, every single moment of togetherness and apart was sitting there for her to take.
He only touched it for a moment but when his fingertip had skirted across and landed on the other side, touching her skin again, she was gasping for breath, as if she had been drowning and was just able to come up for air.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concern, dropping nicely into competent caregiver and grabbing her wrist to take her pulse.
"I'm fine," she panted, closing her eyes and pressing a hand to forehead to try and quiet the noise that had exploded there at his touch.
"Your pulse is racing."
"I'm with you - what would you expect it to do?"
"Delilah," he said, worry and hesitation evident in just that one word.
"Take me inside Jensen" was her reply. Reluctance was clearly evident in the planes of his face. She leaned over and did her best to remove it with her lips, pressing softly against the hollow of his neck. "Take me inside," she whispered in his ear, her breathing all but back to normal.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Then sign me out against medical advice and you don't have to do anymore thinking." He met and held her gaze for a moment, running that stray hand down the side of her face again before giving in and exiting the car. She waited for him to come around to her side and open the door with a satisfied smile. Surrender, she thought, could be so nice.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Let's Get Intuit, Chapter 9
Chapter 9
“Hi,” Jensen said in surprise as he spotted her there in Stephen’s kitchen, halting on the spot and blocking the flow of traffic. The man behind him protested and he took a step towards her to move out of the way, pushing aside almost all of the space between them. The crowd seemed to demand more of it and he was forced to lean over her, bracing himself against the counter behind her and leaving them with barely enough space to take a breath without touching.
“Hi,” she replied, looking up and connecting with the cleft in his chin, so close she couldn’t see his eyes.
“Cramped in here,” he murmured, swallowing hard if the way his Adam’s apple fluttered was any indication. She just laughed a little bit. He looked down at her and their eyes met, but only for a moment before they slide to the right and saw the wine glass in her hand. “Any good?” he asked.
“I haven’t tried it yet,” she answered.
With one more quick look at her eyes, he touched her; starting at her elbow and running his hand slowly down her arm to remove the glass from her hand. He raised it to his lips, meeting her eyes again, and drank. “Good,” he informed her as he set the glass back into her grasp, fingers brushing and causing that now familiar tremor of energy to spread over her.
He leaned over her, the scent of dark chocolate flaring wildly as he did so. She thought he was going to, or wanted him to, kiss her, embrace her, whisper something seductively in her ear but he did nothing of the sort. He slid the wine bottle across the counter with a strangely soothing grate of glass across the counter. “Hmm, I never would have thought such a sophisticated taste would come from a wine label named Kite.”
“What?” she asked, turning so quickly her hair must have whipped across his face. She placed her hands over his and turned the label towards her so she could read it. And there it was. Kite. And a label that looked a lot like the pictures she was getting when she fought sleep at night, a cute little pigtailed girl looking a lot like Jam running across a meadow with a red winsome kite trailing in the sky.
“I’ve been looking for this,” she murmured to herself, and though it seemed like a herculean feat, managing to forget that Jensen was next to her listening.
“You’re an interesting one miss,” he whispered in her ear. She held her breath as he lifted a hand, gathered the strands of her ever growing hair and pushed them away from her shoulder, exposing the smooth column of her neck.
She waited a moment but nothing happened. He grabbed the glass from her hand and took another sip. “I aim to please,” she murmured a bit ironically as she peered over her shoulder at him downing the contents of her glass. He handed her the half empty glass and she threw back her head and emptied the contents in one quick gulp.
With the wine sitting boldly in the pit of her stomach she turned around again to face him and pulled out her cell phone. He looked at her quizzically as she dialed and took an involuntary step backwards. She made a covert grab for the hem of his jacket, not wanting him to wander too far, before his phone started ringing.
He took a step to the side and turned to lean next to her against the counter. “Jensen Michaels,” he answered as his eyes caught sight of her tugging lightly on his clothes.
“Hi, it’s Delilah,” she said with a smile as his eyes swept over to meet hers. That infectious smile broke out across his face as he realized she was on the other line.
“Sorry, who?”
“Delilah. You remember, that smoking hot patient you doc blocked from Stephen Conrad the other day.”
His grin got wider and there was a laugh in his voice when he responded. “Ah yeah, I remember now. Are you thinking about changing your health care provider?”
Delilah laughed a little and stuck her tongue out at him. He outright laughed then. “Not today,” she answered, “but I am going to this party at Stephen’s tonight and I was just wondering if I might see you there.”
“Do you want to see me there?” he responded coyly.
“I don’t know,” she said in her best hard to get voice, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing I suppose.”
“Oh well, in the face of so much flattery how can I resist?”
“You can’t.”
“Guess not.”
“Okay, then it’s a date.”
“Wait, how will I know it’s you? I’m not sure I remember what you look like,” he said. Delilah let go of his jacket and punched him playfully in the arm. He looked at her with fake puppy dog eyes and rubbed his bicep, doing his best to appear wounded. They stared at each other, letting the moment quiet down and the scent of dark chocolate intensified.
His eyes moved down to look at her lips again and it was all she could do to resist the urge to lick them, couldn’t turn away from his stare no matter how much she wanted to and didn’t want to all at the same time. He inched closer to her as both of their cell phones disappeared again.
“Oh look, here you are,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off of her for a second to muster up any kind of believable fake surprise.
“Here I am,” she answered in a voice that sounded distinctively unlike hers, much too low and seductive to belong to her.
“So now that I’ve found you, what should I do with you?”
“You don’t have any ideas?” she prompted as they inched closer to each other, the lines of his jacket brushing ever so softly against the length of her arm.
“Oh I have ideas I’m just not sure if you’ll like them,” he answered, leaning into her just like he had when they had met on the sidewalk.
“Try me. You might be surprised.”
He leaned even closer though Delilah wasn’t sure it was possible. He lifted his hands to her throat. But what she thought was going to be romantic was quickly just another joke as his fingers probed her jaw line with that clinical detachment he’d shown her in his office. “Yep, you seem to be recovering nicely.”
She reached up and pushed him and his laughing face away, causing him to step back into a tall, scrawny blond dude and topple the plate of cheese and crackers from the plate in his outstretched hand.
“Sorry,” Jensen said as he bent down to pick up the food he’d spilled across the floor. “Sorry,” he repeated with a crooked smile as he dropped the slightly disheveled food back on his plate, Delilah laughing so hard she had to bring her hand up to her mouth to keep it in.
Jensen turned to her with crazy eyes and they both started laughing heartily. “Let’s get out of the line of fire,” he said with a twinkle when they’d died down. He grabbed her hand, causing tremors to speed up and down her arm and across her body, and threaded her neatly through the crowd. He squeezed around a bulky Chinese medicine cabinet, pushed aside a deep blue curtain, and pulled her through the window onto a hidden little balcony overlooking the street.
“I didn’t know this was here,” Delilah marveled, stepping to the railing and looking down at the ebb and flow of the party with people coming and going as they pleased.
“Stephen’s afraid of someone doing something stupid out here when drunk so he always slides the cabinet in front of it.” Delilah looked at him in wonder. “I know this because I’m the one that always has to help him slide it in front of the window when he has a party.”
“You didn’t do a very good job this time,” she said, perching on the corner of the railing and leaning against the wall, trying to find a place where the wind didn’t slice through her so completely.
“Well I was still holding out hope that I might see you tonight.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile as he stepped closer to her, raising their hands and threading their fingers together, “and you were hoping what?”
“That I’d have a chance to get you alone.”
“Well now that you have me what do you plan on doing with me?” Delilah smiled slightly and tilted her head to the side to look at Jensen from the corners of her eyes. The wind changed for a moment and his scent, sandalwood and dark chocolate, overwhelmed her, so strong she could almost see it. She couldn’t stop it, she purred at the feel of it against her skin, closing her eyes at the taste of it.
The wind stopped as Jensen stepped in front of her, blocking it from her skin. He laughed softly as he cupped her face in his hands, bringing her face up to meet his. He quickly put an end to the exquisite anticipation she was feeling waiting for his lips to find hers.
He tasted like the wine – bold, full, and tangy. She couldn’t resist sinking her teeth into his bee-kissed bottom lip, as soft and inviting as she thought it was going to be. He made a guttural sound, deep in his throat, and she swallowed it as he tilted her head slightly to capture her mouth more completely. His tongue challenged her to take things deeper and she gladly accepted, matched him thrust for thrust.
When they finally broke apart she wrapped her arms around his torso to keep him close and the biting chill away. They didn’t speak but his hands wound around her and ran softly up and down her back. She leaned her head back to look at him as his hand came up to caress her cheek, the back of his hand cold against her heated skin. “What’s this?” she asked in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
“This?” he repeated as her fingers toyed with the inside of his wrist. “It’s here to remind me not to leave without Stephen’s kayak.” But Delilah wasn’t really listening as she pulled his arm closer to investigate the yellow string that was tied haphazardly around his wrist. She bit her lip in concentration, staring past Jensen to the window then back into the house. A kite, a yellow string . . .
“What’s wrong?” he asked with a hint of laughter in his voice, “You don’t like kayaks?”
“No,” she laughed, putting a hand to her forehead and trying her hardest to be two people at once – the Intuit that was trying to figure out what the future was telling her and the woman that didn’t want to do anything but make-out with the hot young doctor all night long. “I just . . .”
She pushed away from the wall and had her hand on the curtain before she stopped and turned to look at him. She studied him for a moment before considering what to do next. “You wanna help me with something?” she asked, mischievous hanging off of her every word.
“Sure,” he replied, reaching a hand out to push a few strands of hair behind her ear.
“Okay so Stephen’s sister Amelia told me that I need to have more fun in my life so she is making me do this silly scavenger hunt thing and wants me to find a few things in Stephen’s house.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Oh just really random stuff she told me was going to be a ‘blueprint for unforgettable’ by I figure if you help me out maybe it might live up to its promise.” Delilah shot him a flirtatious look from under her eyelashes and her heart skipped a beat when he returned it. “The, um . . .the yellow string reminded me because that was on the list. The next thing is the letter X.” When he looked at her like that it made it hard to breathe, let alone think.
“X huh,” he murmured, coming to stand right in front of her. “Does this count?” She couldn’t move, the look on his face pinning her to the spot. His hands came down and rounded her hips as he pulled her slowly towards him, pressing the length of her body against his own. His hands slid slowly up her back, insinuating their bodies together even more. She buried her face in the side of his neck as he wrapped himself languorously around her. His embrace was warm, and she could taste his heart beating again as well as feel it beating against the palm of her hand.
She felt the reluctance in him as he let her go, his eyes cloudy with desire, the scent of dark chocolate flaring dangerously between them. “What’s the verdict?” he asked in a low voice.
“Verdict?” She could still taste his desire on the tip of her tongue, all around her, and his words were having a hard time wading through it to get to her.
“On whether a hug counts as the X you are looking for.”
“Oh,” she said with a throaty laugh since the choices seemed to be either laugh or go positively weak at the knees at the smile he was shooting her way. “Well if the point is to be unforgettable than I say count it.”
“What’s next?”
She had to close her eyes to remember, the sight of Jensen too terribly distracting to her concentration. “Angst.”
“Hmmm,” he paused, pulling back the curtain so Delilah could reenter the house before him, “well this is one of Stephen’s parties so I’m sure there’s someone feeling it somewhere.” They ducked into the room right across from the hidden balcony. “Stephen uses this room as his office slash library, not that he ever actually reads anything.”
“Just thinks it makes him look important,” Delilah finished, running her fingers over low shelves filled with books. “I know, I used to live with him you know.”
“Hi,” Jensen said in surprise as he spotted her there in Stephen’s kitchen, halting on the spot and blocking the flow of traffic. The man behind him protested and he took a step towards her to move out of the way, pushing aside almost all of the space between them. The crowd seemed to demand more of it and he was forced to lean over her, bracing himself against the counter behind her and leaving them with barely enough space to take a breath without touching.
“Hi,” she replied, looking up and connecting with the cleft in his chin, so close she couldn’t see his eyes.
“Cramped in here,” he murmured, swallowing hard if the way his Adam’s apple fluttered was any indication. She just laughed a little bit. He looked down at her and their eyes met, but only for a moment before they slide to the right and saw the wine glass in her hand. “Any good?” he asked.
“I haven’t tried it yet,” she answered.
With one more quick look at her eyes, he touched her; starting at her elbow and running his hand slowly down her arm to remove the glass from her hand. He raised it to his lips, meeting her eyes again, and drank. “Good,” he informed her as he set the glass back into her grasp, fingers brushing and causing that now familiar tremor of energy to spread over her.
He leaned over her, the scent of dark chocolate flaring wildly as he did so. She thought he was going to, or wanted him to, kiss her, embrace her, whisper something seductively in her ear but he did nothing of the sort. He slid the wine bottle across the counter with a strangely soothing grate of glass across the counter. “Hmm, I never would have thought such a sophisticated taste would come from a wine label named Kite.”
“What?” she asked, turning so quickly her hair must have whipped across his face. She placed her hands over his and turned the label towards her so she could read it. And there it was. Kite. And a label that looked a lot like the pictures she was getting when she fought sleep at night, a cute little pigtailed girl looking a lot like Jam running across a meadow with a red winsome kite trailing in the sky.
“I’ve been looking for this,” she murmured to herself, and though it seemed like a herculean feat, managing to forget that Jensen was next to her listening.
“You’re an interesting one miss,” he whispered in her ear. She held her breath as he lifted a hand, gathered the strands of her ever growing hair and pushed them away from her shoulder, exposing the smooth column of her neck.
She waited a moment but nothing happened. He grabbed the glass from her hand and took another sip. “I aim to please,” she murmured a bit ironically as she peered over her shoulder at him downing the contents of her glass. He handed her the half empty glass and she threw back her head and emptied the contents in one quick gulp.
With the wine sitting boldly in the pit of her stomach she turned around again to face him and pulled out her cell phone. He looked at her quizzically as she dialed and took an involuntary step backwards. She made a covert grab for the hem of his jacket, not wanting him to wander too far, before his phone started ringing.
He took a step to the side and turned to lean next to her against the counter. “Jensen Michaels,” he answered as his eyes caught sight of her tugging lightly on his clothes.
“Hi, it’s Delilah,” she said with a smile as his eyes swept over to meet hers. That infectious smile broke out across his face as he realized she was on the other line.
“Sorry, who?”
“Delilah. You remember, that smoking hot patient you doc blocked from Stephen Conrad the other day.”
His grin got wider and there was a laugh in his voice when he responded. “Ah yeah, I remember now. Are you thinking about changing your health care provider?”
Delilah laughed a little and stuck her tongue out at him. He outright laughed then. “Not today,” she answered, “but I am going to this party at Stephen’s tonight and I was just wondering if I might see you there.”
“Do you want to see me there?” he responded coyly.
“I don’t know,” she said in her best hard to get voice, “it wouldn’t be the worst thing I suppose.”
“Oh well, in the face of so much flattery how can I resist?”
“You can’t.”
“Guess not.”
“Okay, then it’s a date.”
“Wait, how will I know it’s you? I’m not sure I remember what you look like,” he said. Delilah let go of his jacket and punched him playfully in the arm. He looked at her with fake puppy dog eyes and rubbed his bicep, doing his best to appear wounded. They stared at each other, letting the moment quiet down and the scent of dark chocolate intensified.
His eyes moved down to look at her lips again and it was all she could do to resist the urge to lick them, couldn’t turn away from his stare no matter how much she wanted to and didn’t want to all at the same time. He inched closer to her as both of their cell phones disappeared again.
“Oh look, here you are,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off of her for a second to muster up any kind of believable fake surprise.
“Here I am,” she answered in a voice that sounded distinctively unlike hers, much too low and seductive to belong to her.
“So now that I’ve found you, what should I do with you?”
“You don’t have any ideas?” she prompted as they inched closer to each other, the lines of his jacket brushing ever so softly against the length of her arm.
“Oh I have ideas I’m just not sure if you’ll like them,” he answered, leaning into her just like he had when they had met on the sidewalk.
“Try me. You might be surprised.”
He leaned even closer though Delilah wasn’t sure it was possible. He lifted his hands to her throat. But what she thought was going to be romantic was quickly just another joke as his fingers probed her jaw line with that clinical detachment he’d shown her in his office. “Yep, you seem to be recovering nicely.”
She reached up and pushed him and his laughing face away, causing him to step back into a tall, scrawny blond dude and topple the plate of cheese and crackers from the plate in his outstretched hand.
“Sorry,” Jensen said as he bent down to pick up the food he’d spilled across the floor. “Sorry,” he repeated with a crooked smile as he dropped the slightly disheveled food back on his plate, Delilah laughing so hard she had to bring her hand up to her mouth to keep it in.
Jensen turned to her with crazy eyes and they both started laughing heartily. “Let’s get out of the line of fire,” he said with a twinkle when they’d died down. He grabbed her hand, causing tremors to speed up and down her arm and across her body, and threaded her neatly through the crowd. He squeezed around a bulky Chinese medicine cabinet, pushed aside a deep blue curtain, and pulled her through the window onto a hidden little balcony overlooking the street.
“I didn’t know this was here,” Delilah marveled, stepping to the railing and looking down at the ebb and flow of the party with people coming and going as they pleased.
“Stephen’s afraid of someone doing something stupid out here when drunk so he always slides the cabinet in front of it.” Delilah looked at him in wonder. “I know this because I’m the one that always has to help him slide it in front of the window when he has a party.”
“You didn’t do a very good job this time,” she said, perching on the corner of the railing and leaning against the wall, trying to find a place where the wind didn’t slice through her so completely.
“Well I was still holding out hope that I might see you tonight.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile as he stepped closer to her, raising their hands and threading their fingers together, “and you were hoping what?”
“That I’d have a chance to get you alone.”
“Well now that you have me what do you plan on doing with me?” Delilah smiled slightly and tilted her head to the side to look at Jensen from the corners of her eyes. The wind changed for a moment and his scent, sandalwood and dark chocolate, overwhelmed her, so strong she could almost see it. She couldn’t stop it, she purred at the feel of it against her skin, closing her eyes at the taste of it.
The wind stopped as Jensen stepped in front of her, blocking it from her skin. He laughed softly as he cupped her face in his hands, bringing her face up to meet his. He quickly put an end to the exquisite anticipation she was feeling waiting for his lips to find hers.
He tasted like the wine – bold, full, and tangy. She couldn’t resist sinking her teeth into his bee-kissed bottom lip, as soft and inviting as she thought it was going to be. He made a guttural sound, deep in his throat, and she swallowed it as he tilted her head slightly to capture her mouth more completely. His tongue challenged her to take things deeper and she gladly accepted, matched him thrust for thrust.
When they finally broke apart she wrapped her arms around his torso to keep him close and the biting chill away. They didn’t speak but his hands wound around her and ran softly up and down her back. She leaned her head back to look at him as his hand came up to caress her cheek, the back of his hand cold against her heated skin. “What’s this?” she asked in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
“This?” he repeated as her fingers toyed with the inside of his wrist. “It’s here to remind me not to leave without Stephen’s kayak.” But Delilah wasn’t really listening as she pulled his arm closer to investigate the yellow string that was tied haphazardly around his wrist. She bit her lip in concentration, staring past Jensen to the window then back into the house. A kite, a yellow string . . .
“What’s wrong?” he asked with a hint of laughter in his voice, “You don’t like kayaks?”
“No,” she laughed, putting a hand to her forehead and trying her hardest to be two people at once – the Intuit that was trying to figure out what the future was telling her and the woman that didn’t want to do anything but make-out with the hot young doctor all night long. “I just . . .”
She pushed away from the wall and had her hand on the curtain before she stopped and turned to look at him. She studied him for a moment before considering what to do next. “You wanna help me with something?” she asked, mischievous hanging off of her every word.
“Sure,” he replied, reaching a hand out to push a few strands of hair behind her ear.
“Okay so Stephen’s sister Amelia told me that I need to have more fun in my life so she is making me do this silly scavenger hunt thing and wants me to find a few things in Stephen’s house.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Oh just really random stuff she told me was going to be a ‘blueprint for unforgettable’ by I figure if you help me out maybe it might live up to its promise.” Delilah shot him a flirtatious look from under her eyelashes and her heart skipped a beat when he returned it. “The, um . . .the yellow string reminded me because that was on the list. The next thing is the letter X.” When he looked at her like that it made it hard to breathe, let alone think.
“X huh,” he murmured, coming to stand right in front of her. “Does this count?” She couldn’t move, the look on his face pinning her to the spot. His hands came down and rounded her hips as he pulled her slowly towards him, pressing the length of her body against his own. His hands slid slowly up her back, insinuating their bodies together even more. She buried her face in the side of his neck as he wrapped himself languorously around her. His embrace was warm, and she could taste his heart beating again as well as feel it beating against the palm of her hand.
She felt the reluctance in him as he let her go, his eyes cloudy with desire, the scent of dark chocolate flaring dangerously between them. “What’s the verdict?” he asked in a low voice.
“Verdict?” She could still taste his desire on the tip of her tongue, all around her, and his words were having a hard time wading through it to get to her.
“On whether a hug counts as the X you are looking for.”
“Oh,” she said with a throaty laugh since the choices seemed to be either laugh or go positively weak at the knees at the smile he was shooting her way. “Well if the point is to be unforgettable than I say count it.”
“What’s next?”
She had to close her eyes to remember, the sight of Jensen too terribly distracting to her concentration. “Angst.”
“Hmmm,” he paused, pulling back the curtain so Delilah could reenter the house before him, “well this is one of Stephen’s parties so I’m sure there’s someone feeling it somewhere.” They ducked into the room right across from the hidden balcony. “Stephen uses this room as his office slash library, not that he ever actually reads anything.”
“Just thinks it makes him look important,” Delilah finished, running her fingers over low shelves filled with books. “I know, I used to live with him you know.”
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