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Allie
I do my best to ring Seamus’s door and not drop the crazy number of bags I’m carrying. I readjust my hold, again and again, when he doesn’t answer.
Seamus texted me that he was home. We were supposed to get together to work out the final kinks of our pseudo relationship before meeting his family, but every spare moment I’ve had, he’s been busy.
I press the doorbell again when he doesn’t answer, wondering what’s taking him so long. His truck is parked in front.
My eyes widen when I realize he never claimed to be alone. What if he’s not answering because he’s busy entertaining someone else? Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. What if he’s not answering because he can’t leave the naked woman doing back-flips in his bed?
I start to hurry down the brick steps when the door is thrown open.
“What?” he yells.
His deep voice and the rage behind it almost has me falling down the last step. “Oh. It’s you.”
It’s only because of the sudden shift in his voice that I even dare to turn around. I wouldn’t call it excitement that I hear, nor exquisite joy, at my arrival. This was a mistake and now I’m stuck.
“Yes. Just me.”
Seamus edges to the end of the small porch. With the safety glasses perched on top of his head, his ripped white T-shirt, and a pair of old dirty jeans, the hems brushing over a pair of soiled work boots, he looks like the primal God of Carpentry. If there was a God of carpentry. Oh, please, let there be a God of Carpentry.
He tugs off his soiled work gloves and shoves them into his back pocket, the mild flex of muscle bulging his bicep and the twist of his waist giving me a very nice view of his abs when the shredded T-shirt rides up.
If he’s trying not to singe the black bra I’m wearing with his hotness, he doesn’t succeed. I can practically smell the lace burning.
The warming spring breeze sends a curl to bat gently against my cheek. I’m still not used to the short length. That doesn’t mean I don’t absolutely love it. I tuck the strand nervously behind my ear, the motion causing Seamus to stiffen, although I’m not certain why.
I adjust the paper bags in my hands, realizing it’s going to be up to me to speak. “You mentioned you were finishing a project.” My voice softens. “And that you were hungry.” He leans back on his heels, listening closely and I suppose waiting for me to stop sounding like a babbling idiot. “We never managed a decent lunch the day we went shopping and I thought—” I clear my throat, trying to shake my nervousness. “I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” I agree
He stares at me for a long moment. Perhaps this truly is a bad time and I’m keeping him from his work, being more of an inconvenience than the help I intend.
“We also haven’t spoken much about your family. I’m supposed to meet them Sunday.”
He watches me, saying nothing. “I know,” he says.
When he bows his head, I’m certain he’ll tell me he needs to work and doesn’t have time. “Come in,” he says, sparing me from offering to leave.
He lifts the two larger bags with one hand as I step forward, using his free hand to open the door for me. Seamus doesn’t live in a traditional house. He lives in what could only be described as a trendy industrial park just outside of Philly. From what he told me, the entire structure was once used to store books by a major New York publishing house.
Since the surge of eBooks, there was less need for the space and the publisher opted for a smaller building someplace less expensive. “The park refused to go down without a fight,” as per Seamus. The owner hired him and his brother Angus to convert the large rows of opened structures into smaller units. There’s a yoga studio just to the right, a larger gymnastics school when you first enter the complex, in addition to a UFC gym, an art studio, and even a Montessori school.
I step into Seamus’s workshop. The raw smell of wood and sawdust is potent, matched only by of the aroma of machine oil and the deep tang of stain. I don’t mind the scents. They remind me of Seamus and fill me with a sense of peace.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have a contagious smile?” he asks.
I didn’t realize I was smiling, I look up at him. “No,” I confess, my skin warming.
He swipes at his face. “Jesus,” he mutters.
I glance down at the teal silk shirt I’m wearing. The plunging neckline is low, but falls in a way that’s respectable, and the hem cinches against the waistband of my dark slacks. He hand-selected this ensemble himself. I thought he liked it.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, smoothing out the fabric, nervously when I realize he isn’t moving.
“No, just busy,” he says. He rubs his eyes. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Yes,” I agree, embarrassed. “Let’s get you settled.”
The heels of my ankle length boots tap against his battered and sawdust-covered wood floors. Like the other businesses, there’s space for offices on the second level. Instead of an office, Seamus converted his space into an apartment.
Considering how dusty the floor is, the windows that run along the entire second floor are surprisingly clean and transparent, giving the illusion of a large open loft. If not for the sunlight reflecting against the glass, I wouldn’t see it. At least, not right away.
I follow him up a beautiful and freshly stained staircase. The railings were cleverly made from pipes, giving the space a fresh, modern feel and luring the eye from the chaos below.
I take in the sprawling space that makes up his workshop. The large kaleidoscope front window, each rectangular pane varying in size and tints of green, purple, and blue and carefully framed in dark wood paints his foyer in a rainbow of color, while the clear rectangular window running above it sends long beams of sunlight across piles of freshly cut lumber, two large machines at the center, and a multitude of tools discarded on the dusty floor,
“Did you make that?” I ask, motioning toward the window.
I’d meant to ask him the first time I’d stopped by, but Seamus was shirtless and, well, I believe that’s explanation enough. He tugged on a pullover, grabbed his keys, and took us out to a nearby diner before I could finish rolling my lolling tongue back into my mouth enough to ask.
He stops, taking it in as if he’s never had the time before. “Yeah. I’d just bought a glass cutter and was playing around.” He rolls his shoulder. “It was hard to shape the smaller rectangles, but once I got going it was a little hard to stop. Next thing I know, I had all these pieces. I was moving in here, thought I could make something cool with it, and, there you go. It’s a good way to advertise some of the things I can do when clients stop in, and it’s another piece to add to my website portfolio.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“And practical,” he adds, his voice quieting. “Gives me privacy and lets light in.” His head drops slightly. “Sorry. I’m rambling and you’re just standing there.”
I start to tell him that I don’t mind, but then he hops up the stairs.
Although he seems rushed, I trail behind him. I should have warned him I was stopping in. But he’s been so distant since our day at the salon and our shopping excursion, I was worried he’d tell me no.
The salon experience was odd. That’s the only way I can describe it. I thought he liked my new hair, but he kept jerking his head away from me as if he was forgetting to do something. What I thought would be a nice quiet lunch turned into fast food along the way to Macy’s. That was an experience. He kept grabbing clothes, shoving them into my arms without bothering to glance in my direction.
If he didn’t like something when I stepped out of the dressing room, he told me no right away. His “yes’s” were only long enough to take a good look at me before quickly returning his focus to his phone. A few times, when I stepped out, he’d pinch the bridge of his nose as if my ensemble pained him, only to tell me, “Yup. That’s the one.”
At first, I was delighted, thinking he really liked what I wore. But each time I’d put on something completely out of my comfort zone, instead of reassuring me, he’d storm away, swearing and muttering under his breath. I didn’t know what to think, especially when he dropped me off. He stayed long enough to help me carry in my new wardrobe and then ran from my house as if he was on fire.
He stops at the top of the steps when I linger, glancing up at the ceiling. “Do you need help?” he asks.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s hoping I say no. What is wrong with him? “I’m all right,” I say. “Just getting used to the heels.”
It’s not just these heels. It’s all the shoes Seamus picked out. They were all cute, I’ll admit, but none gave me fewer than two inches of height. “My sister always says fashion hurts,” he told me, pointing. “You need to own that shit.”
It’s what he said before quickly returning his full attention to his phone. Again.
I reach the landing. His loft is misleading from the first level. Anyone would naturally presume it’s small with little to offer. Instead, the large open area takes up about 2,000 square feet. The steps immediately lead to an ultra-modern and very male kitchen. The combination of white cabinets and quartz countertops are practically blinding and the chrome appliances the only accents.
The living room to the left is only slightly different. An immense midnight blue modular sectional arches around the largest flat-screen I’ve ever seen in a private home, the white fluffy area rug in the center the only buffer against the gray and chestnut modern wood floors.
From where I stand, I can see his bedroom and the massive walk-in closet. A king-sized bed with rich brown, cushioned leather headboard rests against a stone wall panel of grey, beige, and earth tones. The linens on his bed vary from light to dark brown, the color scheme broken up by a few white pillows among the sea of multi-toned browns.
This is a bed one can only sink into, one to spend long, lazy mornings doing absolutely nothing.
Or several nights having crazy amounts of sex.
I’m not exaggerating. This is not a bed just to sleep in. Not with the headboard like that. I don’t want to think about all the women that headboard protected from the wrath of Seamus’s baby-making hips, or just why one man needs that many pillows. For positioning her? Him? Them?
I turn away to give my libido a chance to cool and my evidently lonely lady parts a good mental slap.
I pause when I realize the bed and all its blessed body contouring pillows are not the only eye-catching pieces within the vicinity.
Between his kitchen and bathroom stands a large statue, intricately carved from wood. It’s massive. The couple it depicts are life-size. I’m not certain why I didn’t initially see it, likely because the smooth and perfectly sanded wood blends in with the decorative color schemes.
Like a hypnotic call, the statue lures me forward. The granite slab it’s secured to is a meld of curves, abstract like the work of art it holds in place. I pause before the ever-still couple. The man is about Seamus’s height, the woman shorter, but many inches taller than me.
I don’t understand a great deal about art. But the significance of this piece is clear, and the closeness this couple shares so intimate, I feel like I’m somehow intruding, a voyeur peering into a deeply personal moment between lovers who’ve been apart for too long.
Slowly, I circle the piece, noting the natural imperfections that somehow make the subjects more real, the sensuality and passion they emit akin to corporeal beings.
“Wow,” I whisper. I drift closer, the pull of its eroticism and beauty is physical, an embrace I can’t break free from. “It’s stunning.”
Seamus ambles to my side, walking slowly, his steps almost silent.
“You like it?” he asks.
Seamus doesn’t strike me as insecure. In fact, I believe he swaggered from his mother’s womb on his terms, rather than waiting to be forced out. “Shy,” “mousy,” “skittish”... these concepts and words are completely unfamiliar to him. They’re simply not a part of this confident and strong individual’s vocabulary—not when he’s this attractive and flexes as much as he does.
So, when his voice takes on an underlying hint of doubt and uncertainty, it takes me aback.
“I mean it,” he says. “I need you to tell me if it sucks.”
My face meets his. He wants me to like this masterpiece and perhaps needs me to, as well.
I wish I could explain how touched I am that he values my opinion to describe what a perfect meld of lust and desire this couple evokes. I wish I could share what it and his presence are doing to me, and how his ability to manipulate wood tapped into long forgotten needs and abandoned temptations.
“It’s incredible,” I reply, my words mere gasps.
“Incredible?” he questions, disbelief lowering his tone.
I nod. “This isn’t merely a block of wood brought to life by your hands and talent.”
“It’s not?” he asks.
“No,” I say barely breathing. “It’s ardor and fervor so raw I can taste it, a lucid and provocative invitation to sin.”
“Ah. Do you know what it is?” he asks slowly.
I swallow hard, taking in how possessively the male figure shields and claims the woman. They’re naked. Nothing to hide what they’re doing, or feeling, or how badly they want each other.
I look at Seamus, unusually breathless and unable to shy away from what this statue epitomizes. “It’s a man and woman, making love while standing.”
A shade of red, as brilliant as lava spilling from an active volcano, overtakes Seamus’s face and his jaw audibly pops open.
It’s then I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
“Holy shit, Allie. That’s my sister!”
“Wha-what?”
“And Evan!” Seamus yells. He walks away, digging his hands through his hair. He slaps them down against his sides and veers back to me, his skin now almost white. “They were dancing at my cousin Colleen’s wedding a few months back. They looked nice. I took a picture and thought I’d recreate it as a wedding gift.” He makes a face, glancing at the statue. “Now all I want to do is set it on fire.”
“Oh, God,” I say. I shake out my hands, because what else can I do that doesn’t involve running and hiding?
He points to it. “That wood came from a tree in my Grammie’s—God rest her soul—backyard.”
“I’m sorry!”
“I swung from that tree . . .”
“I didn’t mean to,” I insist.
“On a swing Pop-Pop made us.”
Of course he did.
“Ignoring the pain from his arthritic fingers.”
“I’m really sorry.”
His voice grows quiet, distant. “I don’t remember Pop-Pop . . . I was too little when he died.” His pained expression wanders all over the statue. “The tree fell over during that blizzard in January. I thought it was a nice way to keep the memory of Grammie and Pop-Pop alive.”
“It’s a beautiful way to honor them,” I say, bouncing in place with nervous energy. “Sweet—lovely—darling.”
“I believe your words were ‘lucid’ and ‘sinful’—and before you explain, I know what they mean.”
“I-I-I know you do,” I say, speaking fast and tripping over my words. “I didn’t know that was your sister, or Evan, or made from your dead grandmother’s tree.”
“And Pop-Pop,” he adds. “Don’t you forget Pop-Pop—God rest his soul.”
We both cross ourselves like good Catholics, not that it absolves me in any way.
Seamus takes another long glance at his magnum opus. He gags a few times and makes batting motions with his hands as if trying to push all the awful images of his sister getting it on from his mind. “I could’ve gone my whole life without hearing that,” he says, shuddering. “Thanks for the visual.”
“Sorry?” I offer again. As if that helps. Forget that I epically mistook a sweet gesture meant for his sister and dumped it straight into a vat of smut. Why didn’t I just tell him I was lonely and that my lady parts had never seen any action beyond two or three decent thrusts?
It’s fair to say Andres cared as much about pleasing me as he did about tying his shoes.
Seamus strolls into the kitchen shaking and shuddering and I imagine doing his best not to hurl.
“I’m normally not like this,” I begin.
He swivels his head. “You mean horny?”
Kill me, Jesus. Yes, that, too.
“Dirty minded?” he suggests when I take too long to answer.
“No!” I say.
“Kinky?”
“Seamus!”
“Pornographically inclined?” he presumes.
By now, his disgust has disappeared and he’s enjoying torturing me. When he laughs at my reddening face, I lift a pillow from the couch and fling it at him. It lands near the clear glass partition and nowhere close to him.
“What about athletically challenged?” he suggests.
By now he’s holding his sides, the glee stirred by my asinine behavior sparkling in his blue eyes and making him unreasonably alluring.
Must he be so attractive while I stand here dying a humiliating death?
“You’re not funny,” I tell him.
“Sure I am.” He points. “And don’t forget good looking.”
I drop my head, causing my wild curls to spill forward. I push them away slowly, allowing my hand to keep going and glide down my neck. I peer up at Seamus cautiously. No. I can’t forget.
“What?” he asks.
I wonder briefly if I spoke aloud. “What?” I ask, very much aware I asked the same question.
He turns around, his spine rigid as he grips the edges of the counter. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I made him uncomfortable. He’s probably rethinking our agreement.
“You got me a lot of food,” he says. “We should get cracking if we want to make a dent in it.”
I can’t be certain if he means to be polite or if he genuinely wants me to join him.
Seamus keeps his back to me as he unpacks the first of several paper bags. He removes the first container, a round one that contains salmon, yellow rice, and green beans. As he moves to the next, a rectangular container stuffed to the brim with Cypriot grain salad. He frowns and lifts the dish.
My blush remains very much in place. “This is a lot of food,” he says. “What are you trying to do to me?”
His question seems odd. “I’m not trying to do anything to you,” I reply, my shrill voice alerting him that I’m lying. It’s such a dastardly lie, I should just strike myself down and save God the trouble.
There are many things I want to do to Seamus. He drips sex appeal like honey, honey pouring down his very naked sculpted body. Any heterosexual woman alive would want a piece of him.
I slap my hand over my eyes.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
No. I’m just picturing you wearing a tool belt, a smile, and nothing else. Damn that sensual statue. “Sorry. I have a headache,” I say. I don’t bother to mention my out of control hormones and, good Lord he would look so good in that tool belt.
“More reason for you to eat,” he says, oblivious to my ovaries shaking like maracas.
The next paper bag scrunches loudly as he pushes his large hands through it, tearing it down the rim with the force he uses. “Alz, you didn’t bring me lunch. You bought a week’s worth of groceries.”
I step forward. It beats standing and melting from all the ardor burning through my veins. “I wouldn’t call them groceries,” I say.
“Then what would you call them?” he asks, pulling a large bottle of organic carrot juice from another bag.
“Perfectly prepared and healthy meals you simply have to reheat or enjoy.” I try to jump onto the counter, don’t quite make it, and end up smacking my ass against the hard edge. I stretch out my hands, sliding them across the slick quartz and attempting to bite back the pain.
Ow.
Seamus wanders over, lifts me with as much effort as he did the container, and plops me on the counter. The motion is quick, but not the way his hands withdraw from my hips. I can’t breathe, his fingers dragging along my thighs.
“I’ve got barstools. Lots of them if it’s easier for you,” he murmurs.
“No. I’m good,” I whisper, melting into his warm stare. I am good, but only in his arms.
He looks away, his hands releasing me and returning to the food. The way he casually dismisses me is akin to the way my family treats me. I hate it. Mostly, I hate that he’ll never see me as more than a convenient date.
“Why did you bring all this food?” he asks.
I didn’t know my chin had lowered until I glance up. “Pardon?” I heard him, I just don’t understand the question.
“You told me you were on deadline and that you don’t eat when you have projects due,” I reply before he can ask again. “I know how committed you are to your work and that you always promise your clients to deliver on time when they hire you.” I fold my hands on my lap when it occurs to me I’m rambling. “That shouldn’t mean you should suffer.”
“Suffer?” he asks. “I wouldn’t exactly call it suffering.” He takes a good look at me and smiles. “Let me get this straight. You’ve never skipped a meal to make sure your clients have everything they need? Never worked through lunch? Maybe dinner? You’ve always eaten and been okay?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” I reply, my own grin fixed in place. “But I can tell you, I wish I had someone to bring me food. Sometimes I’ve been so hungry, I could have used a snack, so maybe I could have worked longer and completed my task a bit sooner.” I wonder briefly if I’m treating him like a child. But his smile and the gratitude I sense beyond it tells me perhaps this is something he needed.
“I suppose what I’m trying to say is, it would’ve been nice if someone remembered me. Or at least remembered enough to bring me a meal.”
“You were trying to take care of me,” he says, his lips widening into a bigger smile. “You were trying to make sure I would be okay.”
“Yes,” I admit.
“Good,” he says. “Nice to have an Allie around to watch my back.”
I nibble on my bottom lip. It’s not something I’m in the habit of doing, but Seamus brings out my shyness better than anyone.
“You know what?” he asks, watching me closely. “The takeout you brought, in addition to all these meals, they’re too much for just me. Sit with me. Make sure I eat them.” He winks. “Make sure I stay okay.”
I’m not hungry and I have contracts to review piled on my desk. But I think for once my work can wait. For once, I want to be that woman in the company of a gorgeous man, sharing a meal and the happiness his presence brings.
I expect Seamus to turn on his mammoth television. Instead we sit at his elevated counter, twisting to face each other as we eat and speak about everything from the stained glass doors he’s installing later tonight, to the house I listed earlier that morning. We talk about sports and memories we share from church functions, and he tells me plenty of stories about his family, making me laugh.
When the soup he poured and the half sandwich on my plate is finished, I carefully wipe my mouth. I don’t really realize how much I’ve missed his company, or how much I laugh in his presence until this moment. But maybe I did and perhaps it’s why I was so compelled to see him.
I gather my plate. “I should go,” I say.
Seamus follows me, lifting his plate and some of the leftover garbage. “Yeah, I need to finish this headboard before I head out to install the doors.”
I rinse our plates while he finishes tidying up the kitchen, using care as I place them into the dishwasher.
I can’t stop smiling. Seamus did most of the talking and I did the majority of the laughing. The conversation is brief yet gives me a better understanding of who this man is. I’m glad to know Seamus, and perhaps a little proud, as well.
Although he seems rushed, he takes his time, placing a hand on my lower back as I start to walk down. “You don’t trust me to maneuver the steps on my own?” I tease.
“Not even a little bit,” he says, laughing.
“Oh, shit,” he says, glancing at the iron clock on the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot Mandy’s coming over.”
My steps slow and I tuck my hair behind my ear, although it’s not in the way. “Oh. Who’s Mandy?”
“She runs the yoga studio next-door and says she needs help redesigning it. The place is brand new. I’m not sure what she needs.”
My shoulders sag. I’ll bet I know what she needs. One hot carpenter.
The doorbell rings as we reach the ground floor. “Hey. That must be her. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
He takes my hand. He’s not rushing me, not with how carefully he leads me forward, and it’s not until we reach the door and he swings it open that he releases me.
I’m so happy we spent such a lovely afternoon. I’m not so happy when I see who’s waiting rather enthusiastically for him at his doorstep.
A woman, close to Seamus’s height, stands with one leg firmly fixed on the floor, the other wrapped around her neck.
“Oh, hi,” she says. She slowly lowers her foot from where the heel rests against her breast, giving a glimpse of how flexible and graceful she is.
She giggles. “I was just getting a good stretch in while I waited for you, cutie.”
More like she was giving Seamus a good view of her body parts and all the limber things she can do with them.
Seamus isn’t my boyfriend. We haven’t slept together. We haven’t kissed. We’ve barely touched each other. But, my goodness, I’m standing right here!
“Hey, Mandy,” Seamus says. He angles his body so I can slip through and I presume leave. “This is Allie.”
Mandy giggles again, bringing her long French braided hair to the front of her voluptuous breasts to play with. It’s the same way I used to wear my hair. But my hair never looked like hers and I certainly don’t look like Mandy. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t notice you.”
“I’ll bet,” I say, smiling and doing my best to keep the bite from my tone. “Perhaps your foot was in the way?”
I don’t mean to sound so harsh. But Mandy won’t be someone who ignores me as easily as my family does. Not while I’m standing beside Seamus.
“Could be,” Mandy chimes, her eyes narrowed as she smiles. “I am rather flexible and sometimes I can’t help but show it off.”
Oh, yes, she knows I’m onto her. Fine, just so she understands, I’m making my own shameless claim. I glance up at Seamus adoringly, something that comes easy, my hand skimming up his arm. “Thank you for lunch,” I say.
He smirks, watching my hand. “Shouldn’t I be thanking you?” he asks.
I shrug with one shoulder, lowering my lashes. Flirting isn’t a superpower I possess, nor do I usually find it necessary. Except today. “It was my pleasure.”
Perhaps I’m being unreasonable. But she started it. I should be ordering myself to my room without supper, seeing I’m suddenly twelve again.
“You know what?” Seamus asks, his light irises glinting with excitement. “Mandy has some kind of special going on for new members. A week of free classes. Maybe you should try Mandy out?”
No, I shouldn’t try Mandy out. Based on her growing scowl, I should kick her down the stairs like she very much deserves.
Now would be a good time to remind myself that I’m a grown woman and a professional, and that although I was raised in a rough neighborhood, I’m not the type of woman to rough someone up. Yet, the more I stare at Mandy and her tight little spandex-clad body, the more I respect those women who would throw down.
“I don’t think that’s something I’d enjoy,” I respond. I’m no longer smiling, and neither is Mandy.
“That’s all right, sweetie,” Mandy says. “I’m not sure you could keep up.”
I laugh. “You’re right, Sandy. I’m too busy running a real estate company. I don’t have the time for that kind of commitment.” I sigh and glance leisurely at Seamus. “I suppose I’ll have to find a different way to get my workout in.”
Seamus is oblivious that Mandy and I are all but clawing each other’s eyes out, but thankfully plays along. “Killian’s offering kickboxing classes for two weeks if you’re interested,” he says. “And he’s open much later than Mandy. If you want, I’ll hook you up.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, ignoring the images of me unconscious and bleeding all over Killian’s gym floor. “Perhaps we can talk to him about it Sunday at brunch when we see your family.”
The comment is directed at Mandy although I’m speaking to Seamus. He throws his arm around me as if remembering brunch will be our first appearance as a couple to his family. “Sounds good,” he says.
He walks me out to my car and opens the door for me. “Thanks for the food and everything. How about I give you a few bills for it?”
“No,” I reply softly. “You paid for my trip to the salon when you didn’t have to. Bringing you a meal was the least I could do.”
He grins, tugging on the end of one of my long curls. “It looks nice he says.”
He bends and kisses me on the cheek. I’m not certain if the display of affection is meant for my sake or Mandy’s. But I take it. Wishing that kiss could be so much more.
