Unbound, page 10
“Hang on tight, Rachel,” he said, looking over his shoulder “You’re safe.”
I took a deep breath. “I know.”
With a gentle nudge of his knee we set off towards the dirt trail at the edge of the pasture.
The path we followed led us higher onto the escarpment, the ascent slow but steady, the views of the autumn vista more breathtaking from this perspective. Occasionally, through breaks in the trees, the pale blue sky would become visible and I could see turkey vultures as they swooped and glided on air currents, only a little way above us.
Either Eaden was an exceptional horseman or Gus was very well-behaved because the ride was far smoother than I’d feared it would be. Even so, the lower half of my body inevitably began to give me some clear signals that a break was in order.
We stopped for a rest near a small clearing off the path that overlooked the quilted farmlands far below. I felt queasy as we approached the edge – we were much farther up than I had thought. I kept a firm grip on Eaden’s arm as he led me to a flat rock several feet away from the precipice. As soon as I was seated, I scooted as far back as I could from the drop, pulling my knees up to my chin and hugging my legs.
Eaden’s smile was patient, kind. “The longer you sit, the easier it will be,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. But I did have to admit the view was breathtaking. Touched by the late morning sun, the trees scattered on the fields below were aflame, contrasting sharply with the darker browns and greens of the earth and vegetation. Trying to dispel my vertigo, I took a few long, deep breaths and felt my muscles loosen a bit, until finally, feeling more composed, I turned to look at him.
“Eaden James MacAlister,” I said, breaking the silence. It was a statement.
He stared out over the landscape, watching the broad-winged birds swoop and dive. “Alister was my father’s name.”
I rested my cheek on my knees and gazed at him. “Thank you.”
He nodded in understanding, eyes still on the aerial performance of the vultures.
We sat side by side, silent again. I was suddenly very aware of the space that existed between us, as if the space could be felt, as if I could feel him despite it.
Turning his gaze towards me, his eyes seemed to reflect the intensity I felt building inside of me. “Why did your father call you Rabbit?”
Glancing down at my hands, I shrugged, my heart aching a little to think of the affectionate nickname my father had given me. “When I was little, my dad used to read me The Velveteen Rabbit. It was my favourite story. I couldn’t sleep without it.” But I paused, because this wasn’t the whole truth, and it seemed necessary not to hold anything back. “Also, I startle pretty easily. My Dad teased me about it. He said I was, um,” my cheeks grew hot telling him this, “twitchy like a rabbit.”
He chuckled. “I’d hate to gainsay your father, Rachel, but it’s been my experience that rabbits are rather tame and easily intimidated. You, on the other hand,” he paused and waited until I lifted my head to look at him, “are hardly tame. You are more fierce of heart and strong of will than any rabbit I’ve come across.” He met my eyes directly and shook his head slightly. “No, not a rabbit, Rachel. You are more like a gazelle.”
I snorted, self-conscious now and looked down again, trying to avoid his gaze.
“I’ve made you laugh?”
“Yes, Eaden, you’re very funny.”
“I hadn’t intended to be.” His knee bumped mine, a gentle nudge. “What is so hard to believe? A gazelle is fast and beautiful and wild... “
“And twitchy?” I was trying to hide the blush that I knew had reddened my cheeks.
“Indeed,” he said and gracefully looked away. A smile played around the corner of his mouth though and I thought he seemed pleased with himself for having unsettled me again in this way.
After a few quiet moments I felt his gaze return. My heart jumped wildly as he slowly brought his hand to my face and gently lifted my chin. His eyes were filled with compassion and something else I couldn’t identify. Was it guilt?
“Rachel, there is no shame in knowing where danger lies in the world. Your life is very precious; it should be guarded carefully.” Although his words were tender, he spoke them with such sadness and regret that I suddenly found it hard to swallow. But I couldn’t look away.
Eaden rose to his feet easily and held his hand out to help me. To my utter delight, he did not let go as we walked back towards Gus, but kept my small hand wrapped in his. We said very little on the ride back to the stables. Resting my head lightly against his back, I listened to his heartbeat and the quiet steady pull of his breath. One of his hands held the reins, while the other rested lightly on top of mine where they were clasped about his waist. I hoped that he couldn’t hear the stumbling run of my blood through my veins, ignited by the touch of his fingers on mine. But I didn’t want to pull back, couldn’t really.
While Eaden went to the stables to speak with the groom who waved as we approached, I wandered over to say goodbye to Gus and Lilly. Leaning over the fence, I gingerly stroked Gus’s magnificent mane. He whickered noisily again, but it didn’t startle me this time.
Leaning closer, I whispered, “Thanks, Gus. I hope I get to see you again.”
He closed his eyes sleepily and snorted.
Turning away from him, I found Eaden leaning against the side of his car, watching me with an intensity that I couldn’t read from this distance. His expression shifted as I got closer and he grinned as I walked towards the car door he held open for me.
“Seems like you’ve made a friend.”
I nodded, feeling light. “I’m lucky that way.”
We drove back to the city, the bright sunshine streaming through the windows warm on skin, my body pleasantly fatigued, only a little sore. My eyes felt heavy and the flickering light through the trees lulled me into a deliciously cozy catnap, coloured by the warm hues of the sky.
Disoriented, I woke gradually, realizing that we were no longer moving, the engine turned off, no sound in the car except my breathing and his. Eaden was turned slightly towards me, one shoulder pressed up against the driver’s side door, watching me intently. This time, so much closer now, his expression was easy to interpret. His grey eyes burned with something that was shockingly raw and I swallowed audibly, my heartbeat suddenly erratic.
“What is it?” I whispered; troubled for a reason I was only half-conscious of. The air between us hummed with electricity and for several moments, he held me immobile, with that powerful, startling gaze. Abruptly, he turned his head away.
I sat frozen, unsure what had just happened, only aware of my heart hammering in my chest. He took a deep breath, hands clenching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.
He cleared his throat, his voice husky. “Forgive me.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and not entirely sure what had transpired that would require my forgiveness.
He took another deep breath and then turned back to me – the painful longing in his eyes diminished now. The small smile he gave me was strained. “I’d like to make you dinner tonight, but…” he paused, “I’m aware there is some impropriety in having you over without a chaperone.”
Frowning, I began to protest, but his mouth quirked up at one corner.
“Another joke, Rachel.”
Sort of, I thought, but instead I said, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
Having secured my acceptance, the black car purred gently at the curbside until I was safely inside my building. Watching from the living room window, I saw him drive off, leaving me only with the promise to return tonight. I floated through the rest of the afternoon, disoriented as much by my nap as by the electricity in Eaden’s eyes and the possibilities it implied.
Chapter Eight: Fool on a Hill
There were multiple text messages and voice mails on my phone when I checked, mostly from Lacey. She was demanding details in response to the vague, unsatisfying message I had left her yesterday when I cancelled our weekly dinner plans. Her voice bleary, Lacey repeated that she would not be letting me off the hook so easily this time. Shortly thereafter the message deteriorated into a disoriented replay of her late-night hookup along with a request to help her find a recipe for ambrosia salad, which apparently she’d promised to bring to her sister’s birthday celebration on Sunday.
The other message was from Adam.
“Hey Rach.” His voice was casual. “I’m home for the weekend and thought maybe we could hang out. Call me back, okay?” Shoving down my uneasiness, I hung up and decided to let that particular message sit for a while.
After showering, I sifted through my closet slowly, taking more care than I normally would to select something to wear. I was aiming for something pretty, but not overdone, stylish, but not formal. It wasn’t easy. My wardrobe didn’t contain a lot of date outfits. There hadn’t been many dates. Finally deciding on a simple black dress that Lacey had once told me flattered my figure, I styled my hair and applied a touch of make- up.
Ready far too early, I tried not to pace around the apartment. Picking up a book, I read a few pages without comprehending a single word, put it down, and went back to pacing. My stomach felt like a Jiffy Pop container heating up on the stove. Why was I so uneasy? Catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, I grimaced slightly. My skin looked pale, eyes wide and anxious blinked back at me like an owl’s. Where was that feeling of exhilaration I’d had last night? What was wrong with me? Compared to the small experiences I’d collected in my very small life, the last twenty-four hours with Eaden had been breathtaking. Yet, for all of my excitement, when I was with him, I felt more content, more myself, than I’d ever felt without him. So why did I feel like I was going to be sick?
Except that I knew. Raising a mocking eyebrow, I glared at myself in the mirror. Because deep down, I recognized that I was adeptly evading the real truth. I wasn’t anxious about our date. I was terrified. Because the look in Eaden’s eyes in the car today was the exact look I’d been desperately hoping to see for a very long time. Eaden had looked hungry. Ravenous, even. As if he were a starving man who had just been presented with his favourite sandwich. And that look did wonderful, unfamiliar things to my body. Things I wasn’t even sure I knew what to do about.
“Be careful what you wish for,” I said aloud, smiling weakly at my reflection. It wasn’t only the idea of getting physical with Eaden that was frightening. That, although scary, was also very, very appealing. No. What was causing this sickly fear in the pit of my stomach was the thought that someone as inexperienced, as downright green as I was in the romance department, would have zero chance at pleasing someone with more than a millennium of sexual history. How on earth could I compete with the veritable army of lovers Eaden had most likely had? I felt hopelessly incompetent.
My head felt thick as sudden dizziness overwhelmed me and I felt my stomach clench. Breathe, Rachel, just breathe, I reminded myself.
Walking gingerly to the couch I sat down and so as not to ruin my efforts with my hair and makeup, carefully slid my head between my knees. Focusing only on inhaling and exhaling, I stayed that way until, much later, Eaden knocked on my door.
Sitting in the car with my window cracked open, I felt more composed as we drove through the city, even congratulating myself on my nonchalance when I had opened the door to greet him, despite the unsteadiness of my legs. That hard-won composure all but shattered to pieces when at a stoplight, he reached over and touched my hair softly.
“You look beautiful, Rachel,” he said in a low voice.
Smiling clumsily, I frantically tried to remember how to breathe again.
It seemed he’d made a concerted effort with his appearance, too. Tamed with a healthy dollop of styling product, his hair seemed content to settle for a modest rebellion against gravity tonight instead of sticking out wildly in all directions. His smooth jaw line was stubble free, evidence of a recent shave bolstered by the faint smell of cologne. His attention to personal grooming – and what that implied – caused my heart to soar with hope and my stomach to spasm with fear. My earlier insecurities threatened mutiny by bubbling up through my esophagus, and I desperately battled for control of my bodily functions. Only by concentrating on the taillights from the traffic in front of us did I somehow manage to avoid vomiting.
Sensing my panic, Eaden glanced at me occasionally, a small line of concern engraved between his eyebrows.
“Are you well?”
“Uh-huh.” My reply was strangled.
Eying my hand wrapped tightly around my middle, he clearly attributed my odd behaviour to my fear of cars. He winked and smiled disarmingly. “Trust me,” he said, “I’m a pro.”
I let my head thump against the cold window of the car. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whispered.
Eaden’s neighbourhood was on the fringe of the core, a hip address that was still culturally diverse enough to be thought of as edgy, but settled enough to be outrageously expensive. Soup kitchens stood side by side with designer boutiques, and avant-garde artists mingled comfortably with spray-can wielding street kids. Eaden swung into a spot behind what I had thought was on an old warehouse, but climbing out of the car, I recognized it as the new loft-style residences – advertised in bus shelters and billboards for months now – that had been converted from a condemned factory. A bronze plaque near the entrance declared the building a city landmark and identified it as the former site of the Fraser Canning Company. According to the plaque, Fraser’s had been the largest exporter in the city until 1934.
My already somewhat fragile grip on my nervous system was challenged even further once we entered his building. The architect who had converted the warehouse had purposefully conserved as many of the original structural elements of the building as possible. This meant that we rode up to Eaden’s fifth-floor apartment in an old-fashioned freight elevator, complete with faux-rusted gate, and a view of each floor we passed through the grille of the platform. It was a testament to the soothing effect his presence had on me that I was still able to walk out of the elevator under my own power.
His loft was huge. Dark hardwood floors stretched across the airy space, bordered by exposed red brick walls. Seemingly random support posts rose like graceful giraffes up to the ceiling, where soft lighting shone down to illuminate the different functional areas of living space. Along the eastern wall, three massive windows supplied visual access to the busy streets below. The furniture was arranged in such a way as to make each space distinct, and yet the overall style flowed easily from one area to the next. It was streamlined and tasteful and masculine. It was Eaden.
Helping me out of my coat, he excused himself to the kitchen to continue his dinner preparations. The savoury aroma of several spices mingled enticingly and I wondered ruefully if there was anything he couldn’t do. I wandered over to the living room area, drawn as quickly to his bookshelves as he had been to mine. His collection was surprisingly contemporary. It’s not that I expected to see the Book of Enoch on his shelves, but I think I had been sure that there would be a few titles that were more historical. Instead, Timothy Findlay and Isaac Asimov sat beside Margaret Atwood and Ann-Marie MacDonald.
I was less surprised by the lack of personal mementos adorning the shelves. There were no photographs, no souvenirs, no knick-knacks of any kind. Yet, beside the books three acoustic guitars were lined up like soldiers against the brick wall, each a slightly different shape and shade from the others. Just as I was about to reach over to touch one of them, I startled as something soft and warm brushed against my leg. Looking down quickly, I found a large orange tom at my feet, staring up at me balefully. Impatient with my delayed reaction, he butted his head against my legs again, more demanding this time.
Laughing, I reached down to scratch him between the ears.
“I see you’ve met Angus,” Eaden commented drily from behind me. “Don’t be a nuisance,” he said, scolding the tom good-naturedly. Angus, oblivious to Eaden’s disapproval, wound himself through my legs, generously offering up his rump to be scratched too.
“Flirt.” Eaden scowled in the tom’s direction and then handed me a wine glass filled to the top with a warm amber liquid. His smile was so relaxed, so sinuous that my shoulders lowered, releasing some of the tension I had been holding.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
I turned to see the table had been set and readied for our meal. “Starving.”
* * * * *
Our dinner conversation flowed easily. We traded the names of our favourite books, movies and songs. Mindful of his promise to be less reticent, Eaden seemed to make an effort to share what he could, responding with candour to my endless questions.
“Favourite Beatle?” I quizzed.
“Definitely Paul.”
“Really?” Given his tendency for darker moods, I had thought he might identify more with John.
He looked thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his glass. “John was truly an exceptional musician, but he was also a dreamer. Not something I’m very familiar with.” He shrugged and took a sip from his glass. “I rather admired the contradiction that was more intrinsic to Paul’s music. He is both a pragmatist and a romantic.”
Motioning my head towards the guitars I had admired before dinner, I asked, “Do you play?”
“Yes, I do.” He seemed discomfited, like he was aiming for modesty, but his eyes flashed with enthusiasm. Or was it pride? “But I also build.”
“Build?”
“I’m a luthier,” he explained. “I built those guitars.”
Looking down at my plate, I wondered if he’d grown the vegetables, too. I shook my head slowly in dismay.
He looked curious. “What?”
“It’s just that it’s a bit intimidating to be in your company. You do so many things, so well.”
As the words fell out of my mouth, my eyes involuntarily skipped over to the large bed set in the far corner of the loft. Flushing, I suddenly felt besieged as the fears I had held at bay so successfully during dinner flooded through me.
