Unbound (11 page)

 
He chuckled. “I’d hate to gainsay your
father, Rachel, but it’s been my experience that rabbits are rather tame and
easily intimidated. You, on the other hand,” he paused and waited until I
lifted my head to look at him, “are hardly tame. You are more fierce of heart
and strong of will than any rabbit I’ve come across.” He met my eyes directly
and shook his head slightly. “No, not a rabbit, Rachel. You are more like a
gazelle.”

I
snorted, self-conscious now and looked down again, trying to avoid his gaze.

“I’ve
made you laugh?”

“Yes,
Eaden, you’re very funny.”

 
“I hadn’t intended to be.”
 
His knee bumped mine, a gentle nudge.
“What is so hard to believe? A gazelle is fast and beautiful and wild... “

“And
twitchy?” I was trying to hide the blush that I knew had reddened my cheeks.

“Indeed,”
he said and gracefully looked away. A smile played around the corner of his
mouth though and I thought he seemed pleased with himself for having unsettled
me again in this way.

After
a few quiet moments I felt his gaze return. My heart jumped wildly as he slowly
brought his hand to my face and gently lifted my chin. His eyes were filled
with compassion and something else I couldn’t identify. Was it guilt?
 

“Rachel,
there is no shame in knowing where danger lies in the world. Your life is very
precious; it should be guarded carefully.” Although his words were tender, he
spoke them with such sadness and regret that I suddenly found it hard to
swallow. But I couldn’t look away.

Eaden
rose to his feet easily and held his hand out to help me. To my utter delight,
he did not let go as we walked back towards Gus, but kept my small hand wrapped
in his. We said very little on the ride back to the stables. Resting my head
lightly against his back, I listened to his heartbeat and the quiet steady pull
of his breath. One of his hands held the reins, while the other rested lightly
on top of mine where they were clasped about his waist. I hoped that he
couldn’t hear the stumbling run of my blood through my veins, ignited by the
touch of his fingers on mine. But I didn’t want to pull back, couldn’t really.

While
Eaden went to the stables to speak with the groom who waved as we approached, I
wandered over to say goodbye to Gus and Lilly. Leaning over the fence, I
gingerly stroked Gus’s magnificent mane. He whickered noisily again, but it
didn’t startle me this time.

Leaning
closer, I whispered, “Thanks, Gus. I hope I get to see you again.”

He
closed his eyes sleepily and snorted.

Turning
away from him, I found Eaden leaning against the side of his car, watching me
with an intensity that I couldn’t read from this distance. His expression
shifted as I got closer and he grinned as I walked towards the car door he held
open for me.

“Seems
like you’ve made a friend.”

I
nodded, feeling light. “I’m lucky that way.”

We
drove back to the city, the bright sunshine streaming through the windows warm
on skin, my body pleasantly fatigued, only a little sore. My eyes felt heavy
and the flickering light through the trees lulled me into a deliciously cozy
catnap, coloured by the warm hues of the sky.

Disoriented,
I woke gradually, realizing that we were no longer moving, the engine turned
off, no sound in the car except my breathing and his. Eaden was turned slightly
towards me, one shoulder pressed up against the driver’s side door, watching me
intently. This time, so much closer now, his expression was easy to interpret.
His grey eyes burned with something that was shockingly raw and I swallowed
audibly, my heartbeat suddenly erratic.

“What
is it?” I whispered; troubled for a reason I was only half-conscious of. The
air between us hummed with electricity and for several moments, he held me
immobile, with that powerful, startling gaze. Abruptly, he turned his head
away.

I
sat frozen, unsure what had just happened, only aware of my heart hammering in
my chest. He took a deep breath, hands clenching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled
grip.

He
cleared his throat, his voice husky. “Forgive me.”

I
nodded, not trusting my voice, and not entirely sure what had transpired that
would require my forgiveness.

He
took another deep breath and then turned back to me – the painful longing
in his eyes diminished now. The small smile he gave me was strained. “I’d like
to make you dinner tonight, but…” he paused, “I’m aware there is some
impropriety in having you over without a chaperone.”

Frowning,
I began to protest, but his mouth quirked up at one corner.

“Another
joke, Rachel.”
 

Sort of
,
I thought, but instead I said, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

Having
secured my acceptance, the black car purred gently at the curbside until I was
safely inside my building. Watching from the living room window, I saw him
drive off, leaving me only with the promise to return tonight. I floated
through the rest of the afternoon, disoriented as much by my nap as by the
electricity in Eaden’s eyes and the possibilities it implied.

There
were multiple text messages and voice mails on my phone when I checked, mostly
from Lacey. She was demanding details in response to the vague, unsatisfying
message I had left her yesterday when I cancelled our weekly dinner plans. Her
voice bleary, Lacey repeated that she would not be letting me off the hook so
easily this time. Shortly thereafter the message deteriorated into a
disoriented replay of her late-night hookup along with a request to help her
find a recipe for ambrosia salad, which apparently she’d promised to bring to
her sister’s birthday celebration on Sunday.

The
other message was from Adam.

“Hey
Rach.” His voice was casual. “I’m home for the weekend and thought maybe we
could hang out. Call me back, okay?” Shoving down my uneasiness, I hung up and
decided to let that particular message sit for a while.

After
showering, I sifted through my closet slowly, taking more care than I normally
would to select something to wear. I was aiming for something pretty, but not overdone,
stylish, but not formal. It wasn’t easy. My wardrobe didn’t contain a lot of
date outfits. There hadn’t been many dates. Finally deciding on a simple black
dress that Lacey had once told me flattered my figure, I styled my hair and
applied a touch of make- up.

Ready
far too early, I tried not to pace around the apartment. Picking up a book, I
read a few pages without comprehending a single word, put it down, and went
back to pacing. My stomach felt like a Jiffy Pop container heating up on the
stove. Why was I so uneasy? Catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror,
I grimaced slightly. My skin looked pale, eyes wide and anxious blinked back at
me like an owl’s. Where was that feeling of exhilaration I’d had last night? What
was wrong with me? Compared to the small experiences I’d collected in my very small
life, the last twenty-four hours with Eaden had been breathtaking. Yet, for all
of my excitement, when I was with him, I felt more content, more myself, than
I’d ever felt without him. So why did I feel like I was going to be sick?

Except
that I knew. Raising a mocking eyebrow, I glared at myself in the mirror. Because
deep down, I recognized that I was adeptly evading the real truth. I wasn’t anxious
about our date. I was terrified. Because the look in Eaden’s eyes in the car
today was the exact look I’d been desperately hoping to see for a very long time.
Eaden had looked hungry. Ravenous, even. As if he were a starving man who had
just been presented with his favourite sandwich. And that look did wonderful,
unfamiliar things to my body. Things I wasn’t even sure I knew what to do
about.

 
“Be careful what you wish for,” I said
aloud, smiling weakly at my reflection. It wasn’t only the idea of getting
physical with Eaden that was frightening. That, although scary, was also very,
very appealing. No. What was causing this sickly fear in the pit of my stomach
was the thought that someone as inexperienced, as downright green as I was in
the romance department, would have zero chance at pleasing someone with more
than a millennium of sexual history. How on earth could I compete with the
veritable army of lovers Eaden had most likely had? I felt hopelessly
incompetent.

My
head felt thick as sudden dizziness overwhelmed me and I felt my stomach clench.
Breathe, Rachel, just breathe
, I
reminded myself.

Walking
gingerly to the couch I sat down and so as not to ruin my efforts with my hair
and makeup, carefully slid my head between my knees. Focusing only on inhaling
and exhaling, I stayed that way until, much later, Eaden knocked on my door.

Sitting
in the car with my window cracked open, I felt more composed as we drove
through the city, even congratulating myself on my nonchalance when I had
opened the door to greet him, despite the unsteadiness of my legs. That hard-won
composure all but shattered to pieces when at a stoplight, he reached over and
touched my hair softly.

“You
look beautiful, Rachel,” he said in a low voice.

Smiling
clumsily, I frantically tried to remember how to breathe again.
 

It
seemed he’d made a concerted effort with his appearance, too. Tamed with a
healthy dollop of styling product, his hair seemed content to settle for a
modest rebellion against gravity tonight instead of sticking out wildly in all
directions. His smooth jaw line was stubble free, evidence of a recent shave
bolstered by the faint smell of cologne. His attention to personal grooming
– and what that implied – caused my heart to soar with hope and my
stomach to spasm with fear. My earlier insecurities threatened mutiny by
bubbling up through my esophagus, and I desperately battled for control of my
bodily functions. Only by concentrating on the taillights from the traffic in
front of us did I somehow manage to avoid vomiting.

Sensing
my panic, Eaden glanced at me occasionally, a small line of concern engraved
between his eyebrows.

“Are
you well?”

“Uh-huh.”
My reply was strangled.

Eying
my hand wrapped tightly around my middle, he clearly attributed my odd
behaviour to my fear of cars.
 
He
winked and smiled disarmingly. “Trust me,” he said, “I’m a pro.”

I
let my head thump against the cold window of the car. “That’s what I’m afraid
of,” I whispered.

Eaden’s
neighbourhood was on the fringe of the core, a hip address that was still
culturally diverse enough to be thought of as edgy, but settled enough to be
outrageously expensive.
 
Soup
kitchens stood side by side with designer boutiques, and avant-garde artists
mingled comfortably with spray-can wielding street kids. Eaden swung into a
spot behind what I had thought was on an old warehouse, but climbing out of the
car, I recognized it as the new loft-style residences – advertised in bus
shelters and billboards for months now – that had been converted from a
condemned factory. A bronze plaque near the entrance declared the building a
city landmark and identified it as the former site of the Fraser Canning
Company. According to the plaque, Fraser’s had been the largest exporter in the
city until 1934.

My
already somewhat fragile grip on my nervous system was challenged even further
once we entered his building. The architect who had converted the warehouse had
purposefully conserved as many of the original structural elements of the
building as possible. This meant that we rode up to Eaden’s fifth-floor
apartment in an old-fashioned freight elevator, complete with faux-rusted gate,
and a view of each floor we passed through the grille of the platform. It was a
testament to the soothing effect his presence had on me that I was still able
to walk out of the elevator under my own power.

His
loft was huge. Dark hardwood floors stretched across the airy space, bordered
by exposed red brick walls. Seemingly random support posts rose like graceful giraffes
up to the ceiling, where soft lighting shone down to illuminate the different
functional areas of living space. Along the eastern wall, three massive windows
supplied visual access to the busy streets below. The furniture was arranged in
such a way as to make each space distinct, and yet the overall style flowed
easily from one area to the next. It was streamlined and tasteful and
masculine. It was Eaden.

Helping
me out of my coat, he excused himself to the kitchen to continue his dinner
preparations. The savoury aroma of several spices mingled enticingly and I
wondered ruefully if there was anything he couldn’t do. I wandered over to the
living room area, drawn as quickly to his bookshelves as he had been to mine.
His collection was surprisingly contemporary. It’s not that I expected to see
the
Book of Enoch
on his shelves, but
I think I had been sure that there would be a few titles that were more historical.
Instead, Timothy Findlay and Isaac Asimov sat beside Margaret Atwood and
Ann-Marie MacDonald.

I
was less surprised by the lack of personal mementos adorning the shelves. There
were no photographs, no souvenirs, no knick-knacks of any kind. Yet, beside the
books three acoustic guitars were lined up like soldiers against the brick
wall, each a slightly different shape and shade from the others. Just as I was
about to reach over to touch one of them, I startled as something soft and warm
brushed against my leg. Looking down quickly, I found a large orange tom at my
feet, staring up at me balefully. Impatient with my delayed reaction, he butted
his head against my legs again, more demanding this time.

Laughing,
I reached down to scratch him between the ears.

“I
see you’ve met Angus,” Eaden commented drily from behind me. “Don’t be a
nuisance,” he said, scolding the tom good-naturedly. Angus, oblivious to
Eaden’s disapproval, wound himself through my legs, generously offering up his
rump to be scratched too.

“Flirt.”
Eaden scowled in the tom’s direction and then handed me a wine glass filled to
the top with a warm amber liquid. His smile was so relaxed, so sinuous that my
shoulders lowered, releasing some of the tension I had been holding.

“Are
you hungry?” he asked.

I
turned to see the table had been set and readied for our meal. “Starving.”

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Our
dinner conversation flowed easily. We traded the names of our favourite books,
movies and songs. Mindful of his promise to be less reticent, Eaden seemed to
make an effort to share what he could, responding with candour to my endless
questions.

“Favourite
Beatle?” I quizzed.

“Definitely
Paul.”

“Really?”
Given his tendency for darker moods, I had thought he might identify more with
John.

He
looked thoughtful as he swirled the wine in his glass. “John was truly an
exceptional musician, but he was also a dreamer. Not something I’m very
familiar with.” He shrugged and took a sip from his glass. “I rather admired
the contradiction that was more intrinsic to Paul’s music. He is both a
pragmatist and a romantic.”

Motioning
my head towards the guitars I had admired before dinner, I asked, “Do you
play?”

“Yes,
I do.” He seemed discomfited, like he was aiming for modesty, but his eyes
flashed with enthusiasm. Or was it pride? “But I also build.”

“Build?”

“I’m
a luthier,” he explained. “I built those guitars.”

Looking
down at my plate, I wondered if he’d grown the vegetables, too. I shook my head
slowly in dismay.

He
looked curious. “What?”

“It’s
just that it’s a bit intimidating to be in your company. You do so many things,
so well.”

As
the words fell out of my mouth, my eyes involuntarily skipped over to the large
bed set in the far corner of the loft.
 
Flushing, I suddenly felt besieged as the fears I had held at bay so
successfully during dinner flooded through me.

 
“You would find yourself as well-accomplished
were you to live this long,” he said. “It’s simple self-preservation, not
ambition.” Seeing my blank expression he teased, “I have to do something to
fill my day when you’re at work.”

I
didn’t respond. My body felt strange – hot and electric – and I
gripped the armrests of my chair, feeling the dizziness return.

He
gave me a probing look that seemed to read my mood, my sudden unease. He stood.
“It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” He moved around the table to extend his hand.
“Would you like to take a walk? There’s a cafe just a few blocks away that
serves great coffee.”

Relieved,
I nodded, unsure if the last two days were catching up with me or I was simply
overwhelmed by the notion that I might actually get what I want. Either way, I
felt slightly out of control, as if the borders of my small existence were
forcibly expanding.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

As
soon as we hit the sidewalk, the fresh night air seemed to revive me and I felt
silly about all of my self-imposed drama. With a few deep breaths, my frayed
nerves began to braid themselves back together as we walked to the cafe. On the
way, Eaden pointed out landmarks in his neighbourhood, filling me in on some of
the history with details I was sure no local history book could rival.

“Have
you lived here long?” I asked. Hearing the question, I rolled my eyes. How long
is long, when you’re immortal?

Eaden
didn’t miss a beat. “In the loft? Not very long. They were built just over a
year ago.”

Something
in the way he responded tipped me off.

“Before
that?”

“Before
that, I lived in another neighbourhood,” he said.

I
was starting to recognize a pattern here.

My
look was all innocence. “What don’t you want me to know?”

He
frowned. “That’s an irrational question, Rachel.”

Waiting
patiently, I suppressed a smile. I was getting the hang of this. Of him.