7
Nina
I hummed the tune toa wacky, catchy song I’d heard a few weeks ago on a podcast on YouTube. I continued to hum as I placed the last of my one hundred buds to dry for my gum paste calla lilies. Without delay I moved on to the one hundred roses I already had in progress at the bud stage.
There’d been no time to sit still with a major event looming. I had fallen behind on my schedule and needed no more distraction from Adrian. He’d been a nice distraction. And a handsome one. But a distraction I couldn’t allow.
“Hi Nina,” said the subject of my thoughts. My heart skipped a beat, then two, at the sound of his deep, husky voice.
“What are you doing in this part of the house?” I croaked out, my throat dry and tight. I wiped my hands on my apron.
“Do you always get straight to the point, Nina?”
“Yes, when it’s warranted.”
“Why is it warranted?” he asked, coming to stand next to me at the task table. I wiped my hands again to resist reaching for his hand. I wanted to experience the jolt I’d felt yesterday when our fingers intertwined. I shook the thought off.
“Have you been in the kitchen before?” I said, flipping the line of questioning. “Can you fetch me a knife from the drawer?”
He laughed aloud and my face broke into a spontaneous grin. It prompted me to stop working. I watched him with pleasure, the strong, toned muscles in his arm pulling one of the white wooden stools from the large white granite-top island.
He placed it next to my low chair, which forced me to look up to catch his eyes. They were clear and bright and looked into mine with even more intensity than before. Their warmth contrasted with the cold, stark, bright white kitchen, with oversize gold pull t-bars on every door and drawer.
“Are you going to answer my questions?” It was almost a whimper, a quavering mass of weak-sounding words.
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his lips parted showing off his gleaming white teeth. He was so gorgeous. All tan and muscular.
His smile relaxed me, and I decided to enjoy this moment, no matter what lay ahead. I grinned at him and asked, “Why are you here, Adrian the fourth?”
“I needed to get away from the throng of people out there.”
“What people?”
“My mother and her matchmakers and her guests. I came here to escape.” He watched me as he spoke, his eyes full of questions and tension.
“I discern your anger,” I said, muted to reflect the somberness of the moment.
“You discern right. You read me right. But my mother refuses to listen.”
“They have spelled out what is required from you.”
“I know, I know. Against my will. But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to see you. To watch you work. To hear your soothing voice.”
“I’m flattered, but aren’t you afraid I’ll put you to work?”
“I assure you, I am not afraid. I spent four years outside the small world I grew up in, traversing all the continents and the Caribbean. Living in the wild. Cooking on gas stoves. Cooking on wood. Eating whatever the locals had to eat. Drinking water from strange places and receptacles. I am sure I can handle making roses,” he said with a short punchy laugh. The sound filled the kitchen, over the noise of the ovens and of the voices coming from the other rooms. Chef Dominique had gone to see about his special order of grouper and snapper fillets. The rest of the staff was helping Melanie’s crew with the final touches for the party rooms.
“This is delicate work. It requires nimble fingers. Your large strong hands may break all my calla lilies if I allow you to color them.”
“Try me.”
“Perhaps another time.”
“Look at you, refusing to allow me to paint my own calla lilies for my own party. Will you ever allow me near your work?”
“No,” I chirped, sharp and clear.
“Nina.” The rumble of his voice crept into my ears like sweet music from hidden speakers, and I lifted a calla lily to my eyes for closer inspection. But it was to hide the smile of pleasure I didn’t want him to see.
“We’ve gone past the stage where you can get rid of me.”
“I didn’t realize we were going through stages,” I said, amused.
“Why do you think I’m here? I have never been in this kitchen before. I came in search of one thing. You.” His last word was low and throaty.
“Stop. Adrian. You’re making me uncomfortable,” I forced out, dripping with frost. This had no future. I needed to throw all the ice I could on it.
“Discomfort is good in this case. It means I’m having an effect on you. It means you’ve been thinking about me. It means you can’t deny we are suited for each other.”
Ah, that was a word I could hang on to.
“Suited. Adrian, Adrian. Look, we are not suited. How often do you come to this house? How many times have you gone outside the walls of Skyford Cay into the community? How many times?” I demanded, growing louder with each sentence.
“What does this have to do with us?”
“A lot. Will you get me? If you can’t understand where I am coming from? Can I get you if I don’t understand your world?”
“Nina, love is a universal language. It transcends places, cultures, legacies, traditions,” he said, pleading with his eyes.
“Can love transcend traditions attached to a trust fund? Can love rise above matchmaking, disapproving families?” I added, my heart hurting and defeated.
“Nina, are these your concerns; or does it have more to do with your fears? You want this experience of love but you are afraid to want it, to grab it, and nurture it. Why are you afraid?” he asked, and closed the space between us. His eyes, soft, penetrating, knowing. I closed my eyes briefly to escape his scrutiny.
Too, too close to home. Yes, I want it. But I am afraid an unseen hand will pull it away when I get used to wanting it, needing it, taking it.
But I said none of this to him. I smiled, but there was no warmth in my eyes or softening or relaxing of my lips. I looked at him, my hands stained with gold and black petal dust. The sweet scent of sugar from all the baked goods hung like low clouds over our heads.
“Adrian, I admit I like our interactions, our conversations. But if you are honest, you will admit we don’t stand a chance against your mighty family traditions.”
“Now you make me regret telling you about their crazy plans.”
“We can’t add dishonesty to secrecy.”
“Secrecy? Who said anything about secrecy,” he said, frantic.
“Are you going to take me now, to meet your mother? Are you going to call their bluff and say, Look, I’ve found my future wife; call off the matchmakers, the models, the princesses, the movie stars, the star lawyers, the New York socialites?” I fired off the questions in a voice hard with despair. He had to see there was no way for us.
“How do you know all this?” he asked, his voice panicky.
“The event planner, Melanie, filled me in on how tomorrow night will unfold.”
“Nina, I know my family. I can’t spring this on them. I’ll have to prepare them.”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long do you need to prepare them?”
“I don’t know, Nina.” His broad shoulders shifted into weariness. Unable to be still, he shrugged half-heartedly and pushed his hands into his pockets.
I felt sorry for him then. Trapped by legacy. Trapped by the weight of the name Watkins-Williams. Trapped by wealth and power.
“Adrian, I need to finish up the delicacies and art for your coming-out party tomorrow night,” I said, keeping my tone polite.
He threw his head back and laughed with genuine humor. “Nina, I can’t get enough of your directness and sarcasm. You are different. You are not impressed with any of this. Maybe you are here to draw me out. Will you help me?”
“Help you?” I questioned.
“Yes, I think we can both help each other, in a lasting way. You help me get over me. And I help you get over you. The internal stuff. The struggle. The deep places within us yearning to be touched, to be loved, to be accepted.” He stood and moved close to me, slid his hand up my back and neck, into my hair with velvet smoothness, causing my hands to shake and my mouth to go dry.
With trembling fingers, I placed the calla lily into the Styrofoam block. I didn’t need any broken flowers.
I turned toward him and placed a hand on his strong chest as it rose and fell with each breath. Forcing myself to push him back, I said, “You are so good with words, Adrian. You are drawing me in. The picture you paint with your words makes me want to take the leap.”
“There are a lot more words,” he said, his meaning washing over me, leaving uncomfortable pinpoints of delight in its wake. “Join me in the library later and I will show you.”
“I can’t. I have all this work to do.”
“Join me at 11:00 p.m. in the library,” he said and walked away before I had time to respond.
I bit down on a smile, and I swallowed the shout of glee threatening to erupt from deep down in my belly.
I should resist.
But the lure of words rolling off his cultured tongue calls to me.
****
At 11:00 p.m., wearinga satisfied smile, I knocked on the door to the library.
He opened the door, as if he expected me.
“Aren’t you surprised I showed up?” I asked, breathless like I’d been dragging the black oversize tire on the beach—pretty much like the first time we met.
“No, I knew you would come,” he said, confident and unyielding.
“Are you always this confident?”
“I try to be, especially around you. I know you like it,” he said, his tone quirky, his face marked with faint smirk lines. He opened the door wider for me to enter the room.
“Wow, this room is so different from the rest of the house. I wasn’t expecting so much color, and the decor feels magical.” Lime green shelves covered every wall, each topped with lighted vines. There were butterflies in glass cases. A chandelier. A lime-colored recliner and two aqua-blue wingback chairs. A glass table with gold ashtrays and stacks of books. “I love this room, Adrian. This is nice,” I said, unable to keep my excitement from filling the room. “I didn’t realize all these books were in this house,” I exclaimed.
“No, one has introduced you to this room?” Adrian asked. “You seem so surprised.”
“No. Chef Dominique showed me the kitchen, the storage rooms, and my apartment. I suppose that’s all I needed to know.”
“That makes it even more special. I get to be the one to show you this room. This was my special project. I wanted a room without my mother’s white theme.”
At that claim, I scanned the room for white and spied an interesting white table tray with gold-painted stressed sides, and two large golden vases, one with a lid, the other with white floppy over-large roses. “She did manage to slip a sliver of white into the room, Adrian.”
“Correct.”
“So you are responsible for this room—except your mother got her white in.”
He smiled and shrugged. He looked like he belonged exactly where he stood, leaning against the edge of the large oak desk in the middle of the room, one foot crossed over the other at the ankles, clad in his Tom Ford black loafers with a gold embroidered TF on each.
He was a picture of rich casual elegance. Black cotton three-quarter pants showed off his -trained legs. And his white polo shirt did little to hide the strength and tone of his arms and chest. They must all have a gold embroidery somewhere on them.
“You are a book lover, Mr. Double W.”
“Yes, I am. It’s my escape. My challenge. My stimulator.”
“I love books too.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“How could you know?”
“Ever heard of kindred souls.”
“Do you believe there are kindred souls?” I asked leaning closer to him, so we could be eyeball to eyeball. I wanted to peer into his soul. I wanted to see if his breath was as labored as mine. I wanted to see whether his lips had parted slightly like mine to pull in oxygen.
He didn”t disappoint. He stared at me, his eyes bright and intense, until I felt uncomfortably warm.
“You said it—they just get each other. Don’t you think we get each other?” He hummed it to me and it vibrated in my ears, my neck, and shoulders. I watched him, drawn to his economical movements, drawn to his strong presence, his energy. He walked to the shelf with all the leather-bound books and pulled out a book. I tried to compose my response within the time he took to pull the book, but he didn’t allow me to respond. He’d moved on.
“This is one of my favorite books. The book which launched me on my world travels. The Travels of Marco Polo. I learned so many interesting facts from this book and my travels.”
I rushed to take the book from his hands. “Let me see this book. Do you know I read this book in high school,” I said in a rush of words, my excitement spilling over into a large smile. “My father had told me about Marco Polo and his travels and when I came across it at my school library I had to read it.”
“And you ask whether kindred souls are real.” His meaning was clear, and it sent a thrill through me.
“We may have the same taste in books, but aren’t kindred souls a high concept?” I retorted.
“Says who?”
“The philosophers.”
“I have read a lot of the philosophers. They said a lot of things about love, about souls, and destiny.”
“You would have liked my father,” I said, trying to hide my sadness. It had been seventeen years, since the plane crash. My grief still gutted me like a sharp knife when the memories arose.
“He loved reading and debating the philosophers. Karl Marx vs. Weber was one of his favorite debates.”
“Do you miss them—your parents?”
“I do. The pain has dulled a little. My life changed so much after their death. My grandparents did their best. They were too protective, though.” I sighed and stared down at my hands to hide the moisture forming in the corner of my eyes. The pain was less raw but I’d long given up on full recovery.
“Did they keep you bound in chains and handcuffs?” he asked, smiling.
“Nothing so extreme. Depends on perspective. Try going to Sunday school, singing in the choir, attending every service at the church, playing in the church marching band.”
“Sounds like a full life of fun, Nina.”
“It wasn’t fun being the preacher’s granddaughter. I was always under scrutiny, always under a duty, always called to perform,” I spat, surprising myself with my vehemence.
“An interesting perspective from you. Seems much was expected of you. Given Paul”s teachings, weren’t those expectations par for the course? Do you know Paul of Tarsus is regarded as one of the great philosophers?”
“I’m not surprised. I love Paul”s writings. They are so deep, so broad, so analytical. He presents his arguments and he defends them. No one escapes from Paul. He has the antidote for every human condition,” I said, deliberate with strong admiration. Paul”s books were the few books in the Bible I always returned to.
“I am impressed, Nina the baker.”
“Thank my grandfather—Nicodemus. He is a lifelong student of Paul.”
“I will thank him, once you introduce us.” He tipped his head as he spoke and looked at me sideways. “This brings us full-circle back to my point. We are kindred. We belong together. We fit like two peas in the perfect pod.” His words were laced with saucy sweetness.
“Now you descend into cliché, Adrian,” I said, attempting cheerfulness.
“Don’t make fun of me,” he said. He followed me from bookshelf to bookshelf while I roamed the library reading the spines and noting the various genres. A shelf each of the philosophers, thrillers, mysteries, historical novels; a shelf of literary fiction from all over the world; a shelf of romance.
“Are you responsible for the romance books here from the classics to the twenty-first century?” I asked in awe. Adrian nodded, bowing his admission. Unable to stop the smirk of surprise I said, “You are a man of a wide range of tastes.”
“Indeed,” he said, moving to stand behind me. I could smell him now. A luxurious, powerful, unique scent—like warm and spicy leather—titillated my scent buds. He reached past my shoulder, his arm brushing against mine as he slid a book out. I stiffened and relaxed as I fought and surrendered to the yearning I felt for his touch.
“This is Barbara Cartland’s first novel. I got it because I’ve heard her called the mother of modern romantic fiction. Some books I collect based on their societal significance, some because they are rare-but many I purchase only because I love a really good story. I have a collection here and a collection in New York at my parent’s house and my penthouse. But I am nowhere near the collector my mentor is, who has one of the largest private collections of books in the world,” he said, sounding reverent on his last sentence.
“You are the most interesting man in the world, Adrian Watkins-Williams the fourth.”
“You are the most fascinating woman in the world, Nina Rolle.”
“You only say that to make me blush,” I said, turning around to clap his shoulder playfully. Another mistake. I withdrew my hand as if I had reached into an oven without a mitt. Burned. Scalded.
“I like how you blush. Your cheeks are two rosy spots of pink with soft deep dimples,” he said in his low hum, husky and hoarse. His eyes pinned me under his intense gaze.
Why was there so little space between us? Why was my pulse picking up speed?
“What else should I know about Nina?” he whispered.
“I was born on the seventh day of July, nineteen hundred and ninety and I recently found this wacky, nerdy, lovey song I’ve recently listened to over and over.”
“Nina!” he said. His voice echoed like a boom box in the library
“Why are you so excited?”
“Do you know what this means?” he said, his hands going up and down as he nodded yes.
“What?” I asked, suddenly nervous.
“No more arguments. We are meant to be. We are kindred souls. This is the confirmation. We have the same birthday,” he said and laughed and laughed. He picked me up and spun me around and then he kissed me. Soft and light at first. Then hungry and deep. Then he pulled away, still holding me, both of us breathless.
We both stepped back like we’d been electrocuted. My mind reeled. My lips ached for more of him. But I didn’t know what this meant. What he meant.
“I’m going back to the kitchen to finish up,” I announced. And I ran out of the library before I did something foolish. Like kiss him again.