Learning to Fall (3 page)

Had my parents ever gotten a little teary eyed when they spoke about my accomplishments?

I doubted it.

“Mighty proud.” He glanced to the other end of the bar. “Have to go refill a few drinks before the natives get too restless. You need anything, Professor?”

“Oh.” My cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to call me that. Imogen is perfectly fine.”

“Seems to me if someone who looks they should be in college is teaching college, they ought to be called something other than their first name. Just holler on down if you need anything.” He closed and opened one eye in an exaggerated wink. “Professor.”

I watched Dick walk over to a tiny redhead holding out an empty beer glass before I swiveled in my seat to scan the crowd for Whitney. I found her sitting on one of the pool guy’s laps, her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed to his ear. As though she could sense my stare she looked suddenly in my direction and when our gazes met lifted a dark brow in silent question.

Come over?
she mouthed.

I shook my head, and with a shrug of her shoulders Whitney went back to nibbling on her boy toy’s earlobe. Pushing the sleeve of my sweater back, I consulted my watch. Two hours down, one to go. The watch - an older leather Fossil found at the bottom of a thrift store bargain bin - had been a graduation gift from Whitney.
Wear this as a reminder
, she’d told me solemnly,
that even when things aren’t perfect they can still work just fine.

The sun was beginning to set off the back deck. In the summer I imagined the deck would be filled with tables and bright umbrellas and even an outside bar. Now it stood empty save for a lone smoker, his arm braced against the railing as he stared out across the harbor. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange when he brought it to his mouth and inhaled a puff of cancer causing smoke. Wrinkling my nose, I looked past him to the twenty or so boats ranging from tiny, nondescript dinghies to sleek, elegant yachts bobbing restlessly amidst the dark frothy waves.

In another month or so plain looking lobster boats, beat up from weeks spent out at sea, would take the place of the yachts as Camden shut down for the winter. Most of the five star restaurants would close and the galleries would either follow suit or change over to weekend hours. For the next six months the village would be in full hibernation mode. Having never experienced a true New England winter, I was looking forward to the inevitable snow and ice with a mixture of excitement and dread.

Without warning, a gust of cold autumn air lifted my hair off my shoulders as the door to the outside deck abruptly swung open and the smoker stepped through. He stopped in the doorway to remove his bulky jacket, revealing the plain black t-shirt he wore underneath. The cotton fabric clung to his body, outlining a muscular chest that tapered down to a lean waist and dark blue jeans. He had the broad, rugged build of an athlete, but when he took a step forward he moved with the sinuous grace of a lion. His hair - what I could see of it curling out beneath a snug black beanie - was the color of wheat, and his eyes… his eyes were a restless, storm filled sky seconds before the heavens opened and the rain came pouring down. His chin lifted as he scanned the crowd before he suddenly turned his head to the right and caught me gaping.

Our eyes met and for a moment, a moment so surreal it felt as though time itself slowed and twisted into something tangible, I forgot to breathe. I’d never been someone who judged other people based solely on their appearance, but this man - this man with his chiseled jaw and brooding stare - demanded to be judged. It was as though the deck door had opened and a movie star had stepped through, a movie star from a time when men didn’t wax their eyebrows or get botox injections or spend more money on facials than I did on rent.

Without invitation or even asking if it was empty, he took the seat next mine and his elbow accidentally jostled my chair as he got himself situated.

“Sorry,” he said in a low, husky voice that stirred something deep inside of me. Something primitive. Something sensual. Something I didn’t know if I had ever felt before.  

“It’s… it’s fine.” I knew I was still staring, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Whitney was the one who consistently made a fool of herself over men, not me, and yet here I was, all but drooling into my wine. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. It was absurd. And yet there was nothing I could do to stop it. For the first time in my life, I was completely transfixed by a member of the opposite sex
.
Unfortunately, my unblinking eye contact wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Do I know you?” The stranger braced his forearm against the edge of the bar as he turned to face me. His expression was passive, but a hint of interest glimmered in his piercing gray eyes. At least, I thought it was interest. I
hoped
it was interest even though there was no reason on earth why a guy like him would be interested in a girl like me. 

“No.”
Say something else
, my brain demanded.
Your name. Just say your name! Im-o-gen. Say it!
But my mouth wouldn’t move, and the awkward silence that followed was painfully familiar.

It was the same silence that had invaded every date I’d ever been on. The same silence that had sabotaged any attempt I’d ever made to talk to a man I found vaguely attractive. The same silence that never failed to turn me into a blushing, stammering imbecile.

Say something
.

“I saw you outside,” I blurted. “On the deck. You were smoking.” Not the best opening line, but it beat remaining silent.

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin, drawing my eye down to the scruff of beard that clung to his strong, angular jaw. “I was. If you’re going to tell me smoking causes cancer you should save your breath. I’ve heard it before.”

Oh he had, had he?

“Smoking was first used in shamanistic rituals, although it wasn’t until the sixteenth century that tobacco was widely consumed and distributed, mostly by the Europeans who regarded opium smoking as beneficial to their health. What we know today as the cigarette is thought to have originated in South America. In 1803 it became popular in France where it was first manufactured on a massive scale.” Why was it that five seconds ago I could barely manage a single word, and now I couldn’t seem to close my mouth? What was
wrong
with me? “After the Crimean War cigarettes spread to many English speaking countries, including the United States, but it was German doctors who first connected smoking to lung cancer. Since then smoking has been commonly known to cause emphysema, chronic bronchitis, cardiovascular disease, and a plethora of other cancers including but not limited to esophagus cancer, kidney cancer, and cervical cancer.”

The stranger sat back in his chair as the faintest hint of a grin lifted one side of his mouth, revealing a dimple in the middle of his right cheek and a slightly crooked incisor, the only physical imperfection I’d witnessed so far. “Well then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a cervix.”

It was a small miracle that I hadn’t chosen that exact moment to take a sip of wine, because I definitely would have spit it all over the bar. “I’m sorry,” I said in a strained voice. “But I don’t know if you’re joking or not.”

“Trust me, he’s joking. A regular barrel of laughs, this one is.” Carrying over a pitcher filled with dark beer, Dick set it down on the bar and poured two glasses. He and the stranger clinked their drinks together. After taking a long swallow, Dick nodded at me. “The Professor’s a wonder, isn’t she? Like a walking Encyclopedia. Should’a heard what she had to say about my name!”

His gray eyes intent on mine, the stranger sipped his beer. “She’s certainly something.”

“Have you two met before? Probably not,” Dick decided before either one of us could answer. “Professor, this fine looking gentleman is none other than Daniel Logan. Daniel, this is Imogen Finley. Just moved here a few weeks ago. She and her roommate are renting the old Woodward place up on Fitch Lane. You know, the one with the blue shutters.”

My mouth opened, but before I could protest the bartender repeating everything I’d said to him to a complete and total stranger, Daniel - either by accident or design - brushed his hand across my thigh and any words I’d been about to say were consumed by a burst of heat that ricocheted through my entire body like an electric shock.

Oh. My. God.

Was
this
what Whitney meant when she talked about having sexual chemistry with someone?

Mo, the guy was bald as a cue ball but the sexual chemistry we had going on… Jesus, you wouldn’t believe it! Like a freakin’ electricity storm.  

I’d never understood what she meant before but now…now I think I finally did.  

Wondering if Daniel had experienced a similar reaction, my gaze flew to his face and discovered he was frowning at me ever-so-slightly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

Oblivious to the sudden tension radiating between Daniel and I, Dick clapped his hands together and jerked his head towards the opposite end of the bar where a growing crowd was jostling for position. “You two kids have fun. Duty calls.”

For one desperate moment after he walked away, I considered calling Dick back. His larger-than-life presence had managed to fill the silence. Now that he was gone it was more noticeable than ever, an awkward void that mocked my inability to manage even the simplest of conversations.

Logically I knew that if I could perform a lecture in front of three hundred of my peers I should have been able to manage small talk with one person, but then logic had never been very applicable where my social skills were concerned. Not knowing what else to do, I drained what remained of my wine in one long gulp and waited for Daniel to get up and leave. If past experiences were any indication, it wouldn’t take very long.

“Imogen is an unusual name. What does it mean?”

I stared at him. “Why?”

“Imogen means why?” Studying me over the brim of his glass, he took another sip of beer. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“No.” Visibly floundering, I waved my hand in the air and took a deep breath. “Imogen, roughly translated, means maiden or innocent girl. It was invented by Shakespeare for a character in his play
Cymbeline
, a romance based on the Celtic British King Cunobeline. Although some scholars believe the name was incorrectly translated when the play was committed to print and Shakespeare actually meant for the name to be Innogen, in which case he wouldn’t have invented the name at all but borrowed it from Celtic mythology.”

“I see.” Stormy gaze flicking down to the empty wine glass I was unconsciously strangling with both hands, Daniel gently eased it out of my grip and slid it to the far edge of the bar. “Do you want another?”

I shook my head rapidly from side to side, sending loose tendrils of hair whipping across my flushed cheeks. As someone who rarely drank, two glasses had me feeling more light headed than I would have liked. I didn’t want to know what would happen after three. “No thank you. I’m on a bit of a tight budget. Did you know wine has the highest markup in the food industry?”

“Did you know when a guy asks if you want another drink he’s offering to buy it for you?”

“Actually, I really wouldn’t - you’re laughing at me,” I accused, noting the faint twitch of his mouth as he bit back a grin. Finishing his beer, he reached for the pitcher Dick had left and promptly poured himself another.

“I am,” he admitted, “but only a little bit.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t know, Imogen.” The way he said my name - like a smooth, sultry promise - sent shivers racing down my spine. He angled his body towards mine and lowered his voice to a dark, husky growl. “How do you want me to make you feel?”

I blinked at him. “Are you coming on to me?”

A flicker of surprise flashed across his countenance before he leaned back, lips quirking into a grin. “Do you want me to come on to you?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

“When you do, let me know.”

Because I couldn’t think of a suitable response I didn’t say anything, and more silence descended upon us as Daniel drank his beer and I feigned sudden interest in a scratch on the edge of the bar.
Now he’ll get up and go
, I thought, but once again he proved me wrong.

“Have you had Allagash before?” he asked, sliding his beer towards me. “It’s brewed right in Portland, about two hours south of here. A guy named Rob Tod founded the brewery in 1995 and designed the brewhouse himself. See?” His grin was a little lazy and a lot sexy. “I know stuff too.”

Daniel certainly did know things, including how to flirt. Five minutes with him and I was already developing a rather serious crush. One based on all of the wrong reasons, principal among them pure physical attraction. “I’ll try it,” I said, nodding at the beer. “You’re not sick, are you?” The very instant the question was out of my mouth I wished I could take it back.
Yes
, I scolded myself silently.
When a very hot man asks if you would like a sip of his beer, you say yes! You don’t ask him if he’s sick! Pull yourself together, Imogen. Right now! 
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply-”