Flowers for Jill Ch. 07

Glancing at her wine glass, she swirled the inky velvet red around, "Shit must be working, I'm talking to my fucking self." The smile she gave her reflection was dolorous, and she took another drink just to take it away.

The most fun part about taking a hot bath was pouring in the salts after she stepped into the tub, and she indulged in swirling the fragrant beads on her skin between sips of wine. By the time her water cooled, and glass got drained, she felt completely relaxed, and had a plan of action. She pulled out all of her modeling portfolios, and design sketches when she left the bathroom, and went through her works picking her favorites, and improving others with a few strokes and swipes. Before she knew it, it was after four in the morning, and she had a stack of designs, old and new, on her desk.

She went online and booked a flight to New York. Having a choice between a crappy seat, and a crappier seat, she picked an economy class spot by the window which wasn't really the worst thing in the world. If she was going to be spontaneous, she had to make small sacrifices along the way. It was quite inconvenient though that she couldn't find a direct flight on such short notice, and had to settle for something with a five-hour layover in Charlotte North Carolina.

She was too wound up to sleep yet, when slumber claimed her, she slept a solid three hours and woke up feeling like she had a full seven-hour sleep. A quick email to her assistant explained that she was going to New York, and she didn't mention when she was coming back to work because she didn't know.

Skinny Joe's jeans, a tight red turtle neck sweater, and an ivory funnel neck coat made her outfit. She didn't think she needed a lot of clothes for what she travelled for. She might've needed a suitcase, a small carry-on at the least, but she didn't pack one and threw a bunch of stuff in a Dooney and Bourke shopper tote that was big enough for her new design portfolio, and stepped outside to wait for her Uber to the airport.

She napped throughout the first flight, drank two cups of burnt coffee at a coffee shop in Douglas airport because the barista was too lazy to brew her regular blonde roast. The slob didn't raise one complaint about the complicated orders the other customers threw at him, yet read her a sob story about how hard it was to drag the drip-brew stand and pour hot water on coffee grinds for her. She should've read him the riot act, but settled for a old Pike Place roast both times, because it didn't really matter what the details of her trip were since the outcome would give her peace.

A banana and a bag of crackers tied her up before she took another nap on the second plane, and she woke up in The Big Apple in no time. She Uber-ed from LaGuardia to Marc's townhouse, and arrived a little after 5 pm.

"Ring the doorbell." She breathed to herself when she stood in the street staring at the door like the gates of a Grimm's magical kingdom. But he wasn't home, and was either stuck in traffic or putting in a long work day -she refused to think that he might be with a woman somewhere.

Jeans were the wrong thing to wear, she surmised after about twenty minutes of sitting on the cold brick step in front of his house. If her mind was functioning properly, she might've done something reasonable like sit in a café or a restaurant somewhere for an hour or so, but her brain was going down a one-way road with blinders on its eyes. By 7:15 pm, her feet felt frozen in her booties, and she lost the feeling in her fingers. Her nose was running as if in a competition with her eyes that were tearing up constantly; who can give Jillian the most trouble?

She'd exhausted all of her Kleenex, and contemplated using her moisturized makeup remover napkins instead when the twin beams of an approaching car scalded her tired eyes, and had her look up from her opened purse.

From the shape of the car's lights, she guessed it was Marc's 2013 Escalade, and her heart tripped. She swallowed and tried to get up, but her legs didn't cooperate. Cold and unused for close to two hours, her knees buckled and bent when she pushed up, and she plopped back down with a muffled thud.

"Hell, crap, fuck!" she cursed slinging her purse on her shoulder and freeing her hands to press against the ground on either side to give herself a boost.

Just like his neighbors, Marc parked by the sidewalk, but was rather hasty that his front tire rolled up the curb, and he had to back up sloppily before putting the SUV in park.

Jillian was up, but her legs felt like two stilts made of bagged popsicle juice; frozen yet fragile. And it wasn't just the outside elements' effect, but what she was embarking on as well. She met his eyes through the windshield and held his gaze.

"Oh god, I love him." she whispered, her trembling lips too chilled to form the words. She hadn't really thought of it since it tumbled out of her mouth in front of Maxime, and now it felt real and alive.

That was the explanation she sought. That peculiar warmth that overtook her when she was around him, the way she felt too agitated and wanted to get out of her skin, to claw it off until the humming stopped. She loved him, that's why she felt happy, yet terrified everytime they established any sort of contact...The elation, completion, and combustible passion that coated her skin and glided over it like honeyed syrup. Love. And it wasn't like anything she's ever felt when she loved other people; loving Marc almost had a taste that the mere thought of him evoked. A mixture of his sweet minty kisses, the taste of his skin, and even his salty cum, all the things that only a woman that's been with him would know.

"Jillian." He stepped out of the car and stood still for a second staring at her.

Her was dressed in workout gear, white running shorts and a navy windbreaker over a navy t-shirt. He looked haggard, and his sweat was still drying on his clothes. The lawn light exaggerated the shadows under his eyes, and his thick stubble made his face look a tad gaunt in the dark.

"Hi Marc." Her voice came out raspy and high-pitched, "I..." she cleared her throat and tried to remember the opening sentence she worded together in the tub last night, but planning has proved to be easier than doing. She was still charging her courage to look him in the eye. Facing him had never been so difficult.

"Oh God, what am I thinking?" he smacked his palm against his forehead, "You're shivering, Jesus!" he jogged up the few steps leading to the house and took his windbreaker off with every step, "Here, it's not much but..." he stopped himself, "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm all sweaty and you're wearing white." His tone dropped to a mumble when he reached her. She knew she didn't look her best with a red nose, sensitized from all the times she had to blow it. Her lips must've had a purplish tinge from the cold, and they felt cold and dry when she ran her tongue on them. Yet, he looked at her like he always did, if not with some yearning in his eyes now.

His mouth opened and he began to say something then wet his lips and shifted his feet, "Here's the key." He dug in his pockets and took her chilled hand in his placing his keychain with its load of key FOB and keys into her palm. His hand was so warm it throbbed, and she wanted to clasp it with both hands and press it against her cheek.

"It's this one." He whispered feeling for the appropriate key without taking his eyes off hers, "The security alarm pad will be on your right hand when you enter, the code is 207019. There's a light switch right next to it."

"Okay." She muttered, hypnotized by her proximity to his body, and the way his smell invaded her senses. Even his sweat smelled masculine and delicious making her want to demand his jacket just to wrap herself with his essence.

"I'll get your luggage."

"Okay."

"Where is your luggage?" he looked searched the ground around her shaking her from her reverie.

Embarrassed, she declared, "I didn't bring more than a purse."

He eyed her with a scrutinizing look for a long second and seemed to want to ask her if she was okay, but didn't, "207019." He repeated turning back to his car.

She clutched at his forearm instinctively drawing his windbreaker into her hand.

"I'm just going to get my gym bag." He clarified, but she shook her head, "I'm cold."

It was unnecessary since she was gonna be inside within the next 30 seconds or so, but she really wanted to wear a piece of his clothing, sweat or not.

Marc must've understood, for he draped it around her shoulders and pulled the lapels around her neck, "Better?"

He was so close, so intimidating as he towered over her, big, solid, and warm when she felt small, shaky, and cold.

"I can't focus on anything when you're looking at me like that, Jillian." His voice came out strangled, and she blinked and whispered, "Like what?"

"The code is 207019, Jill." he evaded the question cupping both of her shoulders and giving her a fortifying little shake.

Walking proved to be a challenge, and her teeth started to chatter adding further embarrassment to her situation, yet she surmised that she didn't have the sense to feel discomfited anymore. It was all new to her, this spontaneity and all the accessories it dragged along with it. Besides, she wasn't venturing into a jungle in the middle of nowhere Indiana Jones-style or slinging down the side of a mountain or something despite her perfect Lara Croft French braid.

She smiled to herself as she disabled the alarm, and mumbled, "I'm hilarious." Distracting herself from the fact that Marc was going to enter the house any second now.

"Would you lock the car, if you please?" he stepped in before she completed her thought, and she gaped at him and blinked several times before catching on and pressing the lock button on his FOB.

Seeing him in better lighting revealed the circles under his eyes that attested to how exhausted he must've been. It appeared that he had shaved his Christmas beard off then just forgot to shave again, because his stubble was thick and not tended to. His hair, when he took off his Habs cap, was still longish and wet with sweat, and he had to run a hand through it to shake off the hat's compression.

He looked tired and rode-hard, and she's never found him more handsome. Maybe it was the time they spent apart and her trying to force intimacy with someone else, or maybe it was her admitting to herself her love for him. She now saw him with the light of the love she felt for him, and he didn't need to be in one of his swanky designer suits and looking fresh as a crisp fall apple for her to appreciate how attractive he was.

"Are you alright? How long have you waited outside?" he enquired.

"Um, since five...ish." She shrugged, "I didn't realize you'd gone to the gym after work."

"Is your luggage at the hotel?"

"This is all I brought with me." she flashed her tote without telling him that she didn't check into a hotel, and wasn't planning to. She wanted to finger-comb the stray hairs of his side burns then run her fingers down to his mid-ear where they didn't really stop, but turned lighter and thinner as they blended with his stubble.

"Are you cold? I'll turn up the thermostat." He almost hopped to the corridor where the regulator box was and fiddled with it, "Do you need a blanket or something?"

"I just need to use your bathroom, please."

"Sure, sure," he waved her into the vestibule and pointed at a closed door, "there's the powder room, unless you need to shower."

"I could use a quick rinse in hot water, if you don't mind."

He swallowed and nodded more than necessary, "Yeah, no, I don't mind, use the one in my bedroom."

She stepped towards him and stood in place looking at him. After a minute of silence, she explained, "I don't know where your bedroom is, Marc."

"Oh damn, of course, I'm sorry," he scratched his forehead with the back of his thumbnail, "Can I take your coat or purse?"

"I'll take my purse with me because I have a t-shirt I can change into," she didn't tell him that she wanted to reapply her mascara and moisturize her face after her shower, and shrugged out of her coat and his windbreaker, "Here's this, though, thank you."

"No problem." He led her up a flight of stairs with a wide, vintage cherry banister that was shined to perfection.

In any other situation, she would've spent her time admiring the elegantly decorated home, and demanded an extended tour, but interior design was the last thing on her mind as she walked up the stairs feeling his eyes on her backside. She knew he was admiring her derriere in the tight jeans, he loved her ass, and she put an extra sway in her hips amazing herself by how his presence can twist her cables hotwiring them even when she was slightly jetlagged, hungry, and very cold.

He opened the bathroom door for her and flicked the lights on turning the dark room into a celebration of exuberant lights. The bathroom was big enough to be a modest-sized living room, and was walled with mirrors that had intricate frames made of small shards of more mirrors. His double sink vanity had a slight crescent bend to it, and two outer triangular-prism-shaped counters. The silver speckled black marble tops gave out a look of opulence that should've made her want to plan on redoing her bathroom the minute she got home had she been thinking normally.

"I can run you a bath if you wish." He indicated the large hot tub that had its own section and was mounted on a two-step high pedestal.

She glanced at him trying to decipher his features to see if he meant to join her or not, but his expression was bemused yet closed up. Shaking her head, she bent her knee up and unzipped her left bootie, "I won't trouble you, I'll just take a shower."

"It's no trouble if you want it."

"No, I'm fine."

"I have clean towels in here." He opened a wall cabinet then pointed the glass shower stall, "The hot water comes on pretty quickly." And then he was gone.

She twisted her hair braid around securing it at her nape, and scrambled through her shower not wanting to dally. The hot water felt divine, and she wiggled her toes and fingers regaining the feeling back in them sparing herself another minute under the heavy spray before stepping out and back into the fairyland bathroom.

Marc had left the towel cabinet door open, but she spotted his personal towel hanging from a round towel rack and had it wrapped around herself before she could remind herself to stop acting like a frisky teenager. She then spread a thin layer of moisturizer on her face, cake batter Chapstick on her lips, and coated her lashes with a generous layer of doll-eyes mascara. She had another pair of the same panties in her bag that she changed into after washing her used underwear and socks in the sink. The burnout white t-shirt she had the savvy to bring saved her having to pull her turtleneck back on her damp skin, a struggle that she only went through with her jeans. Eschewing her boots, she treaded out in socked feet and followed the lights downstairs that led her to his kitchen. He was mixing something in a mug, and she stood at the door rubbing a hand up and down the opposite arm and unsure of what to say.

"Feel better?" he asked without looking at her as if the hot liquid he was swirling in the cup was the most important thing in the world, and she nodded, then cleared her throat, "Yeah."

"Good." Her turned to face her, "Made you some hot cocoa."

"Thanks." She accepted the plain white mug with the steaming chocolate drink and smiled weakly, "You have a beautiful home, Marc."

"I guess." He shrugged scratching the bridge of his nose then wiping the front of his face with his hand, "It's too big for me."

He was studying her with that examining look again and it made her feel self conscious so she took a sip of the cocoa and burned her mouth, but masked her faux pas by taking a smaller sip. Her tongue pounded with pain, but the stuff was good, "Almont milk?" she raised her eyes to his.

"Vanilla almond," he scratched his right eyebrow. He was still sweaty and looked a bit impatient, as if he wanted to excuse himself and run out to spend the night somewhere else until she left.

"It's delicious."

"Yeah, it's good, I like it."

Inane chatter, she didn't want to waste her breath on insignificant formalities, yet couldn't bring herself to launch into her speech about why she came to see him.

"Hey, listen, I gotta hit the shower, I stink," he flapped his arms indicating his state, "There's some sandwich stuff in the fridge, help yourself to anything you want to eat. I'm guessing you haven't had lunch."

Raising a shaky hand to her cheek, she questioned, "Do I look that bad?"

He pinned her with that blue flame stare of his, "You never look bad, Jill, not to me." and before she could give him a lame thanks, he smacked the table top and walked off.

She needed to eat, but wasn't really hungry. Opening the refrigerator didn't provoke her appetite, despite its generous load. She settled with a small pack of raspberries, and spent more time picking the tiny seeds from between her teeth than actually eating the stuff. She couldn't even finish her cocoa as she tried to bring her mind to focus on what she wanted to tell him, and construct it in a decent way.

His clearing his throat alerted her to his presence, and she looked up from her cup where she was swirling a raspberry in the remaining chocolate.

He was dressed in a pair of worn -very roughly worn- jeans, and a large gray sweatshirt, "Toss me an apple, will ya?" he leaned against the doorframe, "So what do I owe this visit to?"

There was a crystal footed fruit bowl in the middle of the table, and she picked a completely red Jonathan apple and threw it in, what she hoped was, an elegant way that didn't look like she was hurling the fruit at him.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Do I have to take my clothes off for this talk?" he grasped the hem of his sweatshirt with both hands lifting up a little. She knew that he meant to offend her because he was expecting the worse, and tried not to let it shake her. And as much as she ached to take him up on his offer and assuage her body's hunger for him, she wanted to get the talk out of the way first since the last time they had sex before talking ended up with a misunderstanding and an argument that left her miserable.

He didn't give her the chance to talk though, he brought the apple to his mouth, then as an afterthought, lowered it again, "I mean you gotta know that this is wildly unexpected. You hang up on me one day, telling me that you want to focus on that dude you're dating, and refuse to answer my calls. Then show up unexpected at my doorstep, sit on the curb and wait outside in the freezing cold for a good two hours, then just simply say that you want to talk. Huh," he snorted, "If you wanted to talk you could've talked on the phone. Again, I don't want to be presumptuous, but you see my point." He wiped the apple on his shirtfront nonchalantly then took a large bite breathing through his nose as he chewed and glared at her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held his apple hand up pointing a finger at her while keeping the others wrapped around the fruit, "And for your information, I didn't fuck those two models that day you called me. I was going to do everything in my power to erase your memory from my mind, yet everytime I started to do something, I saw your face, heard your voice, and stopped. When I finally took a leap and said "fuck it" you called me and claimed my sanity again. Not that you care one bit, I mean, you have that guy with the kid to go home to, Caden, Dickbag, whatever his name is."