Beautiful Savage Read online

  The giddiness of possibility spreads throughout my body, flicks up the corners of my mouth so that when I shake my empty glass at the bartender, I do so with a loopy grin.

  I’m high right now. So goddamn high on life right now and the entire fucking world is my oyster.

  When the bartender sets my drink down in front of me, a sudden presence to my left draws my attention. I turn, loose in my movements, oiled from gin and tipsy with the promise of what lies ahead, and find myself looking straight into a familiar pair of eyes. Kind eyes, so brown they look black, the corners crinkled from a smile that’s equally as friendly. His gaze clings to mine, never wavers, even as he slides a bill across the bar and says, “This one’s on me, Don.”

  It’s the man from the coffee shop, the one with the artist’s hands and the sunshine bright stare.

  The bartender – Don, apparently – grunts and pockets the cash, and then ambles away before I can argue. All of this is noted peripherally, because my attention is still glued to the man standing next to me, too close to me, who smells deliciously of peppermint and oranges. He’s smooth and carefree, and when he slides onto the barstool next to mine, his smile widens. “You changed your hair.”

  Shocked that he noticed, shocked more by this than his sudden appearance, I motion toward him, indicating his outfit, and say, “And you haven’t changed at all.”

  He nods and chuckles, rubs the back of his neck as he looks down at his black t-shirt and black jeans, his worn leather boots. “Let’s just say I’m a minimalist. And,” he reaches for his drink, a bottle of some dark local beer I’m not familiar with, “it’s sort of my uniform.”

  Smirking, I grab my glass, bring it to my lips. “So, what? Are you, like, a busboy or something?”

  My tone is snarky, but he doesn’t appear offended. “Not since I was fifteen and worked at Lou’s Diner over on Fifth.” He chuckles and shrugs, my snobbery rolling right off him. “Actually, I’m a photographer. And as for my, uh, minimalist attire, I guess you could say that the ability to blend into the background has its advantages.”

  Well, I can’t exactly argue with that.

  Maybe I should pour myself into a black cat suit so I can slip unseen into Hollis’s life, slippery as a shadow, and watch him as he goes about his day.

  “So you’ve been stalking me?” I ask, as if I have the nerve to find stalking offensive.

  “I happen to live in the neighborhood, so I wouldn’t call occasionally running into you stalking.” He pretends to be offended, but then smirks and lowers his voice. “Technically.”

  I arch a brow. “Technically?”

  “Well,” he drawls, “you’re kind of hard miss.”

  My cheeks heat. He finds me attractive; it’s pretty damn obvious. Though, for the sake of appearing modest, I feign innocence, peppering it with the tiniest hint of indignation. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs and takes a pull of his beer before answering. “Exactly what you think it means.”

  He caught me.

  “I’m Ford.” He holds out his hand, formal as all get out, and I take it, feel a tingle of electricity shoot up into my arm as he presses his palm to mine.

  “Becca,” I reply, giving him the name I haven’t gone by since I was twenty-two.

  “Becca.” My name on his lips sounds like a foreign word, as if he’s talking in some exotic language I’ve never heard before. His eyes roam my face for a beat, and I can feel his gaze as it drags over my brow, my cheeks, my lips. I can’t remember the last time someone regarded me so thoroughly, so deeply, and a velvety sort of buzz blooms in my chest, the same kind I get after finishing a glass of dark red wine. The heat burns from the inside out, skimming along my skin and raising goosebumps.

  I avert my eyes, rub my thumb along the rim of my glass, and try to think of what to say next. Flirting isn’t exactly my thing; I’ve been coupled in some form or other since my junior year of high school. I’ve never had to throw out quick-witted banter in order to pick up a guy at a party or a club. Granted, I did meet Nicholas when I was working at a bar, but it was in a ritzy hotel where excessive mingling between the staff and the guests was discouraged. Plus, I never had to woo Nicholas with words; he’s always been more interested in my looks than what I have to say.

  In fact, I’ve spent so many years married to Nicholas, keeping my lips zipped and my thoughts and feelings pushed down, way down, so deep down that now I can barely drudge up an opinion on anything, have become so distanced from my own point of view to where I can’t even remember how to hold a conversation. I suddenly feel awkward in this man’s presence, under kempt when, on the outside, I’m anything but. I’ve perfected my body, polished my appearance, but neglected my mind.

  And, Jesus, what does this mean for me and Hollis? The mere thought of this newfound inadequacy sends me into a tailspin of worry, doubt resurfacing to needle away at the delicate balloon of happiness I felt seconds ago.

  Sure, I can face him like this, with this new hair and softer look, appealing to his sense of nostalgia, his dick, but what about his brain? I might be able to snag his attention with my looks, but holding it, keeping it, ripping it away from her, will take more than a trip to the salon and collagen injections.

  I need to be the total package. Marry the girl I used to be (brains) with the woman I’ve become (beauty).

  I need practice. I need to up my game. I need to make sure I’m fully prepared, wholly and completely, before I make any sort of move in his direction.

  This plan to get back into Hollis’s good graces is ever evolving, and I’m going to have to take what the Universe gives me to work with. Someone to use as a springboard to refine the parts of me that need refining. Maybe Ford showing up like this – twice – is a sign, some signal that I need what he’s selling…temporarily speaking, of course.

  And he’s hot, so there’s that.

  The sun’s glare was harsh, a blinding light that blurred the day. By contrast, her glow was soft and subtle, like that of the stars, and it guided him on this night, the most treacherous night of the year.

  — November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher

  Ford plies me with drinks, and I ply him with just enough attention to keep him wanting more. Playing hard to get is a tricky game; as underexperienced as I am in the art of seduction, even I know that much. It’s risky, finding that fine line between cool detachment and slight attraction.

  But I think I’m doing all right.

  After my second drink, he orders us cheese fries, with the excuse that I need sustenance. I tease him by saying, “Okay, Dad,” and he responds with a deep laugh that makes my chest swell. When they arrive, I surprise myself by eating most of them, much to Ford’s amusement, and when I forgo dining etiquette altogether and lick drippy cheese sauce straight from my wrist to my finger, he runs his tongue over his own lips and calls me a beautiful savage.

  I like it, and immediately decide to make it my new identity.

  Rebecca Cabot Crane – boring, unappreciated housewife.

  Becca Cabot – Beautiful Savage.

  I think of Hollis and imagine he would appreciate the moniker.

  Ford, for his part, has been inching closer to me all night, first with his bar stool and then, finally, with his body. We’re facing each other, my legs tucked between the V of his, and every now and then his hand will drop from the bar to my knee, a hot touch that leaves me wondering if the heat I’m feeling is from him or the liquor. It’s been so long since anyone has regarded me so closely, paid me such rapt attention, that I feel almost swoony from the high of it all. Ford is looking at me like I’m the only person in the place, the only person in the world, and for a moment I’m reminded of Hollis, of the way his eyes used to follow me around the room, even when I was doing something as boring as cleaning the apartment. He always said I made the mundane beautiful, that he could watch me doing something as dull as rolling pennies and still be fascinated. More than once, he confessed that watchi
ng me was like getting a glimpse into another world, a better world, one where everything was bathed in a scintillating, silvery glow. The sun’s glare, according to him, was harsh and overrated, and my light was like that of the stars, a subtle radiance that complimented everything it touched with more delicacy, more grace.

  I miss compliments like that, ones that come from the heart and are so filled with the giver’s truth that it’s impossible to see yourself through any eyes other than his.

  A few weeks ago, when getting ready for a charity event held by his architectural firm, Nicholas told me I looked nice without even looking up from his phone. In fact, he hadn’t even seen me yet. I’d just walked into the room. And was standing behind him.

  Yep.

  Ford guides the conversation, telling me about his photography and an upcoming show he’s busy prepping for. Right now, his work focuses on waterscapes, shooting scenes not from the shore, but from beyond it. He explains how he gets right into the water, capturing the waves as they curl and crest.

  “The show this September features lakes from Minnesota, with a spotlight on Lake Superior’s North Shore. It’s an amazing spot, this part of the state. One of the most beautiful in the country, in my opinion. Plus, this is where I grew up. I’ve spent the last four years in the Pacific Northwest, so it’s nice being back here, so close to my roots. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes it feels like the past is still alive, in a way. And there’s this tug, right here,” he places his hand over his chest, “that’s always pulling you back home. Know what I mean?”

  I nod and sip more gin, listening but not caring, not caring at all because photography has always bored me. I love words, or used to, and would rather be sitting here with Hollis talking about his book than to Ford about his pictures.

  “What about you?”

  I suck an olive off a martini stick and press my tongue in its center, relishing the briny taste. “What about me?”

  He rolls his hand in a come on motion. “What do you do? What are you about? What are you dreams, your passions, your fears and your obsessions?” His voice grows rough with the word obsessions, as if he suspects that whatever my deepest, most secret desire is, it’s forbidden as hell.

  How do I answer? For the past fifteen years, I’ve done nothing but hang as candy off my husband’s arm, though I can hardly tell him that. I guess I could mention the home staging business I kinda sorta run, the company that I started six years ago out of pure boredom and is completely funded by Nicholas. Though, to be fair, it does bear my name – CC Designs (the CC standing for Cabot Crane). It is, after all, the reason I’m in Duluth, at least as far as Nicholas is concerned. I told him I was interested in expanding beyond the Twin Cities, taking on homes and business in northern Minnesota. Right now, I’m supposed to be checking out the market, running numbers and scoping office space.

  Instead, I’ve been stalking my ex-boyfriend and flirting with a handsome photographer…one who is staring at me now, expectantly, waiting for an answer.

  The truth is one thing I can’t tell Ford, can’t ever tell Ford, so I need to make up something good, something…believable.

  Outside, a jogger passes by the window, a dog trotting at her side, and before I even know what I’m saying, I blurt out, “I’m a dog walker.” The lie slips through my lips so smoothly and with such ease that another quickly follows. “And sitter. I’m a dog walker and sitter.”

  Ford’s expression is unreadable, so I ramble on. “I stay with people’s dogs in their homes when they travel so, you know, they don’t have to take them to…to…” The word is on the tip of my tongue, the edge of my brain, but God help me, I can’t spit it out.

  “To a kennel?” Ford finishes, raising his brows.

  I point at him. “Yes! A kennel. Thank you.” Then, attempting to regain my composure, I take a deep breath and hold up my glass, placing the blame on the alcohol. “Sorry, I’m not usually this forgetful. It’s just, um, been a long day.”

  “Hence the reason you’re sitting alone in a bar?”

  “Pretty much. Though,” I say, swirling my drink and shooting him what I hope is a seductive look from beneath my lashes, “things are definitely look up.”

  Ford leans in, and his hand, which is already on my knee, slides up a notch. “I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

  I spread my legs a bit, just enough to hint at where I’d like his hand to go, of the direction I’d like this night to head. Feeling bold, I press my hand against his and move it up even further, so that his fingertips brush the uppermost part of my inner thigh. Ford’s jaw tightens, tics, and his eyes darken even more, dropping to my lap. He’s so close I can taste his breath, detect a trace of mint beneath the tang of his beer. I part my lips, lean in closer…

  And he pulls away. The bastard pulls away, slides his hand out from beneath mine, and reaches for his beer. Clearing his throat, he closes his eyes and takes a drink, a long drink, and as I watch his Adam’s apple bob, I imagine ripping it right out of his throat.

  I’m so fucking embarrassed.

  “So,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, a formalness that wasn’t there before, “you like animals, huh?”

  For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. But then, remembering that I told him I was a dog sitter (a freaking dog sitter, of all things!), I nod. “Yeah, I do.”

  I don’t.

  “They’re my passion.”

  They’re so not.

  But since I don’t know what my passion actually is (aside from Hollis), I have no other option but to pretend to be completely enamored by shedding, drooling, four-legged fur beasts.

  God, I wish I’d said something else. Anything else.

  Like astronaut. That’d be cool.

  “I’d love to have a dog, but I travel so much for work, it just wouldn’t be fair to the animal. For example, I’m shooting a wedding in Iceland in late July, followed almost immediately with a show up north, and then a series of adverts for a backpacking company down in Patagonia in the fall. Traveling so much,” he says, glancing down at his bottle, a shadow sliding over his features, “is freeing, yet you almost become imprisoned by the stability you give up, that comfortable feeling of home. It’s like freedom bound in chains, if that makes sense. Hell, sometimes even when I am home, wherever that may be, it feels like I’m not.” He sighs, but when he looks up again, his smile is firmly in place, the sunshine back in his eyes.

  Funny, even though Nicholas and I don’t travel a lot (at least together), I know exactly what he’s talking about, and can’t even recall the last time I truly felt at home…anywhere. But I’m reeling from rejection, so instead of answering, I swivel away, out from between his legs, my knee knocking roughly against his in the process. Holding up my empty glass, I signal the bartender for another drink.

  “But now that I know you,” Ford continues, his voice soft, “maybe I can revisit the idea.”

  I prop my chin in my hand and shrug, like I couldn’t care less. Which, as a matter of fact, happens to be true.

  Get a dog, get a cat, get a goddamn monkey. I don’t give a shit.

  The bartender brings my drink, and when Ford makes a move to pay, I hold up my hand. “Nope. I got it. It’s fine.” I push a twenty across the bar, tell the guy to keep the change, and stare straight ahead. In the mirror, I can see Ford’s brows dip, his smile following suit.

  “Becca.”

  “Hmm?” I don’t turn, just continue watching him in the mirror.

  Ford, however, is oblivious to the looking glass and our reflection in it. His focus is on me; his entire body is turned my way, his torso leaning in, back in, the way he was before…before I was so utterly humiliated.

  “Did I do something to off−” His voice cuts off abruptly, and he reaches up, raking a hand through his hair. “Fuck, of course I did something to offend you.”

  Now I do look at him, if only to prove how unaffected I am by his rebuff. “Please. I’m h
ardly offended.” I arch a brow and smirk. “Though it does sound like someone needs to get over himself.”

  Despite my jab, Ford laughs. “Look, the last thing I want you to think is that I don’t find you attractive. And that I wouldn’t enjoy, well, you know…”

  My face remains a mask of indifference.

  When I don’t say anything, he continues in a rush. “I just don’t want you to think that’s all I’m about.”

  I know what he’s referring to, but since I want to hear him say it, decide to play dumb. “What do you mean? What don’t you want me to think you’re about?” He blushes and works his mouth for a moment, and this new awkwardness about him makes me laugh, gives me back some of the power I relinquished moments ago. “Oh,” I say, pretending to have an a-ha moment. “You mean fucking?”

  His eyes widen.

  I snicker. “I get it, I get it. You don’t want me to think you’re trying to lure me back to your place for the sole purpose of fucking me.” I say the crude word again, because every time I do, the red on his cheeks darkens, spreads. “And you don’t want me to think that the only thing you’re about is fucking.”

  “Becca…” The blush has bled down into his neck, and I turn towards him, face him again, and run my fingers across his jaw, slide them down to his collar bone.

  This time, he doesn’t back away.

  I shrug, hooking a finger in the V of his t-shirt. “Don’t worry. If that’s the way you want to play this, then it’s totally fine. We can just stay here and keep drinking, talking, and not”—I lower my voice to a whisper—“fucking.”