18. Not A Spinster, Totally An Idiot
Not A Spinster, Totally An Idiot
Josephine
My body pulses and writhes with new sensations I’ve never felt before.
Flush and hot against him, my senses split in two different directions: his hand, firm on the small of my back, holding me close, and his warm lips dancing with mine as his tongue delves into my mouth.
For some reason, I ache and long for his touch to consume more of me, and for his mouth to savor as much.
I welcome him.
I feel alive.
My body is on fire.
“Jo–” Blaze rudely interrupts the memory as he paces back and forth, waving a ‘useless’ book in the air. “Are you listening to me?”
I realize we’ve spent the last ten minutes on him rapidly launching time travel ideas my way. All the while, I have been gazing at his mouth, wishing I could kiss him again.
It has been a month since we said our vows, and from that evening on, we have honored our agreement: married on paper only.
Blaze sleeps on the chaise by the fire, and I, alone in my bed.
He kissed me on our wedding night and hasn’t touched me in that manner since.
I can only hope God will forgive me, but I have daydreamed time and again of his touch, and all I want is more of it.
Ever since he decided my first kiss ought to at least be memorable, he seems to have cursed me with nothing but that memory.
I am behind on orders, and I can’t focus when anyone, especially Blaze, talks to me. I am entranced.
I may not be a spinster anymore, but now I feel like a fool.
“This is the moment where you tell me about the damn convenient circle of stones you have been hiding from me right around the corner,” Blaze continues, and I simply watch him.
I watch the way he leans over the book in frustration, tugging at the ends of his thick hair.
I admire the way his shoulders broaden with deep breaths.
He bites his lower lip and I still, catching my breath.
Then I sit upright and properly jab my sewing needle into my forefinger, immediately yelping. Blood beads and drips down my finger, and I jerk away to protect the fabric.
“Jo,” Blaze mutters, pacing across the floor to take me by the wrist, gently examining the prick. “Sorry,” he says with a sigh. “I am distracting you.”
I close my eyes and will the distraction to fade. Naturally, it doesn’t. In fact, it gets worse as his hand cups mine and brings my bleeding finger to his mouth, sliding it between his lips. He sucks the blood from the small puncture, and the gentle warmth of his tongue soothes my pain.
I simply can not concentrate in these conditions, so as he continues his attentive care of my prick, I suddenly blurt: “Why don’t you try jumping back into the pond, Blaze?
” Anything. I will try anything to get this man on his way back to the year 2025 and out of my house.
His presence here is only ruining my focus as well as my resolve, and while I am fond of him, there is no sense in allowing those feelings any room to grow.
He needs to leave.
Blaze hesitates, and when I open my eyes, I see a perplexed expression on his face.
Finally releasing my finger, he looks up and sideways, clearly deliberating.
In the last month, we have tried all manner of absurd things, including visiting an apothecary in Cheapside who claimed her tonic could defy time.
All he needed to do was drink the contents of the tiny vial we spent a fortune on and think of when he wanted to be…
we discovered quickly that we had spent nearly three pounds on something that simply gave Blaze indigestion.
It would appear we share the same thought, for Blaze finally answers.
“I know I said I didn’t want to risk drowning again, but I may be a dumbass. I really should try that already. Besides, after that ass-destroying tonic I drank, I am willing to attempt just about anything.”
I stand. “Fine, let’s go.”
“What…now?” His brow furrows, and he nods down at my work. “We can wait until you’re done.”
With a shudder of dread—for what, I don’t know—I shake my head and offer Blaze a weak smile.
“No, I would hate for you to jump in later when it’s chilly.
” I nod towards his ‘waders’, as he calls them.
They live draped over the back of a chair.
He puts them on any time he makes an attempt at returning so he doesn’t have to resurface in his time dressed like a London society gentleman.
“Get changed. I will meet you downstairs.”
I rush away to Blaze joking about ‘nothing you haven’t seen before’, and I shiver, brushing a hand across my face as I run like Joseph away from temptation.
Blaze meets me downstairs, and together we greet the sweltering temperature of July. I try not to giggle as he steps into the raging heat, his futuristic ensemble disguised beneath a long, heavy black trench coat, and immediately he looks flushed and miserable.
“The pond sounds welcoming right about now, doesn’t it?” I quip, accepting his arm when he offers it. “If people didn’t assume I was already crazy, I would jump in too and cool off.”
Blaze seems tense and only flashes the briefest of smiles before trudging with purpose towards the pond.
We make an unlikely couple to begin with, so I am not surprised and have even grown accustomed to the odd glances we get when we are seen in public together.
No matter how hard I have tried to style Blaze to match societal standards, he isn’t from this time, and I think, in a way, it is obvious.
I have learned in the last few weeks to ignore the probing looks.
Sometimes, I think Blaze doesn’t even notice them.
Or, wherever and whenever he is from, he gets scrutinized there too, so perhaps he’s used to it.
I haven’t asked. For all the quiet evenings we have passed discussing this and that, there seems to be a barrier of temporary left between us, and we both know not to cross it.
So when we finally reach the edge of the pond, I find myself inadvertently smiling at the memory of him nearly tackling me.
And for a second, I am sad. In all my life, I have not experienced companionship as I have these last five weeks, and I shall soon return to how things were before this man—my husband—fell from the future.
Blaze clears his throat and hands me the overcoat before facing the water at the end of the dock.
“Well,” he says with a sheepish grin over his shoulder, and behind the stoic charisma, I swear I see sadness in his eyes.
Maybe that is wishful thinking. “With any luck—which won’t be much without my socks—this will be goodbye. ”
My belly twists, and I smooth the front of my dress, looking anywhere but his half-smiling lips.
“I guess I ought to bid you farewell, husband.” I pinch my lips together and force an unreadable expression.
Of all our time-travel experiments, this one seems the most likely to work.
“I hope your mother has your favorite lasagna waiting for you when you get home.”
Blaze turns towards me now, taking a few steps away from the edge of the water.
He reaches out, taking my hand. “Thank you, Jo. I don’t think I’d have survived a day here without you.
With my luck, I would be on the grippy sock vacation of my life.
” He clears his throat. “You know, I think I’m going to miss you—just a little.
That chaise is the worst, though. I hope the rest of London treats you as a contented widow and that your needles are always sharp.
Oh! And if you ever find my socks, bury them deep under a stone in that spot where George likes to tie the boat.
Maybe I’ll stand a chance at finding them when I get home. ”
He rambles for what must be an eternity before ending on the topic of that damned sock. I force a smile and nod, not daring to utter a word lest I say something improper like, “Or you could stay and keep me company.”
Without further wasted time, my from-the-future husband dives headfirst into the water, and I let out a heavy sigh.
I wait.
I watch the surface of the water for disturbances.
My pulse slows to the exact speed of disappointment.
At least a minute passes before I fully wrap my mind around it.
It has worked. Blaze has left—no. Blaze is gone.
Then something swampy surfaces, choking and sputtering on what appears to be a slimy lily pad.
Not something, someone. My heart skips a beat.
It’s Blaze. He blinks rapidly, brushing pond-goop from his eyes before his other hand shoots victoriously into the air and he announces gleefully: “Look! It’s my lucky sock! ”
It’s afternoon when Blaze enters my room, freshly bathed, dressed in a white untucked button-down shirt, and in a remarkably good mood for someone whose best shot at getting home just failed.
“Feel better?” I ask, drawing my knees to my chest and straightening from a reclined position.
“I had to dig pond plants out of my butt crack, so that wasn’t my favorite thing,” Blaze answers with a cheeky grin, and I can’t help but laugh at his lack of dignity. It’s endearing.
“If you don’t mind,” I say, pointing towards a top hat sitting on my dresser, “my father has ordered a whole new wardrobe. I am exchanging services for his old items, and I will resize them to fit you while you’re here.
If that hat fits nicely, I will make you a few basic items from scratch to match them—try it on. ”
Blaze flashes me an appreciative smile and picks up the top hat, twirling it between his fingers before setting it on his head and posing. “How does it look?”
“Well, for a start, you look like a gentleman.” I admire the man before me, sleeves rolled just above his elbows for God-knows-what-reason, his slightly damp post-bath shirt sticking to his broad chest, and rough cheeks swelling in this wildly beautiful grin that he seems to almost always wear, even in defeat.
“Yes,” I nod with a slow gulp. “It’s perfect.
I will have the rest of your wardrobe altered in the next few days.
I know how attached to socks you are, so the top drawer there has several 1813 suitable options for you. ”
Blaze glances through my open door at the newly rescued ‘cock sock’, as he calls it. It droops from the mantle, drying before a roaring fire. “It’s a shame you got rid of the other one. I would feel more myself if I had the set.”
I think of the match which sits in the drawer next to the one I emptied for Blaze’s items and I make my way to it, digging past the piles of scraps until I find it. “Who said I got rid of it?” I tease, revealing the faded yellow sock to the joy of my husband. His brow rises and his jaw falls open.
“Hey! My sock!” He scoffs happily and races to the hearth, retrieving the sad and droopy pond match.
I follow him slowly, holding it hostage behind my back.
“It would be a crime to fashion everywhere if you were allowed to keep these,” I coo, trying to ignore the flutter in my belly when he turns to face me, closer than I intended.
He stands over me, looking down like a prowling animal ready to claim its prey.
My words wobble now, and I try not to laugh.
“Offer me one good reason why I should give this back to you.”
Blaze’s smile transforms into a smirk, and he takes another step, trying to reach quickly behind me, an advance I dodge with a giggle. “Because,” he responds, “they’re mine and they make me happy.”
“Fine,” I say now, dangling the sock overhead.
“If you want it so badly, come and get it.” With a gleeful screech, I challenge him and then turn to run, tinglingly aware of him thundering after me.
The thrill of him chasing me through my loft makes me wonder what it would feel like if he tackles me, like he did coming out of that pond, but onto the bed.
Perhaps I am happy he is still here. Is that so bad?
He hollers playfully after me, and I think it can’t be.
“Josephine,” he uses my full name, and my heart flutters. It sounds nice when he says it. “I’m not above wrestling a woman!”
My shriek turns into a squeal of delight when he catches up with me, and his strong arm curls about my waist to spin me around. I face him now, mere inches between us.
He is still here, and I am happy about it. My original impressions of him and his effect on my life are dispelling, and I am realizing, to both my joy and horror, that his strange humor and idiotic tendencies come with a certain warmth and security.
Without thinking, I chase the feeling. I didn’t become the town spinster by doing exactly what I was supposed to. Why start now?
I roll onto my tiptoes and sigh a breath of relief against his mouth before claiming it with my own, savoring his taste.
I’m thankful when he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t reject me. Instead? His hand, which grips my wrist, surrenders its conquest for the sock and presses gently to my cheek instead.
He kisses me back.