Marianne looked up at him, her eyes wild and dark as the Scottish moors.

"Please," she whispered. "Please—darling, let's do it now."

He let his eyes rake over her—over her wanton grace and the way she was telling him with every shaking breath just what she wanted.

"Alright," he agreed. "Now, then."

"Jo, dear, do you have a moment? There's someone to see you!"

She slams her computer shut, trying as best she can to calm her blush. If Marmee should suspect anything

"Sure, Ms. Kirk! I'll be right out!"

Her face calms, however, when she reaches the bottom of the stairs; thank God above, it's only Meg. Meg with her pretty face and her pretty children and her neat, busy life.

"Meggers! How are you? How are the runts—doing alright?"

Meg wrinkles her nose even as she smiles.

"They kids are doing great," she says. "Demi's such a bright boy—definitely got that from his father. But of course you know that—how are you? You look a little flustered, are you okay?"

"Oh, sure! Yeah, just kinda pegged it down the steps—three flights and whatnot. So what brings you here, Meg?"

They make their way upstairs, Meg chattering the whole way.

"…so really I just came to see you, Jo. You've not answered your phone in ages; Marmee's a little worried."

"Oh, is that it? I'm sorry, Meg; I've been in such a welter lately, I haven't really checked the phone. Work's been insane."

Meg makes a sympathetic face.

"Are you alright? Don't let them keep you too hard to the grindstone, Jo; you work too hard."

"Me? Not at all—I can't lay about like an elegant female, so I may as well use my energy productively. Oh, Meg, speaking of—well, not speaking of anything, but you should meet my neighbor, the Professor. He's a champ, he really is. His name is bizarre—it's Bhaer, if you'll believe me—but he really is sweet and the people on the other floors just call him Fritz."

But Meg has that awful, half-indulgent smile on her face, and she stops directly.

"Meg—Meg, don't even think about it. He's 40 if he's a day."

Meg flushes a little, running a hand over her pretty curls as if such a thought never occurred to her.

"I don't know what you mean. I just think it's nice that you have a new friend."

Then, remembering:

"But how's your writing, Jo? You've been so close-mouthed about it; I bet you have some great novel going on."

Jo makes sure to look fixedly ahead of her as she opens the door and lets Meg in. (Maybe her blush will be taken as modesty.)

"Oh, don't. Naught of the sort. I'm still—um—working on the column on the side. You know—nothing big. I guess my writing career is done. Looks like my only hope now is promotion at the shop."

Meg sits at the table, helping herself to an open package of crackers.

"Oh, Jo, don't say that! We both know it isn't true."

And Jo admits to herself as she pours Meg a glass of cheap orange juice that (in all honesty) it isn't.

8888888888888888888888

Later, things start to heat up.

Her long, graceful back arches, golden and sinuous in the pale moonlight. Her dress is damp at the front and clinging to her, and his hands move along her waist with slow, devastating movements—

"Oh, darling," he breathes, his breath hot against her upturned face. "You. Are. So

"Mees Marsch?"

Down goes the laptop lid, and up comes Jo, shaking herself and hurrying to answer the door.

"Just a moment, Friedrich!"

He's standing at her threshold, a pair of nicely folded socks in his hand. There's ink on his sleeve and his fingers, and he looks like he's been rather busy.

He hands them to her.

"You left these when you visited," he says, with a little smile. "I haf laundered them for you."

She takes them, a little disconcerted by the thought of Professor Bhaer washing her (probably deplorable) socks.

"Oh—thanks! Wanna come in?"

He accepts wordlessly, looking around her apartment as he always does with his funny, absent-minded curiosity.

"You haf been working, I see," he says, nodding at the scattered notes and the closed laptop on her desk. She nods, carefully avoiding his eyes.

"Yep—um—just doing my column in the paper."

Her face is noticeably pinker than usual at this point, but he lets it pass.

"You like the writing?"

"Yes, loads," she smiles—because she really does. "I-I don't like MY writing, of course, but I do like writing itself."

"You are writing romantic things, I believe you haf said?"

She freezes; dammit, he remembers.

Her tongue, several steps ahead of her brain, tries to puzzle through it.

"Well—um—I mean—that is—"

Abruptly, she decides—after all, who would he tell?

(They've known each other for a couple weeks, after all. Maybe this'll cement the friendship.)

She turns to him, aware that her face is flushed and guilty-looking.

"Can you keep a secret?" she says, her voice low. His eyes widen.

"I—yes," he says, blinking. "Of course. You haf a—a confidence, Jo?"

(This has to be the first time he's left off with that silly, stiff 'Mees Marsch.' Hopefully it's the start of a new trend.)

"Sort of," she says, blood pounding in her wrists and fingers and neck. "I—well, my family doesn't know. You know those novels—the silly ones about sex and falling wildly in love and all that? The ones by J.A. Peacock?"

He nods, something starting to dawn on him; she doesn't keep him long in suspense.

"Well—that's me. I'm J.A. Peacock—I write those just to make some money, you know—just to get a start. Can't ever tell my family, of course. They wouldn't approve."

Come to think of it, Fritz (the name is starting to stick) doesn't seem entirely pleased with it, either; his mouth is set, and his brows are slanted.

"Ah," he says. "So you write the ah—the how do you say—the bodice-rippers, so?"

She stares at her feet; something about the look in his eyes is more than she wants to handle right now.

"So," she says, face on fire.

"Hm."

Then:

"Can I haf a read of them?"

Her head snaps up, something like the feeling you get in a nightmare racing through her blood.

"Y-you want to read one?"

He nods.

"So."

"But—but they're junk. They're—you know—harlequin novels."

Another nod, this time accompanied with a shrug.

"I know. May I read? Eef it is acceptable to you, Jo."

She forces herself to shrug and fetch one of her more polished manuscripts; she's in too deep to waste time on shame.

"It doesn't matter. They're nothing to me. Here, have a go."

He takes it, inclining his head.

"Ach, I thank you. I will go and—how do you say—peg away at it and have it back tomorrow, eef you wish."

Not a force on earth can hold back the colors that scatter over her face at the thought of him gravely reading her garbage.

"Oh—alright. That's fine. Take—take as long as you like."

Take forever, if you want.

He nods, looking with a mild interest at the title.

"Ah," he says after a moment. " 'Moonlit Palpitations.' I see."

Something in her shrivels and dies at the sound of her awful, chinky title being read in his rumbling German accent.

"Y-yeah…"

"I will haf a look at it and get back to you. Thank you, Mees Marsch."

She tries to muster up a smile.

"Oh—don't mention it."

And, closing her door, she ardently hopes, for the first time, that she'll never see him again.