Chapter 3 – Raven

“So, you close to getting your book done?”

“Girl, I’ve been writing like crazy. Like the words are flying.”

“Great! That mean you think you might finish soon?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got tons of inspiration up here.”

“Inspiration? You said it’s been snowing almost non-stop.”

“The snow is beautiful.”

“You hate snow. And you said you’re the only guest there.”

“I am.”

“So, what is so inspiring, Ray?”

Tilting my head backwards, eyes to the ceiling, I allow a grimace to distort my features for a moment at my sister’s interrogation. On a deep sigh, I unfurl my legs from their cross and stretch them out in front of me on the floor, then lean back against the wall. Repositioning my Macbook on my thighs, I fiddle with my necklace for a few moments as I watch a few other doctors and nurses come and go in the break room behind where my sister is seated. 

“Just...being away for a little bit is inspiring. I’m not so...distracted.”

Sitting up a little straighter in her chair, her dark chestnut eyes narrow behind her glasses, her stare studying my face through the screen of her phone as though I am one of her patients suffering from an illness she has yet to diagnose. “Have you been feeling distracted since your accident? Having headaches?”

“What? No!”

“Are you sure? After a concussion you can sometimes experience some confusion, some difficulty focusing.” Counting off symptoms on her fingers Deja seems to be trying to narrow in on some underlying pathology to me simply feeling inspired. 

Sighing, I have to admit, if only to myself that I understand why she’s confused. Inspiration has not been my friend as of late. And though my location has changed from New York to Maine, what could have transpired in the short time since I’ve been here to change my mood other than me getting into an accident that caused a concussion? A tiny smile wants to give me away as I think of last night. Of him. Dropping my lids, I can almost see his blue eyes focused in on me across the table. Feel the warm flush rushing through me at the soft press of his lips to mine. Before my face betrays me, and I can’t fight my body’s reaction to my memories, I blurt out a frustrated dismissal. “I’m fine.”

“That’s what a person with a concussion who is off traveling and trying to write but should be home resting, would probably say.” She responds, shaking her head at me in what is probably disappointment if the purse of her lips, and terseness of her authoritative doctor voice is any indication. Scoffing, Deja adds on a huff, her tone growing sharper with what I can only assume is concern, “Ray, you should take acetaminophen instead of ibuprofen if your head still hurts. Ibuprofen will increase the risk of bleeding. Do you have much bruising? Body aches?”

“A few small bruises on my left side. I guess from the car door.”

“Your vision and mental acuity seem intact, but I am concerned about you feeling distracted. Maybe you need a CT scan.” Deja rattles off, taking charge in full doctor mode, and I’m sure racking me up in her virtual chart with plenty of tests and assessments to diagnose me. 

Smiling, grinning so the little bitty dimple in my left cheek is pronounced, sending cute kid sister vibes, I attempt to disarm her concern. “I’m all good, sis. Promise. My head is fine. Everything about this little piece of the world is calming, and quiet. At first it was a little off putting. Hard to settle in with absolutely nothing going on. No noise. No cars, no people. But Ashe kinda helped me see it differently. Perspective ya know?”

Angling her beautifully manicured eyebrows, threaded and tinted, she leans closer to her phone while also bringing the device just inches from her face to inspect me over her glasses. “Perspective? Raven, what are you talking about? Who is Ashe?”

“He works here.”

“He works there?” she echoes, disbelief clouding her face. “The Paul Bunyan guy you were telling me about? The son who picked you up from the hospital?” My sister queries, her voice raising to a whispered squeal. She’s at work, taking a short break to catch her breath and check up on me, but now that she can sense I’m not telling her everything, she’s not gonna rest until she finds out everything. “This is not adding up. You said that guy was rude as hell.”

This is so Deja. As the older sister she has always made my business, her business. Always. When I was in the sixth grade and discovered my mother’s collection of Zane books, she took it upon herself to notify my mother, noting that the books were inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. She was right, and in a huff at being scolded by my mother, sequestered to our shared bedroom to sulk, I had to agree as I recalled the warm and confusing feelings those books that explored all of the erotic maturity of grown folks’ business, conjured in me. With the wisdom of a sister that is only a few years older, Deja coolly, instead offered me Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’ and ‘Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret’, as alternatives that truly were more my speed. 

She’s always done that, too. Been that kind of bridge for me, getting me from one complicated life experience to the next. Offering to beat up mean girls. Slipping the key to her apartment into my purse and communicating to me in a non-descript manner that I had a more appealing alternative to living as an adult with my parents. And of course, introducing me to Preston. Another alternative she offered up. One that was so very different from the monogamy challenged, fuckboys I was used to. At least that’s what we both thought.

Sulking at the memory of that last thing, I roll my eyes and make a request of my big sister, “Deja, please mind your business.”

“Hello! Little sister you are my business. So, cut the shit and tell me what inspiration you’re talking about.”

There’s the response I was expecting from her, and why I really didn’t mean to slip up and use his name. Why I was concentrating so hard on giving nothing away? Deja’s too good at this.

“And have you talked to Preston since you’ve been there? I saw him the other day in the cafeteria, we didn’t really have time to chat, but I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

I have, but I really don’t want to get into that either, and thankfully two short knocks to my room door interrupt our back and forth and provide me with the much-needed reprieve to swerve from her prying. “I’ll call you later, Deja. Someone is at my door.”

With all of the attitude of the ancestors, and every big sister everywhere, Deja doesn’t let her medical degree get in the way of a Brooklyn neck roll, dipping her head to the side and points her finger at me through the phone one last time. “Uh huh. You better call me back.”

“I will.”

“And wear a mask!”

“Ok!” I promise, closing my Macbook, and shutting out my sister’s commands. 

Reaching for my mask that rests on the nightstand, I drape it across my face, even though I don’t really think I need it given that only Eva and Ashe are at the inn with me. I’m sure it’s one of them at the door. It’s that certainty, and a hope that it’s Ashe instead of Eva, that pushes me to hurriedly snatch my scarf from my head, and check my appearance in the bathroom mirror on the way to the door. 

Pulling the heavy wooden barrier open just as another set of brief, soft bangs sound off, I find Eva, dressed in a thick, Donegal sweater, corduroys, and snow boots, appearing ready for her day. 

“Good morning, Eva!” I greet her, pulling my mask off and wrapping my robe more tightly around my frame, feeling the chill from the hallway invading on the heat from my fireplace warmed room.

“Morning. I wanted to let you know I’m gonna be gone probably most of the day. Café is closed, and of course no guests are expected, so no one should be dropping by today.”

“Oh ok.” Nodding that I understand I wonder if I should ask about Ashe? Would it seem too interested of me to bring him up? The question halts my lips from forming the words to ask as they also burn with the remembrance of our shared kiss last night. Does she know? Can Eva tell that my body still tingles when I think of her son? I hope not, and try to mask any interest in Ashe, keeping my questions to myself. “Have a good day then.”

“Sure thing, hon. You stay warm, and help yourself to the kitchen.” Turning away, she gifts me with a smile and a parting wave, her long dark hair swishing against her sweater collar with each step. 

Closing the door behind me, I press my back to the wood. It’s just after eight in the morning, and I’ve been writing since before dawn. I’m not really a morning person, but like I told my sister, I can’t stop writing. My fingers can barely keep up. Every scene seems to be flooding my brain so quickly, with such vivid clarity that I can almost see and hear the characters. The energy flowing through me creating a tapestry in my mind, weaving together a clear pathway to a satisfying end of the story.

Which is great for the characters in my book. A couple who had fought each other, could barely form a kind word between them, had suddenly found no way to continue to deny the source of their tempestuous chemistry between them. It was lust. It was passion. Desire. 

Maybe. Perhaps...I could relate. 

Last night, with thoughts of something newly discovered about Ashe. Something softer, more introspective. Funny. Competitive. Perceptive. Caring. Sexy...riding me as I tried to find restful sleep, my legs skimmed against each other, my fingers touching, stroking, seeking some relief from the fire Ashe created within me, I instantly could tell that something creative had been unlocked. And each and every brush of my fingers over my own body, continued to unleash my imagination. An imagination that ran wild with thoughts, imaginings of his large hands instead of my own. His breath warming my flesh instead of my own needy panting kissing the air. 

Even my dreams were haunted by him. By my desire for him to follow me into my room and completely ruin me. To take everything that I was too afraid to offer. Afraid that once again I would lose myself, drown in the passions of a man who wasn’t really for me. Despite the fact that I could sense his urges in the press of our kiss, relate enough to that need to use it for my writing, I also recalled the sting of my romantic failure with Preston. The one guy that I really thought I could make it with. And man... I don’t want that again. Not right now. Not when I’m earnestly trying to put myself back together. Literally and figuratively. 

Preston was supposed to be the romantic hero in my story. The tall, dark, handsome doctor that would help bring my history of unsuccessful, amorous entanglements to a final end. At the risk of sounding like the book nerd that I am, my sister introducing Preston to me was to be the rising action, that would lead to the much-needed climax. Finally, I would get what every girl who had grown up on a healthy serving of princesses and fairytales, yearned for. And yet, our relationship didn’t quite turn out that way. 

Yes, Preston was like a prince in comparison to the frogs I had been with. Intelligent and witty, his sharp focus as a surgeon was almost overwhelming. Serious is the way my mother described him. Self-absorbed is what my father said, but for some reason even as they offered a view of him somewhat less rosy than the one I saw him with, I couldn’t move away from the possibility of finally getting exactly what I wanted. Unfortunately, my plans weren’t Preston’s plans, and now here I am. Hiding out from my failures under the snow blanketed beauty of Maine. Surviving, much like the small mammals Ashe mentioned last night.

Again, going nearly full circle, my thoughts turn to him, and perhaps, I muse as I loosen my silk kimono robe, ready to shower and grab some coffee downstairs, Ashe has already been as useful to me as I can allow? If nothing else the man has helped me breathe new life into my manuscript, and really, isn’t that what I’m supposed to be here for anyway?

XXXX

‘And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control...’

Is that? Is that Rage Against the Machine I wonder to myself, my feet automatically beating a path away from the café, and towards a long hallway on the other side of the front room that ends at a door. Pulling the door open, I’m assaulted by frenzied guitar riffs. Immediately I confirm from the furious vocals of Zach de la Rocha, charging and challenging in the repeated chants, for the listener to recognize the bold hypocrisy of society that’s easily ignored, that it is indeed Rage Against the Machine. 

With each step I get closer to the source of the music, to the large speakers that adorn two corners of the open space, and its mirror covered walls. Thick, black mats are dispersed all over the floors, carrying the heavy weight of metal workout equipment. Weight benches, kettle bells. Shiny chrome lifting bars, with more weights than I can count attached. A squat rack. A treadmill is pushed towards the left corner, with a few jump ropes and a heavy bag on the other end of that wall. 

None of that holds my attention though. It’s all minutiae. Unimportant tidbits. The main attraction stands in the middle of the room, grunting, sweating as he rips the Olympic weightlifting bar, stacked with the strain of multiple plates on each side. It’s really a shame that I recognize most of this equipment, remembering that one year I decided to do cross fit and get my summer body right. I lasted two months. Most of that time was spent ogling the trainer. That guy had nothing on Ashe though I decide, holding tightly to the cup of coffee in my right hand, as I nibble at my bottom lip, and shamelessly stare as he continues his workout and his eyes find mine in the mirror. 

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t deviate from the punishing focus of his workout. His eyes remain on mine. I can feel the heat of them reflecting in the mirror. Even as I permit my own to ride the thick, muscled cuts of his form. Down from the nearly black curls, damp with sweat, that curl against the nape of his neck, the veins pulsing with the effort to continue his workout. Tanned skin drapes his broad shoulders, the planes of his wide back rippling against it with hard sinew down to a trim waist, where his mesh shorts hang sinfully low and hide none of the firm roundness of his ass. His long legs, powerful thighs and calves, covered in fine dark hair, nearly steal my breath away. 

This feeling is one I must remember for when I return to my laptop and my manuscript. Lightheaded, breathiness. This is swooning I decide, swallowing down a gulp of the hot coffee, hoping a jolt of caffeine will shake me out of this stupor.  

‘Uh
Yeah
Come on
Uh

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me

Motherfucker
Uh...’

The song ends on that vicious promise, and is swiftly followed by Ashe finally dropping the sturdy barbell to the thick floor mat by his feet. 

“Alexa, turn the music off.” Ashe commands, his voice a weary rasp. 

Licking at my lips, taking note of sweat inching down the small of his back, just down his spine, I offer a weak voiced apology. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I heard the music when I left the café.”

“Uh huh.” He mumbles over his shoulder, head bowed as he scrutinizes something on his phone that he’s retrieved from his shorts pocket.

Shuffling my feet, unsure of whether or not I’ve pissed him off by interrupting his workout or not, I ramble off the only thing I can think of to break the awkward stillness of the moment. “Rage Against the Machine. Good song. I saw them once in 2011. At a concert in Los Angeles.”

“Nice. I met Tom Morello years ago. I played for the Bruins. We were introduced by a mutual friend after we beat the Blackhawks in Chicago. He’s a Blackhawks fan.” He laughs, just before he lifts his head, and finally turns towards me. Ashe greets me with a smile, wide and bright, as his gaze conducts a short but noticeable sweep of my body, head to toe then back again, settling on my face. He has a habit of doing that, and though my sister would call it objectification, I can’t help but enjoy the thrill of his eyes on me. 

Flutters in my belly aside, I immediately want to appear composed in front of him. Unaffected by the pure athleticism of his bulky form, effortlessly lifting and raising the weights as though they are nothing. But the sexy wickedness in his welcoming grin is hard to ignore, and my body instantly responds to those pink lips pulling at the corners, lighting his eyes as he catalogs my thick body in skinny jeans and a sweatshirt. Does he recognize there is also the same blush of lust turned on him, in my own eyes? Even as the slightest modicum of embarrassment at the way I’ve totally and completely consumed his muscled form, sends my glare away momentarily. Lowering to my feet, swallowed by a pair of oversized slippers I found in the closet of my room. 

“I like your shoes.” He chuckles and juts his chin towards my feet, then reaches over to one of the benches, grabbing a water bottle and towel. “Not the right ones for working out though.”

“Ah, yeah. I found them in the closet in my room. I figured they were for guest use. They’re massively oversized, but very comfortable.” Pushing my foot outward to balance on my heel, as I shift my hips in a little pose, I’m showcasing my footwear.

“They’re mine” Smirking, he brings the bottle to his lips, greedily gulping water. My eyes can’t help but watch as his Adam’s apple bobs, and sweat trickles down his throat. Now I’m sweating. “I left them there. A while ago.”

Wilting a bit, I drop my cutesy stance. “Sorry! I- I didn’t know. But, why would you leave them there?”

“Like I said, it was a while ago. And I don’t really go in that room anymore.”

Anymore?

“They look good on you, though. Keep wearing ‘em.”

Thankful for my dark complexion, I hope that the cheesy smile on my face at his response, is not as transparent as a blush would be on someone else. “Well now they’re mine forever.” 

“I’m alright with you keeping something of mine forever.”

“Even if I take them back to New York with me?”

“I’d find you.” 

“Would you? Come find me?”

“Absolutely.”

The satisfied relaxation of his flirtatious smile sends another tingle through me. It makes me antsy, almost hyper in my inability to keep still. Old Raven would be sopping up his attention, ready to charge headfirst past teasing banter. New Raven is trying to be more thoughtful, less impetuous. 

Turning, I walk around the room some giving myself a chance to think and not just react, touching weights, bars, stopping at the treadmill. Ashe’s eyes never leave me though. Even with my back to him, I can feel the heat of his stare, and it pulls my feet to carry me right back to where I was before, directly in front of him.

“So, what are you getting into today?” Ashe asks, transitioning the conversation away from further discussion on why he would leave his house slippers in a guest room, and not go in that room anymore to retrieve them. Using a towel to wipe his face and neck, sitting on the weight bench and stretching his long legs out in a wide V, he seems to be patiently waiting for me to answer his question. 

And I’m trying but...

His grey shorts leave nothing to the imagination, and damn it if I’m not tongue tied trying to get my lips to do more than parting at the sight of the bulk and heft bulging at the apex of his thighs. 

“Woo... uh...”

“Writing?”

“Yeah...writing...”

Grinning broadly, he tilts his head to the side, and with his hair mussed, curls wild about his head, he’s so handsome I can hardly breathe. This man has to know what he’s doing. Right?

“Well, if you can take a break today, wanna have some fun? With me?”

“Ashe, are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

My eyes widen at the bluntness of his answer. Every encounter with him since I got to town has been different. It’s like I unlock a little more of his personality each time. More levels of him become accessible to me, and I like it. How complex of a person he is. Not shy or coy. Not like he’s trying to be mysterious to pull me in. It’s like he’s genuinely trying to let me see the textures of him. The real him. Unapologetically offering to me his vulnerability, both the good and the bad. Layer by layer, I discover the multiple facets of Ashe. 

When his mother told me had been a professional athlete, I figured I knew who Ashe was. The rude, distrustful man who picked me up from the hospital made a bit more sense. Then I saw the way he was evasive, maybe even a little pessimistic and self-deprecating when Oliver was around. Also competitive with his friend and I, grumbling whenever he lost a hand at poker. But once we were alone, he gave me more. 

Ashe is also loyal and protective, somewhat of a caregiver in the way he wanted to look after his parents before his father died, and how he takes care of his mother now. Honest in discussing race with me, not shying away from it as though seeing and acknowledging my Blackness was not some taboo thing to be ignored. And of course, now there is the flirt. The sexy, tenacious, self-assured Ashe who goes after what he wants. A kiss. And now a date. 

I fearfully admit to myself that I like him. How apparent he seems in his interest in me, despite the complexity of the man. I’m not really used to that from men, at least not the men I’ve dated over the last few years, and I’m not sure how to respond to his directness. 

My relationship with Preston always felt like we were playing chess. Except he was a grand master, and I was a basic novice. For some reason I never really knew, at least not until it was too late, what was going on with us. Every move on his part felt calculated and strategic, and because I didn’t even realize I was playing a game, I didn’t even have a good countermove. Our relationship was a whole lot of me reacting to what Preston wanted. What Preston needed. It kept me off balance, and I can see that now that I’m no longer under the delusion that allowing him to drive things would ultimately satisfy us both. 

I’m back to trying to be my own woman again. A woman who knows what she likes, what she wants, and isn’t intimidated by accepting nothing less. For some men it will be an unwanted challenge. Something tells me by the way Ashe is studying me, waiting on my answer, resting easily in the silence as I allow myself a moment to pause. To think... This might not be challenging to him at all.

“Raven, will you go on a date with me today?” he questions, the deep bass in his voice both seductive and charming, especially when it gives way to a short rumbling chuckle as he drags his palm back over his sweaty hair. “I know it’s not baking and hanging out, laughing with my mother-”

“Eva is a very funny lady. And her cooking is fabulous. I enjoy her company.”

“She’s tough competition, but...” Licking his lips, he does that thing again where he’s eating me up with his eyes, dropping those long, spiky eyelashes in a slow blink before he raises his gaze back to mine. “I like a challenge. You never know, you might like my company better.” He shrugs, as though he doesn’t know that I absolutely enjoy his company. I did last night. I am right now. And there is no way in hell I would turn down an opportunity to enjoy it again today. 

I know I’m supposed to be writing, but...

Scratching his fingers through the thick, dark hairs of his beard, he winks at me, and maybe taking note of my indecision offers with finality. “I’ll show you a good time.” Ashe promises, and with those few words makes up my mind for me. 

Rising from the bench, he moves forward and stands over me. My nose tingles, and a jolt of awareness shoots through me at the scent of him. Pheromones. Sweat and musk, his natural earthy smell, mingles in the air. His height and brawn are always so impressive, but without his shirt on, his hard chest so close to my own, the overall masculinity of him is damned near inundating my senses to the point of a short-circuited overload. Is there steam coming out of my ears? Am I drooling?

I’m fighting every instinct to reach out and touch him. Flatten my palm over his pecs. Run my fingers through the grooves and cuts of his chiseled abdomen. Trace the path with my tongue that the dusky hair seems to be directing from his chest and stomach, and down into his low hanging shorts. 

Locating a reserve of strength, I don’t follow those impulses. Even as Ashe breaks the stillness that rests in the sliver of space between our bodies, and leans down to drop a simple short kiss to my forehead. 

Rolling my eyes at myself, at my body’s response to him, I twist my lips to halt the grin that is fighting its hardest to make itself seen. “Well... ok then.”

XXXX

“Come on up with me. I’ve gotta take care of something in my office. Will only take a few minutes. Then we can properly have our date.” Ashe directs, each warm breath welcomed to the frigid air with a puff of chilled smoke. He offers me his hand to help me down from the truck, then holds me steady with his large, gloved hands firmly gripping my hips. 

Wincing slightly from his touch glancing against the bruises on my left side, I can only nod in agreement. 

“Your side? It’s hurt?” He asks, concern angling his dark brows as his gaze drops to my hip, then lifts to my face, studying me as he awaits my response. 

“Still a little pain.”

Softly he apologizes, “I’m sorry,” but doesn’t remove himself. His body actually inches closer to mine and he wraps his arms around my waist with his palms resting above the curve of my bottom, hugging himself around me as though he would protect me from whatever injured me in the first place.  Even through my coat, and sweater, I can sense the heat of him penetrating through me, and it makes me want to ease into him. Curl up against his frame. This feels safe. Comforting. My body wants more of this. 

Our hug stretches for what feels like minutes but is actually only a brief clip of time. Dragging his finger carefully along the small bandage on my forehead that I freshly replaced this morning, Ashe seems to be taking inventory of my injuries. Looking up at him, as he looks down his nose at studying my face, his significant height towering him over me and the sun blazing brightly in the sky, I muse to myself that I never want to forget this moment. This feeling. The perfection of whatever is building between us.

Secretly, I savor the feeling of my body cloaked by his, by my smaller hand wrapped securely in his as we rode in his truck. Him smoothly navigating through the streets with one hand, and with the other never breaking the thread of our fingers on the middle console.

 I’ve missed contact. People. The sensation of warmth that emanates from the press of someone against me. Even if it’s clothed contact. The wrap of him around me, at any juncture, livens my senses and is a quick second to my favorite thing about this afternoon so far. Second only to the breathtaking figure Ashe cut when he collected me at the door to my room. His hair freshly washed, falling away from his face in dark inky waves; beard trimmed down a bit. A hoodie concealed his huge chest from me, but the scent of his cologne, wafting in waves through the door was more than enough to make up for it. God he smelled divine. His own masculine fragrance, mingling with a hint of soapy clean, and what my sensitive nose could make out as mint, rosemary, sandalwood and maybe even what my mind could conjure from memories of the pure swell of the sea. 

On a short sniff, he seems to refocus, intent on taking care of whatever business he needs to handle at his office and releases me from his hold while dropping a short kiss on my cheek. Reaching for my hand again, he’s ushering me towards the two-story brick building. 

Trudging through the thick tufts of snow that transforms the world around us into a winter wonderland, his heavy footsteps pounding the slush down to create a path for me to follow, we make our way to the front door, and are instantly met with not only a welcoming blast of heat, but also with a short shout of, “Wassup, Murph!”

Responding with a jovial “What’s up, Ol,” Ashe stops in the entry foyer and gives his friend a short head nod, and pulls me close to his side, my hand still securely in his. “Didn’t expect to see you so early today.”

“You know me, man. Slept it off.” Oliver answers jovially, bouncing his eyes between Ashe and myself. Dropping his gaze to where our hands remain intertwined, his eyebrows raise in what I can only assume is curiosity at our newfound closeness. “Afternoon, Raven. You look lovely today.”

Rising my own eyebrows right back, I give nothing away, not speaking to the question so obvious on his face, and only reply with a brief, “Thank you, Oliver.” 

I take note of Oliver’s perpetual grin, the one he doesn’t bother to hide, and allow myself a second to take stock of our surroundings. The outside of the building was non-descript, matching the long row of reddish brick structures up and down the street, even some grey and white ones, some taller, some shorter. Each roof and some windows, bearing similar colonial edging, weathered by years of sun, rain, and snow. While the sun is high in the sky today, its warm rays are no foil for the heavy cloaking of snowbanks that memorialize the footprints of the few scant sightings of masked people in and out of the other buildings, hustling to gather essentials before returning to their isolated lives of quarantine. 

The inside sticks with the colonial New England theme, but with some contemporary touches one might expect at any brewery. While there is of course a small, short bar, stools, and a handful of tables and chairs to one side, the other side is a wall of glass that separates the rest of the building from the actual brewery that rises to take up both floors. The glass is a nice touch, allowing patrons to get a glimpse of the manufacturing of the beer they are drinking from the couple of taps behind the bar. The walls are adorned with plenty of memorabilia and pictures you would expect from a bar in New England. Patriots, Red Sox. I can even spy what appear to be some hockey pictures. The centerpiece behind the bar is a replica of a boat.

“What are you two up to today?”

“I’m taking the day. Gonna show Raven around a bit.”

“What can you show her, Murph? Everything is closed for quarantine.” 

“Got something in mind.”

“I’m sure.” Oliver smirks, his gaze flipping again to where our fingers are intertwined. 

It doesn’t make me nervous, Oliver’s curious stares, but I do wonder what’s going through his mind right now. Last night Oliver was putting it on pretty thick. And normally, he would be just my type. Handsome, charismatic. Fuckboy. But I’m trying to be a new Raven. A Raven who can see the iceberg, and instead of employing my old Titanic ways, swerves early enough to avoid sinking. Ashe feels like the course that goes around certain destruction, at least in the immediate term. 

With that in mind, I release his hand. “Restroom?” 

Answering my question, Ashe points to a door directly towards the back of the small bar area. “Back that way. I’m gonna run up to my office. Come up when you’re done. Ok?”

“Yep.”

I amble away, rushing to relieve my bladder of the two cups of coffee I consumed this morning. I know my sister told me to drink more water to help with the headaches I’ve been having, but I needed the caffeine to keep me going. Waking up early to write may have been a reaction to new inspiration, but I am not a morning person, and I’m definitely feeling the effects.

Quickly handling my business, and washing my hands, I hurry from the bathroom, excited to get to our date, and I halt for a moment hearing Ashe and Oliver talking.

“Ashe Murphy, holding hands in public? Since when are PDAs your thing?”

“Shut up.”

“Ashe Murphy, taking a day off?”

“Shut up! Ol...”

“Oh no! This is too good. Ashe Murphy, Mr. she’s just alright? That was you just last night.”

“Fuck off!”

“I’m just sayin’. A lot must have changed after you left me asleep on my couch.”

“Nothing happened. And if it did, I wouldn’t fuckin’ tell you.”

“That satisfied fuckin’ grin you’re wearing is telling me plenty. And listen, I ain’t mad at you. Raven’s beautiful. I mean...that ass in those jeans is something else. You know I understand.”

“Alright, watch what you say about her. I gotta take care of this shit with Mel. Watch your fuckin’ mouth when Raven comes back out here.”

“I’m happy for you, Murph!” I hear Oliver yell, amusement causing a snort to top off his declaration.

Peeking around the corner, I can see Ashe’s profile as he points his finger at Oliver while he’s walking up the stairs. 

Not wanting to seem like I was eavesdropping, I wait a beat before I come from around the wall that leads from the restroom. Taking my time, I glance around the small bar area as I stroll towards the front of the building and closer to the steps. 

I can feel Oliver’s eyes on me, traveling over my frame as I pretend not to notice, but instead focus my gaze on a few pictures I somehow missed hanging in the entry foyer. One I can tell is Ashe. Though much younger in the picture, his hair long and hanging with shaggy fringe over his forehead, he’s cutting an impressive figure with his hockey gear on. His shoulders and stature appearing even more massive than he already is. In a Bruins jersey, positioned somewhere in what appears to be a hockey arena, his helmet under his arm, stick in his hand, he seems happy. Satisfied. There’s no thick beard to shelter his grin from my inspection, and I can’t help but to notice how joy truly lights up his face, reaching even the dazzling blue of his eyes. 

“That’s before his first game with the Bruins. After he got drafted.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Mel took that. We were all real proud of him.”

Tilting my head at the name drop, I don’t want to show my hand just yet, let Oliver in on my curiosity, but I can’t help but echo him, “Mel...” 

“His wife.”

“Right.” My response is curt, clipped. There really is nothing else for me to say, though I school my face. His wife? The old Raven would take off. Leave Ashe behind to figure out what happened to me with no explanation. His wife. But I’m new Raven, and new Raven will give Ashe a chance to explain. 

Pointing his finger to the picture next to the one of Ashe in his hockey uniform, is another of Oliver and Ashe together, both holding up mugs of beer. 

“That’s us with the first pour to come out of the taps here. Mel took this one too. It was a while ago.”

Trying to flatten my voice, stomp out any petulance that might be in my undertone, I drolly interject, inflecting every bit of disaffected New Yorker I can summon, “She’s a good photographer. Mel.”

“Oh yeah. We all started this thing together, took over this brewery as a kind of hobby when Mr. Murphy got sick. Small batches only. Then it kind of took off into something bigger. The bar never opened but the money from the brewery helps keep things afloat.”

“Pandemic is taking a lot from everyone.” 

“Lots of folks hurting right now. I’m lucky. Fishing is essential, I guess. People gotta eat.”

Oliver is giving me an out from the discovery of Ashe’s wife, and he doesn’t even know it. I take the bait he’s cast and somewhat bow my form towards his and away from the wall of pictures, allowing my interest to be diverted in a way I can handle. 

“How does that make you feel? Being essential.”

“I don’t know. Isn’t everybody’s work essential?” the handsome ginger muses, quirking his eyebrow in question.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s essential for people to be able to pay their bills. Eat. Protect themselves and their families.”

“Exactly! That’s why this lockdown stuff is crazy. How can people do that if we’re not even allowed to leave the house?” Oliver snorts, in a blatant rebuff and rebuttal of what many of us have heard before.  

Friction with Ashe’s friend is not what I want, but emotion builds in me as I think of my sister working in the hospital, sometimes on for 12-hour shifts, putting her own life on the line, denying herself the opportunity to have a life and even see our parents for months. “Well, from a public health perspective, I get why things can’t be like regular right now. Can’t be like they were. They have to be what they are. Ya know?” My hands fly in their normal, animated way to drive home my point. “A deviation from what we consider normal, can be quite an exquisite surprise if we allow ourselves the possibility.”

“That sounds like something Ashe would say. All poetic about something practical.” Oliver chuckles. “I ask him how he’s doing the other day, what does he say to me? He’s just finding his way in a storm.”

It does sound like a rather poetic expression, one that I hate to allow my preconceived notions of athletes come into play here, but I didn’t expect from him. Brutal lugs is how I would casually describe hockey and football players, but as I think of Ashe, and allow my eyes to travel back to the pictures of him to my left, there is a certain amount of caring and gracefulness to him and how he moves that is wholly unexpected. Even when I figured him to be a rude lout at our first meeting, he was still quite mindful of me that day. Of my delicate condition. Driving carefully so as to not jostle me around. Bringing my bags to my room. And last night, preparing me lavender tea and carrying me to my room. 

Harder inspection of the pictures allows me to see things my initial perusal missed. 

Observing the pleased grin that looks back at me, reflecting a part of Ashe I don’t really know, I can almost feel the pride and love that the person who took the picture must have felt. They recognize the same in him. Now I can see it. There’s almost a tangible centering of Ashe in the picture, Oliver’s inclusion almost an afterthought. If Mel took this picture, she obviously had intended for the focus to be Ashe. 

Heaviness begins to thud in my chest, a weight of sadness. Had anyone ever placed me in the spotlight the way Mel had done with Ashe? Had my smile, my eyes ever twinkled with the reflection of that kind of adoration? Had I ever been in love like that?

I’ve had boyfriends and lovers. Relationships and dalliances. But never the kind of connection that seemed to emanate through the lens of Mel’s camera between her and Ashe. 

Damn...

Turning away from the wall, I remember that I was supposed to meet Ashe upstairs after I used the restroom. “Can you excuse me?” Gesturing with my thumb towards the steps I try to excuse myself. “I’m supposed to-”

“Yeah, he’s upstairs. There’s no door, office takes up that side of the floor.”

“Thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond at first, he seems to be thinking of something, and I don’t immediately take off. I don’t want to be rude since he appears to want to say more, his lips moving then stopping until I suppose he finds what he wants to say. 

“It’s all good.” Oliver nods, then winks, “Murph’s a good dude. My best friend. Life hasn’t been as easy for him as it might seem. He’s rough around the edges. We both are. That’s kinda how you are growing up around here. But ya know...” pausing momentarily his eyes travel up the stairs, as though he’s drawing my attention to the bass heavy hum of Ashe’s voice probably on the phone. “I play around, and I may have had my own...intentions. But, Ashe is like my brother. For real.”

“Ok...”

“I think he’s ready to move on.”

My instincts as a storyteller make me want to ask Oliver what he means. To delve further into his cryptic sentiment. The introduction of Mel as Ashe’s wife into the narrative, against his insistence that he’s ready to move on. What is he trying to tell me? Oliver’s words seem at odds with his flirtatious manner. There is also a part of me, the part that’s been hurt by the games of men, that tells me to take Oliver’s words for what they are and move on. Rumination won’t serve me well for the short time I have left here. 

One step at a time I walk up the stairs, pushing everything Oliver said to me out of my brain, and trying to focus on whatever Ashe has offered of himself. Reading too much into relationships, experiences, is what brought me to this place in my life. Me thinking, wanting more than is available to me. The discomfort of those past dalliances wasting away is what drives me to pick up my face, and push forth a smile as I pick up the hint of cigarette smoke billowing from where Ashe sits on the corner of his desk in the middle of the loft office. 

Dragging hard, a long pull of the cigarette between his lips, Ashe forcefully blows away the smoke he sets free from his lungs, punctuated by a short sentence as his eyes lift to acknowledge me. With a short backwards nod, he ushers me closer. “Sure, Mel. I just sent it. It’s done. Ok?”

At first, I don’t want to give him eye contact. I don’t want to follow his direction and shift closer to him. Ashe’s eyes don’t sparkle for me like they did in those pictures. Last night I witnessed lust swirling in the dark azure of his dreamy gaze. Amusement lightened them to a clear sky this morning as he witnessed me watching him lifting weights. And I get it. We just met. Like he said last night, we’re strangers. My head knows this. It’s that pesky little romantic heart of mine. The part of me that is in love with love, but has yet to find it for myself. 

Reflections, my thoughts trap me, cement me in a fugue state, fixated. I don’t notice that Ashe is no longer on the phone, or that he’s holding his hand out towards me. Or that he’s calling my name. 

“Raven... Hey, Raven, you ok?” Searching my face, his stare narrows through the smoke of his final puff, just as he crushes the stub of the cigarette into an ashtray next to him on the desk. Angling out towards me, Ashe extends his hand even further. Landing his long fingers against the tips of my own, he doesn’t grab at them. Instead, he tenderly tickles the tips of my fingers, feathering them with more gentleness than I would expect from hands as large as his. They’re rough to the touch, the skin calloused in places. The roughness is actually pleasing to me, arousing my senses with the introduction of a gentle abrasion. “Raven.” He calls again, gathering my full attention this time. “Come here.”

Switching my weight from my back leg, I allow my booted feet to advance and carry me closer to him. Guiding me with his hand, Ashe settles me at the juncture between his outstretched legs where I’m confronted by his conquering presence. 

“What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head slowly, I don’t even move my lips to gift him words. I’m afraid of what might fall out. Questions about his wife ride me, living on the precipice of my thoughts, right next to Oliver’s assertion that Ashe is ready to move on. Where would I even begin?

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s ok.” Ashe offers, possibly sensing my reluctance. His hands have moved from my fingers to cupping my upper arms, soothingly stroking them, coaxing me away from whatever agitates me, but not demanding anything of me just the same. 

Flitting away from his handsome face, his forehead creased in concern, my eyes fall to the first safe thing I can find. “I didn’t know you smoke.”

“Only when I’m stressed.” He smiles sadly, his palms still lulling me with the cadence of his soothing touch. 

“What has you stressed? Your wife?” before I can stop it, the words blurt from me, escaping the weak barrier on my mouth. 

Dropping his hands to grip the edge of the desk, Ashe nervously laughs for a second, but gathers himself quickly. Leaning away from me, he crosses his arms over his chest and nods as though agreeing to engage. 

“Ex-wife. And yeah, she’s often the reason for my smoking. Both are vices I’m trying to free myself of.”

Pacing away from him, agitation is rising, increasing my body temperature, and I’m instantly regretting the thick, red sweater I donned for our date. “A vice? What does that mean? Being married is a vice? And, why didn’t you tell me you’re married? I don’t date married men! This is...” With upturned palms I’m running out of incredulity and now I just want to get some answers to my questions and to express my displeasure, but man this is some shit! “Wait, you know what? Nevermind. It’s none of my business. You don’t owe me an answer. We just met.”

 “No, they’re fair questions. Can you come over here though so I can answer them?”

“I think I should stay over here. I just told you I don’t date married men, Ashe.”

“Then you should definitely come back over here since I’m no longer a married man, Raven.”

Huffing in frustration, I move closer to him again, a snail’s pace, but I reclaim my place in front of him, nonetheless. Crossing my arms, mimicking his stance, I give him Black girl sass in my pursed lips, and quirked eyebrow.

“Mel and I are divorced. We’ve been divorced since late last year. Separated awhile before that. We tried to make it work.”

“Ashe, this is none of my business.”

“You asked, Raven, and I don’t mind telling you. I probably should have said something already.” Reaching behind him on the desk, his hand dances around until he finds a pack of cigarettes. Pulling one from the pack and placing it between his lips, he then lifts his eyes to me in silent question. To which I shake my head no. He responds by sliding the cigarette back into the pack, and tossing it over his shoulder. On a deep sigh that lifts then slumps his chest, Ashe is threading his fingers on his lap, then he continues, “We dated through college. She’s a year older than I am. I actually met her when I first got to school. She was a journalism major, doing an article on sports for the newspaper. That’s where we started. At the inn is where we ended. In room 202.”

“Wait...202? My room?”

“Yep. We actually dated off and on for longer than we were actually married. I played hockey most of that time. And when I couldn’t any longer, I went back to school, got my law degree, worked as a lawyer. I was ready to settle down, ready for a family. But, Mel was becoming her own thing. Melanie Michaels Murphy, anchor for the Channel 5, WCVB news team.”

My face froze. “Melanie Michaels Murphy? Short, dark hair cut in a bob? Blue eyes?”

Tilting his head in question, Ashe finally seems as thrown as I am. “That’s her. You know her? You know Mel?”

“I- I’ve met her. When my first book came out, I uh... I did an interview at that station when I was doing a book signing in Boston. She’s...she’s very pretty, Ashe.” Thinking of the short, beautiful woman I met briefly so many years ago, I can’t help but feel myself wanting to shrink. I look nothing like Mel. We couldn’t be more different. 

“Small world. Wow...”

“So, what happened? With you and Mel? Why would you get divorced?” absentmindedly, my feet carry me pacing away from Ashe, subconsciously putting space between us.

Fidgeting with his fingers, seemingly unable to keep them still, Ashe’s face narrows into a frown as though he’s giving his next words serious though. “Ah, we just weren’t really on the same page anymore. We were in different places in life. I was trying to be a lawyer. An associate, which is very hard work. Lots of hours. Lots of time just...not home. Then after my dad’s stroke, more time away, back and forth between Boston and here, checking in on his recovery. At first, she was coming with me every time. Then she would come sometimes. Then, not at all. But even before that, we were living separate lives really.” His shoulders slump under the weight of the story of the demise of his marriage, and his head drops forward, his chin resting close to his chest as his hands clasp together behind his neck. 

“Ashe... You don’t have to-”

“The last time she came, she served me with divorce papers. And, I get why. We really weren’t the same people that we had been. We both wanted things for ourselves that didn’t serve the other any longer. She had the courage to ask for the divorce first, but, I was on board. It was the right thing. We weren’t in love anymore.”

Rubbing my hand against my forehead, I’m trying to make peace with everything he just said. “This is a lot to take in. Right? Thank you for sharing it with me, though. Like, I mean you didn’t have to. Right? You could have totally been like, listen lady I just met, mind your business. Right?”

Slowly his head raises, and a broad smile overtakes his handsome face. It’s like the sun has come out, ushering aside the cloud of sadness that pulled at his beautiful features. “Well, Raven, yeah I could have. But, lady I just met, I kind of want to know more about you. That means I have to let you know me. That’s my story. I came here today to send over the papers from the bank showing she was released from the business loan for the brewery. She’s getting remarried.” He shrugs nonchalantly as though he didn’t just basically sum up the end of an era of his life in five minutes or less. 

But also...he said he wants to know me, and now, now he’s reaching for me, and my feet obey him before my mind tells them not to, and he’s back to doing that arm rubbing thing. And oh god, he’s looking up at me, blinking those long eyelashes at me, and I want to hug him, and press myself against him, and tell him everything is going to be ok even though I can’t promise that. And I want to be transparent and dump my own life story out in five minutes or less as well. 

“Sorry I jumped to conclusions. Oliver mentioned your wife, and I heard you mention Mel and you were on the phone with her, and it was... Yeah. Sorry. Sometimes, my imagination is not my friend.”

“You don’t have to apologize. If I heard you on the phone with a man I thought was your husband, I don’t think I would be so understanding.”

“No?”

“No. I would be furious.” He declares succinctly, the tenor of his voice dropping to a whispered bass that sends literal shivers over my flesh. 

“Furious?” I tease, biting at my lip and raising my eyebrows dramatically, unexplainably aroused by the firm set of his features. 

“I don’t want the competition.” Ashe’s hands travel from my arms to circle my waist, directing me closer and closer, until there is no space between us. “When I played hockey, I was a defenseman, and we don’t share with the other team. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“My job was to keep the other team away from my team’s net. Keep them away from the puck so they can’t score in our net. I don’t share.” He answers, placing a series of small, wet kisses to my chin and jaw. “I like you, Raven. I like how I feel around you. And, I don’t want to share that feeling with anyone else. I want to keep it between me and you.” With his large hand, he tilts my head to the side. His lips and teeth nip at my throat, and he asks against the sensitive skin with such fierce seriousness, his voice rasping over the words, that I know he will accept no argument, nothing but the truth. “Is that alright?”

“Yes.” The word travels on a breathy whisper, just before Ashe sucks away all rational thought with the hungry press of his lips to my own. 

XXXXX

“Who taught you to cook so well? Your mother?”

“Yes. Her and my father, they are both excellent cooks.”

“Your dad?” Ashe laughs around a mouthful of pork chops. 

“Why are you laughing? Men cook.”

“My dad could not cook. He fished and hunted, but couldn’t boil water. My mother has always done all the cooking. You’ve seen her, she still cooks constantly. Even when there’s no one but me and her to eat it.”

“She said she likes it. Told me she enjoyed cooking for her guys. You and your dad.”

Dropping his gaze, his lips turn down into a frown for a moment at the mention of his father, and he takes a large gulp of beer to chase whatever emotion he’s feeling. “We both had big appetites. Logging is tough work. Hockey too I suppose.”

Leaning my elbows on the table next to my plate, I reach for my glass of wine. The smooth intermingling of fruity sweetness with the tart bitterness of the Riesling, cool on my tongue.   “Eva showed me some photos of your dad. You look so much like him. You could be twins.”

Blinking, almost bashfully, Ashe bows his head, affirming the truth in my statement. “People always said that. Especially when I got older, grew into my body. I’ve got my mother’s features in a way-”

“You’re pretty like her.”

A bark of laughter erupts from his chest, his cheeks warming with a blush that could either be from his mirth at my comment, or the blazing fire in the hearth behind him, heating up the small café just for us. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m pretty.”

“I would. I definitely would.”

“Ok...”

“But you’ve got a roughness that kinda mixes it up a bit. How tall are you?” I ask, licking at the sweetness of the wine left behind on my bottom lip, and reaching across the table to move aside the wayward curls that are now dancing across his forehead. The wine and beer we’ve consumed have kept things loose and jovial between us since our tense discussion earlier about his ex-wife. 

When Ashe said he wanted to get me to know me, and take me on a date, he wasn’t kidding. Leaving the brewery behind, he maneuvered his truck around the small New England town, giving me a tour of all of the places that mattered to him. The house he grew up in, a small sky-blue cape cod, with white shutters that his family abandoned when his parents decided they would move into the inn to better manage the property. His high school where he was a heavily recruited hockey star, and an academic genius, graduating first in his small class of 75 kids. And finally, ending at the pond in the center of town, not far from the brewery where he first learned to skate. Ashe even brought a pair of his mother’s ice skates to get me on the ice, not realizing that though I’m a New Yorker, and Rockefeller Center is a New York thing, I do not ice skate. 

My declaration was a highlight of our day, as he assured me that he could teach me, despite me telling him Black folks don’t ice skate. Winter sports aren’t our thing. He told me PK Subban and Surya Bonaly, as well as other Black folks who skate would disagree, and he continued to escort me around the ice with my hands in his as he skated backwards, only allowing me to fall once when I got excited and tried to skate off on my own. Landing soundly on my butt, my pride was a little hurt as well, but of course Ashe was there to help me up, and under the guise of helping me soothe the ache, delivered a few gentle rubs to my bottom. I suspect he was really just looking for an excuse to get those big hands on my ass, but truthfully, I didn’t care. 

I would be a huge liar if I didn’t admit, at least to myself, that I could easily fall in love with Ashe. The man isn’t really giving me a choice. It seems like something has unlocked between us and he’s putting on the full court press of charm, wit, sense of humor, and adding all of that to his good looks, I’m not sure what my options are here. Do I even want other options at this point? 

When we returned to the inn, and he announced that his mother texted him and said she was going to spend the night with her sister and we were on our own, it felt like some rom-com setup. Cozy, quiet inn. Snow falling in thick white, cotton ball puffs outside of the wall of windows, as I cook a dinner for the two of us, and Ashe sets the table closest to the fireplace. Pulling out all of the stops, decking the table out with wine and candles, the romance factor had been hiked up, and after a quick shower before dinner, we both returned to the café for dinner, and it felt like we had progressed past the light first date banter to the much sexier second date. 

Even the music he’s playing from his phone, a Pandora playlist that he calls ‘Yacht Rock’, but just sounds like white folks 80’s music to me, is adding to the fun yet romantic ambiance. I even recognized a few of them like Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, which we playfully danced around to in the kitchen as I plated the food, as Ashe mouthed the words of the song to me.

“Standing in the sunlight laughing

Hiding ‘hind a rainbow’s wall

Slipping and sliding

All along the waterfall with you

My brown-eyed girl

You, my brown-eyed girl...”

I don’t know if I could have written a better scene, I muse to myself as my fingers linger at Ashe’s hairline. With what I’m sure are stars in my eyes, I wait for his answer to how tall he is, my wonder at the massive size of him probably apparent at the way I’ve casually allowed myself to stare at and touch him so freely. We’ve completely forgotten our Covid protocols of no face touching, and six feet or less closeness, sharing plenty of kisses throughout the day. Ashe takes a hold of my hand, kissing the tips of my fingers, and holding them to his bearded cheek.

“Guess how tall I am. What do you think?”

Shrugging, I run my free hand over my short curls that are still damp from my quick pre-dinner shower. “I don’t know. Six feet?”

“That’s short!” Scoffing, feigning at offense, he’s scrunching his face in distaste. “Much taller.”

“Much taller? Oh my... How tall?”

“Six four.”

“Nice.”

“Nice?”

“Oh yeah! I’m a tall woman, but tall guys never talk to me. Only short guys. My sister used to joke that I needed to wear a sign that said ‘Must be six feet or taller to ride’.”

“Is that why you’re still single? Haven’t met anyone tall enough to ride?”

Needing another glass of wine, I instantly drain mine then add more, and savor the pause while I watch the gold-colored liquid swish around the glass. Gulping another sip, I smack my lips softly. “Um, ya know, Ashe, I don’t think I have an answer for that question really. I mean, I’ve dated right? I’ve had relationships.”

“Ok...”

“I think...” hesitating, I suppress my inclination to just rattle off something flippant and move on, but this is the first time someone has actually asked me this question, and it’s intriguing. Ashe appears to really want and expect an answer. He’s all soft blue eyes, lazily blinking at me, so I suck down my nerves and go for it. “I want something that the guys I’ve met simply don’t want. Or at least they don’t want it with me I guess?”

“What do you want, Raven?”

“Everything...” I answer, the response coming to me, and spilling from my lips so easily, as though I’ve rehearsed the declaration a thousand times. To some degree, since I first watched Brandy in Cinderella, my heart has been set on having it all. The prince. The happy ever after. Everything.

“What’s that include? Everything is broad.” He snorts, releasing my hand as he rushes over to the front desk area of the inn, grabs a pen and paper, and hurries back to his seat. “Let me write this down, make sure I got it all.” Ashe teases, lightening what I suppose he can tell is a difficult subject for me. 

Waving him off, I laugh at his antics, and ease back into the comfort of my chair, wrapping my arms around myself. “You’re being silly.”

Slowly shaking his head, Ashe isn’t smiling. He’s not frowning either though. His features are relaxed. He blinks, and the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks disarms me with the pretty of his face. Patiently, with deliberate ease he clicks the tip of the pen once, and puts the tip on the paper. Calmly, steadily he offers, “No, I’m not. I want to know what everything includes. I’ve got the height down. Checking that one off.”

Playing with my fork, I push what’s left of my food around my plate, denying him a view of the bit of embarassment that warms my face. “Don’t tease.”

“I would never. Tell me.”

Releasing a long breath, expelling the tension that always seems apparent in my heart when I think of me. Of who I am. What I want. What I deserve. I set about answering his question. “I want romance. Love. The fairytale.” Fighting the inclination to hide my face behind my palms, I lift my gaze to find Ashe returning it, no question or faltering apparent in his blues.

“Ok.”

“And I want to get married and have a family and kids and yeah... All of that.” It comes out in a long stream of word vomit, but again, Ashe doesn’t seem put off by it.

“All sounds fair to me. Where’s the problematic part?”

“I- I don’t know?” I croak, stifling a cry with a harsh laugh that does little to relieve the pressure of the pain gathering in my chest, as I wonder the same myself. Why does this seem so damn hard? “My parents met on the subway. He gave up his seat for her, they talked the whole ride. My dad volunteered to walk my mother home because it was late and dark. It wasn’t even his stop. He said he just saw this pretty, dark skinned woman with this large afro and these big eyes, and curvy figure, carrying all of these bags, all alone, and he said he couldn’t let her get away. He walked her home that night. And every night for the next two weeks. She was riding the subway home from school. She worked full time during the day, went to college in the evening. He worked at my granddad’s car repair shop during the day, and played guitar in a band in the evenings. He was on his way to a gig that he never made it to. He said he was following her home every night because he was following his heart.”

“I understand that.”

Pulling my legs up to hug them against my chest, I rest my cheek against my knees. “So, my sister and I grew up hearing this story all the time. After two weeks of walking my mother home every night, ditching his gigs, he asked her to marry him. They got married the following weekend. And they are still married. Still very much in love.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He even wrote a song for her.” My voice softens, quiets as I think about my parents, their love story. The one that still swaddles them in a cocoon of love to this very day. “They still dance together. She learned to cook all of his favorite West Indian dishes like roti, curry from my Trini grandmother. My sister swears she has even seen him washing her hair, and oiling her scalp for her.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. I guess I’m saying, that’s what I want. I thought my last boyfriend was going to be that. It started off that way. We were together for two years. Preston was a surgeon, he works with my sister. He’s...my type. He’s smart. And after all of the time we spent together, I somehow missed that he had no interest in my fairytale. He didn’t want marriage or kids. He said he wanted companionship, but not the drama of kids and marriage. He said that’s what ruins relationships.”

“What’s that mean? Your type?”

I’m reluctant to answer that question, and I swerve away from it, maintaining my closed position with my head bowed and my chin on my knees. 

“Raven, maybe you and that guy were just in different places in life. It happens. Look at me and Mel.”

Nodding, I accept his statement. “Suppose so. Honestly, he’s just a symptom of my problem with falling for unavailable men. The guy before him forgot to mention he was married. He literally said he forgot to tell me.”

“Well, he was just an asshole.”

“Yes, he was. But, me, I’m a serial monogamist, Ashe. The men I meet are not.”

“Maybe not all of them. Maybe not now. There are men who want...things.” Ashe declares in a voice clear and firm, his back straight. His intent unmistakable. “Did you hear me, Raven?”

While I consider Ashe’s question, I force my gaze to drop away from his prying stare. He wants an answer, he deserves one, but it’s not that easy. Concealing my face from him, I scrub across my taut features with my palms, trying to massage away the tension building as I’m confronted by this moment. Pandora shuffles to another song, and I instantly recognize Phil Collins’s voice.

‘How can I just let you walk away?

Just let you leave without a trace

When I stand here taking every breath with you? Ooh, ooh

You’re the only who really knew me all...’

“Raven?”

“I did. I heard you, Ashe.” I huff into my hands, hating how much I want to believe him. 

“Dance with me. Come on.” 

Looking up, I see that Ashe has abandoned his chair and is standing next to me, ushering me from my seat. Pulling me up and into his strong arms, he doesn’t give me any room to protest, or hold myself away from him. Steadily, he commands my body in an easy sway against his warm, hard frame as he mumbles the words of the song in soft rumbles against my temple. 

‘So take a look at me now

Oh, there’s just an empty space

And there’s nothing left here to remind me

Just the memory of your face...’

Sinking into him, my cheek pressed to his chest, so close that I can almost feel his heart pounding, I permit myself to float on the waves of the moment. How badly do I want this to be real, I think to myself, warring with what I know to be true. This can’t be. And just as the song ends, and I try to pull away, Ashe lifts my face to his with his index finger. 

“Look at me, Raven. I promise, I won’t hurt you. But...you have to give me a chance. Let’s see what this is.” Inching down towards me, Ashe kisses me. This kiss is nothing like the soft, easy pecks we’ve shared so far. This one is all fierce hunger as his tongue parts my lips and sweeps into my mouth, taking control of my senses. He overwhelms me, framing my face with his hands, moving from my lips to licking and sucking at the column of my throat. Ashe inches back to my lips, and I accept his kiss, tangling my tongue with his, giving as good as I’m getting as hunger builds in my gut, dampening my panties. 

Whimpering, I’m pressing my aching nipples into his chest, the sensitive peaks turgid against the soft cups of my bra. “Ashe...” 

“Fuck! You’re making me crazy, Raven. Truly crazy.” He moans, gripping my ass in one hand, while molding his palm over my breast with the other. Ashe’s breathing is harsh, creating a heave of his chest, in and out. Each breath, warming my neck just below the lobe of my ear that his tongue and teeth toy nip at. A strangled whisper drips from his lips, just as he heartily lifts me into his arms, without warning “I want you. Now.”

“Ashe?” Caught off guard by the quickness of this large man, I can do nothing but wrap my legs around his waist, and my arms around his shoulders. Hugged around his massive frame like this, his one hand holding me up under my ass, I can literally feel my body melting into him, desire loosening my every inhibition. 

Without another word, Ashe grabs his phone from the table, and turns with me in his arms, towards the stairs. 

“Wha- Ashe, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer me. I know he can hear me, but he offers no answer, just the swift pace of his long, eager strides carrying us in what seems like only a second or two, directly to my room door. Pushed up against it by his thick frame, the girth of his cock pressing insistently into my groin, I can’t help but to seek the passion of his kiss.  

Gently, he jerks his head back, away from my lips. His eyes settle on the pull of my teeth against my swollen bottom lip. Following his eyes, he licks across my lips, and rasps in short, heavy grumbles. “Tell me now, Raven, that you understand what I said. I want... I’m not like those other guys. Tell me you understand. That you know I won’t hurt you.”

“Ashe, you shouldn’t make that kind of promise. You hardly know me. I’m going to leave.”

“Tell me.” He charges again, his large body pressing me harder against the wooden door. Up and down, in and out, he breathes, the veins in his neck struggling against his skin with the effort of his practiced control. His eyes are twinkling with something I have never seen directed at me before. It’s like a crazed focus, a dark fire that burns white hot. And in that second, the briefest speck of time, I stop fighting my brain and my heart. My body wants this man. “Don’t tease.” He pleads, echoing my sentiment from earlier. 

“You... you won’t hurt me?”

“Never.”

“I’m going to leave soon...”

“We’ll see.”

Twisting the doorknob behind me, I open the door, and grip a hold of his belt, pulling at him. Ashe may have set us on this course, but I won’t let him drive any longer. The promise of something he cannot realistically fulfill, and I cannot avoid is banked in those burning sapphire eyes of his, and that alone could make me fall in love. Make me believe in another fake fairytale. But I know better. Lust is not love, and if I’m going to do this, it’s going to be on my terms. 

Unwrapping my legs, I climb down and guide him towards the side of the bed, and push him to take a seat. Ashe tries to touch me, his hands eager to find my breasts again, seeking their heat underneath my shirt. But I don’t let him. I push his hands back to his sides, and instead I move between his legs, and begin pulling his shirt over his head. A slight gasp escapes my lips at the sight of his muscles, straining and hulking through the dusting of dark hair covering his chest and abdomen. I don’t practice restraint. I explore every inch of him, skimming my palms over the boulders of his rounded shoulders. The mounds of his pectorals and biceps. And then down, tracing the cuts of his belly as my fingers maneuver open his pants. 

“Raven...” he grunts as my hand palms his cock, thick and long, the warm heat of him throbbing with need. Smothering with kisses the shocked moans from his lips as I begin to stroke him, I savor the smooth, veiny column in my hand.

Growing hotter, my body tingling with need and anticipation, I straddle his lap. “Lay back.”