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If she’ll even have me. If she feels the same way about me as I do about her.
I’ve known her all of two hours and I’m already planning our life together.
She might not feel the same way, and as you observed, girls especially can be fickle when it comes to extreme emotions…
Damn the professor in me. I have to look at each angle from every perspective a dozen times before I come up just as confused or ignorant as when I started.
Or you could just ask her.
The simplest solution, but the most unacceptable. Why? Because she might say no.
She might say thanks but no thanks, and I don’t know if I could live another hour away from her without knowing she feels even half the way I do.
I’ve never fallen hard for anyone or anything. Tonight I watched as she fell, but is it falling in the same way she might feel about me?
I want her more than physically too. The physical need for her is obvious, should be obvious to anyone with eyes.
But I want all of her, and everything that’s all of me I want to be hers too.
A life together, full of all the things that we love and some we’ll most likely dislike about each other too. But it’s all those things that make something special so complete.
There’s nothing for it though, I’ll just have to ask her. Tell her how I feel, even though we’ve just met.
But wouldn’t that be too much too soon? I mean, do I want to scare her off? Maybe get to know her a little better first.
What? And have her walking around out there alone, unclaimed?
And so on it goes, hour after hour until the chirping crickets are replaced by the earliest and keenest songbirds.
I’ve watched over her all night and she only stirred and mewed a few times. Each time giving me a heavy feeling in my chest at not being able to reach over and comfort her like I know I should.
To carry her to our bed.
It took some control, but I never disturbed her or even tried to look at anything other than her sweet, sleeping face.
If this arousal keeps up though, it’ll be me in the ER. Isn’t it supposed to be dangerous after four hours?
She shifts and moans as I sit wondering if it’s too soon for breakfast, or should I shower? I know it’s going to be a challenge to not take care of my insane arousal, but seriously I can’t keep it like this.
There’s a buzzing from under her coverlet, and her moaning gets louder.
Just when my mind is going to places it shouldn’t again, her hand appears and she answers her phone sleepily.
She mumbles a few words and then darts awake, her eyes meeting mine. Wide and alert, but also looking full of regret.
My heart sinks a little.
A lot actually.
I can’t read her mind so easily now that my head is so full of her, but I can see it in her sleep-filled face. She looks embarrassed and maybe even a little worried I’ve been watching her sleep.
Even I know it’s not normal behavior to sit up all night, inches from houseguests, and watch them sleep.
But my mood lifts once I overhear her conversation.
“Mrs. Patterson, how are you?” she forces herself to say cheerfully, rolling her eyes and making a face.
“No. No, I haven’t forgotten—”
She’s interrupted, and I can see whoever Mrs. Patterson is, is giving her some bad news.
“Sunday?” Gillian says. “Not Monday, but Sunday… Nine o’clock too. As in the morning?” she exclaims, her voice rising in pitch which she disguises with a forced laugh.
The laugh of someone who has a problem they know they can’t fix, like a deadline.
“Orion’s fine… What, now? Oh, I just put him out for his… Alright then, I’ll see you bright and early Sunday…”
Her face is pale, almost gray, with her jaw still open as if in mid-sentence.
Shock.
I get up from my chair and take the phone from her, making sure it’s hung up.
“They’re coming…back…Sunday,” she stammers. “As in tomorrow.”
It takes some time, and my arm around her (which I can’t help), but I get the whole story of her house sitting job and the state of said house.
The now missing dog, the yard, the whole picture of the matter.
Not the greatest moment for me to talk about something else, huh?
I offer some encouragement, telling her I can help but it’s only natural that she bursts into tears, I guess.
I mean, I have a pretty logical and clinical approach to everything. A lot of people don’t.
It’s selfish of me I know, but I only hold her closer, stroking her hair like a friend might, telling her in soft tones that everything will work out fine.
All the while my raging hard on has sprung back to life.
