Logic dictates that there's bound to be a certain amount of awkwardness the morning after two people who barely know each other engage in any kind of intimate activity, but such was not the case for the man and the woman who woke up on Sunday morning in that little cabin on Big Bear Lake.
This was mainly because one of them was extensively skilled in the fine art of deception, and that one was sure that the other wouldn't remember a damn thing.
"Good morning," John called in a cheerful tone as Ellie stumbled her way from the bedroom to the kitchen.
"Oh, God, who turned on the sun?" she grumbled as she eased herself down into a chair and hid her face in her arms.
John placed a steaming mug in front of her. "Here, coffee."
One of her hands groped along the surface of the table until it connected with the mug. Her fingers curled around the handle and pulled it closer to as she worked up enough energy to make the supreme effort of taking a sip. "Mmmm…thanks – I needed that!"
"Sleep well?" he asked, using every trick in his training to shade his voice with the right amount of conversational casualness as he returned his attention to skillets he was using to prepare breakfast.
"Like the dead," she answered as she took another sip. "Do you have any – ? Oh, wait they're right here! Bless you, John, you are officially my hero."
He smiled as he stirred. She must have discovered the half-dozen aspirin tablets he'd laid out on the table for her.
"Six, huh? I must have been drinking like a frat boy at a kegger last night," she commented as she popped them in her mouth and chased them with a swallow of coffee. "Oh, God, what did I do?"
John opened his mouth to respond, but Ellie put her hand up to stop him. "No, don't tell me – I do not want to know."
"You sure?" he asked, pushing around the contents of the frying pan as he glanced at her.
"Oh yeah," she said, leaning back and scratching her stomach absently. "I've decided that in this case, ignorance is bliss."
"If you say so," he capitulated, trying not to ogle her as she executed a prolonged full-body yawn that made her loose floral nightgown to mold to her torso – flannel was not supposed to be tempting, but she somehow managed to make the high-necked, long-sleeved garment incredibly suggestive with the way she worked the kinks out of her joints.
The weight of the material completely concealed her from neck to ankles, but he knew what lay underneath, and that knowledge was more than enough for his heart rate to make the jump to light speed.
Christ have mercy.
He felt that familiar "tight" feeling starting down below and fought it with everything he had. Quick, think about something else, anything else besides what she looks like naked!
"So, what's for breakfast, chef?" she asked, extending an arm along the length of the table and resting her cheek in the crook of her elbow.
Ice fishing…frostbite…men's figure skating…
She blinked languorously and gave him a winsome smile.
Again his body responded to her, but this time it was his chest that felt tight.
Fuck breakfast, he wanted to pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, and sleep the day away holding her in his arms.
Jesus, man, listen to yourself, John chided the uninvited romantic who'd momentarily hijacked his mind. Next thing you know, you'll start spouting poetry. Get a grip, shit-for-brains!
"Steak and eggs with fried-up mashed potatoes," he replied, moving the hash around with a wooden spoon. "I didn't want to travel back with the other half of my doggie bag so I figured we could split it this morning."
"Works for me," Ellie concurred as she played with the handle on her coffee mug. "You're a pretty resourceful man, John Casey."
Lady, you have no idea.
"Shower's all yours," Ellie called to him an hour later, a cloud of steam wafting out of the door as she stepped out of the bathroom.
"Thanks," John replied as he picked up his towel, clothes, and kit from the ottoman.
Thirty minutes, tops, and he was out of there – thank you, Jesus.
"Hold it," she ordered, putting an arm out in front of him as he was about to enter.
Instinct superseded reasoning: before either of them could think, he'd dropped his stuff, blocked the maneuver, spun her around by her wrist, and shoved her up against the wall.
"Oh, sorry! My bad," he spluttered, releasing her instantly and backing away. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine," she murmured as she turned around slowly. "Karate?"
He nodded as he bent down to gather his things. "Uechi Ryu. 20 years."
"You have to teach me that move sometime," she said, her voice soft and speculative as she looked him up and down and rubbed her wrist. "Take off your shirt."
He stood up slowly. "What?"
She reached out and tugged at the hem of the garment in question. "Your shirt, take it off."
The situation and the tone were different, but the words were identical to the ones she'd whispered to him last night when they'd fooled around in the very same room that they were standing in front of right now.
John swallowed and blinked as he retreated into the bathroom. "Uh…why?"
"Because I have to have a look at your arm," Ellie explained patiently as she advanced. She smiled as she shut the door behind her. "Sorry about the humidity, but I think you'll be more comfortable without that cold draft blowing in."
He nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving hers as he placed his gear on the closed lid of the toilet seat, reached for the back of the neckline of his shirt, and slowly dragged it over his head. She'd openly admired his body last night under the influence of the drug. Would she react the same way now?
There was a momentary bit of snow blindness as he pulled his white t-shirt clear of his neck, then he could see once more.
Oh, fucking hell, the answer would have to be 'yes,' wouldn't it?
There it was: that look in her eyes of low-level flirtation, eager expectation, and unabashed appreciation. It was giving him ideas – the kind of ideas that were better suited to the set of a pornographic Hallmark movie-of-the-week than the wrap-up of his so-called "vacation."
She was reaching for him, her hands warm and firm as they connected with torso– John gripped the edge of the sink and grit his teeth – and turned him so that his injured arm was easily accessible.
"Looks like you're healing up pretty well," Ellie said as she gently peeled the Grumpy Band-aid from his skin.
He grunted in response. It's official, ladies and gentlemen: John Casey is fucking clueless.
Her touch was perfectly impersonal as she inspected the wound. "Does it hurt?"
"What's that?" he asked, looking away from her cleavage. Not eight hours ago he'd been up close and personal with it, and he was struggling mightily to keep from attempting to renew the acquaintance.
"Your arm. Does it hurt?" She pushed a hank of wet hair back behind her ear with her left hand and the overhead light caught and blazed on the differentiated facets of the family diamond.
Fucking clueless and goddamn pathetic, yes, sir.
"No."
But you can try a little lower if you want to get your hands on something that does.
Jesus Christ, he needed to get out of there, fast, before his inner monologue went on broadcast.
"Flex," she ordered.
He straightened his arm, his triceps and deltoids hardening as he pushed his elbow away from his body.
"Good, no blood," she announced. "Now make a fist and curl it towards your shoulder."
He obeyed, his biceps bulging in an almost obscene manner as he pulled his wrist across his chest.
She bit her bottom lip. "What the – ?"
"What?" he demanded.
"This wasn't here on Friday," she said, tracing her fingers over a bit of sensitive skin that covered his trapezius muscle.
John twisted until he could see what had captured her interest. "Whoa…"
The little lady had left her mark on him and then some: full set of teeth were lividly imprinted on the spot where his neck met his shoulder, and they were joined by an array of unbroken scratch marks that started at the nape of his neck and ended at the base of his spine, and twin splays of fingernail indentations that were gouged into his flesh on either side of the small of his back.
Major Casey's eyes met and held hers in the mirror as he waited to see how she would react to the evidence of their impromptu late-night makeout session.
Fight, flight or fuck, baby girl – what's it gonna be? Gotta warn ya – leave it up to me, and it'll be the two of us getting' steamy in that shower stall, but this time it'll be my turn to do the marking.
She began to back away from him, her eyes enormous and afraid. "I…uh…did…um, how…?"
He felt something sick and ashamed twisting in his ribcage as she clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sob struggling to escape from her throat.
What a fucking fool he'd been to drop the cover, even if it was just for a moment.
That's what you get for forgetting your mission, numb nuts.
Her shoulderblades connected with the door and she recovered her power of speech. "Oh, my God! Did I…?"
Big Quiet John from the Buy More answered her unspoken question. "Yeah, about those. I got, um, accosted by a somewhat intoxicated young lady at the bar at the end of the night. She was…er, very enthusiastic."
"Oh no," she whispered, sinking her face into her palms. "I'm so sorry!"
"Sorry for what?" he asked her as he reached past her to retrieve his towel from the bar.
"I'm such a loser," she moaned as she leaned into him. "You turned her down, didn't you? Because of me – the wasted albatross hanging around your neck!"
"Hey, hey," he said softly as he patted her shoulder. "Don't flatter yourself. There were plenty of other reasons I said 'no' besides making sure you got home safely."
"Yeah, like what?" she demanded, a little of her good humor restored.
"Like, um, I prefer my women to be – "
"Sober?" she quipped.
"Definitely. Smashed and sloppy ain't my style." He shrugged. "Think of it as you saving me from doing something I would've regretted later. Besides which, I kind of like albatrosses – they're good luck."
"Unless some idiot shoots 'em," she countered, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.
"So the moral of our story is…?"
"No more BB guns?" she offered with a shy grin.
"No more BB guns," he agreed with a straight face. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower. You can decide whether or not you want to re-Grumpify me after I'm done, okay?"
"Deal!" Ellie responded, extending her hand.
John took it, shook it, and shooed her out of the room.
A minute later he was completely naked and in the process of opening the shower curtain when he discovered that she hadn't yet removed her bodywash.
Oh, I am a bad, bad man…
He turned on the faucet and waited for the flow to warm up, praying there was enough hot water for him to do what he'd needed to do the moment she'd closed the bathroom door behind her. He stepped into the tub, reached for the bottle, flipped open the cap, inhaled and let himself luxuriate in the scent.
I am so going to hell for this…
He upended the bottle and squeezed out enough of the liquid to fill his palm, making a mental note of the brand she preferred.
And I'll smell like a goddamn flower garden when I do, but I don't fuckin' care…
He put his left hand against the cool, clean tile, rested his forehead against his forearm, took himself in his right hand and groaned as he began to fantasize about laying her down in a field of daisies, his wrists pushing up the hem of her short, silky skirt as he ran his hands up the length of her smooth, silky thighs.
A man has his needs…
"So…"
"So."
They were standing face-to-face in the living room, both ready for the long drive back after helping each other load up their respective vehicles and having a nice, friendly disagreement over who got to take the bag of garbage to the dump.
He'd told her it was the least he could do because she'd been kind enough to let him stay there when he'd barged in on her.
She'd told him that he didn't know where the dump was, it would take too long to tell him how to get there, and he'd better just hand over the trashbag before she got mad at him and kicked him in the shins.
He'd let her win, but only because he'd felt guilty about using up the rest of the hot water while spending some quality time with her bottle of Olay Body Cleansing with Crème Ribbons and imagining what it would be like to make hot, nasty, naughty love to her in the Los Angeles County Arboretum.
Funny how he'd spend hours watching her and McPreeny go at it, visualized all of the different ways he could go one better than He Who Was Made of "Awesome" when it came to rocking her world, and still she carried that aura of purity and innocence about her. There was just no corrupting her. Not that he wouldn't like to try.
There were so many very, very inappropriate things that he'd love to do for her, with her, to her, if he ever got the chance again.
Next time, he vowed as he gazed at her standing there in that ridiculous matching knitted set of sunshine yellow mittens, scarf and hat, Next time, baby girl, you're gonna be sober, I'm gonna make sure that you know exactly who I am, and we're gonna burn a fuckin' hole through the goddamn floor…if there ever is a next time.
He knew he was looking at her too intensely, but he couldn't help himself. Fuckin' Christ he wanted her, and this was probably the last time he'd ever get a chance to be alone with her, no brother, no fiancé, no closed-circuit television monitoring their every move.
One part of him wanted to howl with frustration at choosing his principles over his dick last night, the other was grateful that he was finally going back to the familiarity of his home turf, even though he knew that it would never be the same.
Too much crazy shit of the emotional variety had gone down this weekend for him to be able to regard Eleanor Fay Bartowski the same way he had before he'd gotten snowed in with her.
"It's going to be a long drive back," she said, suddenly shy as she ducked her head.
"Yeah," he agreed, nodding in his best "aw, shucks" manner as he slid his hands into his pockets.
She bit her lip, smiled shyly up at him. "John, I…I just wanted to say…despite the blizzard and the half-day of snow-shoveling…and the un-remember-able bender I went on at the bar…this was the best vacation I've ever had."
His response was honest, genuine, and out of his mouth before he could check it. "Me, too."
She toed the medium blue carpet. "So…"
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "So…?"
She closed the distance between the two of them, pitching her body forward into his as she wrapped her arms around his chest and sighing as she nestled in close.
He reacted unconsciously, hugging her to him and burying his nose in her hair as she snuggled deeper into his arms.
It's so fucking unfair that this is all we'll ever have, he thought as he fought the feral surge of regret that came with the bitter sweetness of holding her.
She pulled away and he didn't try to stop her.
If he did, he might never let her go.
"I'll, uh, see you back at the complex," he said, reaching out to adjust the angle of her hat in what he hoped was a brotherly fashion. "Stay warm."
"You, too," she said, slightly adjusting the collar of his jacket. "Take care."
"I will," he replied, picking up his sleeping bag.
"Hey, betcha I get home before you do," she dared him as he opened the door.
"How much?" he challenged, looking back at her.
"Dinner for the winner?" she suggested, folding her arms as she chuckled.
"Done," he answered her as he headed out the door.
"I want more of that stroganoff," she called after him.
"Well, you're gonna have to wait," he called back as he shoved the sleeping bag into the cargo area of his SUV and slammed the door shut. "Because you're gonna be making me roast chicken and twice-baked potatoes."
"We'll just have to see about that, won't we?" she retorted pertly, her eyes dancing.
He watched her face light up with mirth as he got in the car, and felt something warm and tender filling up those places inside of him that despair had stripped bare mere minutes ago.
He had her friendship and he had her laughter. They were more than a man like him could ever expect to have, more than a man like him deserved.
For now, it was more than enough.
John pulled into the parking lot of the Echo Park apartment complex where he'd made his home for the last year and smirked.
Heh-heh – first!
He used the console on his vehicle to deactivate the alarm systems for his apartment, unloaded the cargo area, and checked his e-mail.
Five hundred sixty-two messages, none of them High Priority – standard for a three-day sabbatical.
He checked his voicemail.
Eighty-five, none of them marked "Urgent" – average.
He checked the bulletins.
The United States was still functioning…President-Elect Obama was still getting his briefings…Governor Sarah Palin was still running her mouth…this terrorist was spotted golfing in Augusta, GA… that one had been seen getting his back waxed at The J Sisters in New York…nothing out of the ordinary.
He wasn't allowed to touch any of the messages until tomorrow morning, so instead he set about taking care of his gear.
He carefully cleaned each of the weapons he'd brought with him and put them back in their storage units. He washed out the Tupperware containers that he'd used to transport the stroganoff and placed them on his drying rack. He put his sleeping bag in the washer, and then transferred it to the dryer when it had cycled through.
John was in the process of putting all of the clothes he'd worn that weekend into the wash when he discovered that something was missing: the shirt he'd worn on Saturday night.
Perhaps he'd miscounted…? Nope, he was definitely missing that shirt.
He'd been sure not to leave anything in the cabin and there was nothing left in the SUV except his usual complement of handguns, assault rifles and siege gear, so where the fuck was it?
It's bound to turn up somewhere, he told himself as he sat down in front of the monitors. He made sure not to touch any of them (fourteen hours until his vacation was officially over), but he did take a moment to check up on the feeds from Casa Bartowski.
No movement anywhere in the darkened apartment – odd.
Chuck wasn't in, but that wasn't unexpected – he was probably out with Sarah – but shouldn't Woodcomb be home by now, going through his Sunday grooming ritual (full-body manscaping, blue clay facial, manicure-pedicure)?
Speaking of being home by now, where was Ellie?
John relaxed a little as the front door opened, the lights went on, and Ellie strolled on in, her lime green "can't-get-this-baby-lost-at-LAX" rollaway trailing behind her as she made her way to her bedroom.
She picked up her phone and dialed a number.
John jumped as he realized that it was him she was calling.
He reached over, turned the volume down on the feed, and answered. "Yo."
"How in the hell did you beat me?" she demanded.
He watched her sink down onto the mattress and begin to pick at the laces on her boots. "I did have a head start, you know – that, and a lovely little invention called GPS helped me to maintain it."
"Yeah, but the highway traffic should've been brutal, even with GPS," she objected, using her toes to push her boots off. "So, when are you going to collect?"
"On the bet? I don't know," he teased, smiling as she peeled off her socks and wiggled her toes. "I was thinking about getting a little takeout tonight. Pizza from Solé or Chinese food from The Lotus Garden – which do you recommend?"
"Don't you even think about it," she warned him, the black and white face on the monitor displaying mock anger and amusement. "I will belt you with the spiral ham I've got in my fridge so hard your head will spin."
"All right then, what do you think I should go for?" he asked, leaning back in his armchair as she shimmied out of her sweatshirt.
"I think I should make better use of that ham and whip up some dinner for the two of us," she replied, looking at herself in the mirror and examining her reflection. "I've got fresh peas, some squash and zucchini, some French's yellow mustard…"
"Ah, the important things in life," he agreed, captivated by her unconsciously graceful motions as she undid the button and zipper on her jeans and pushed them down her legs.
"Damn skippy," she countered before she pulled her t-shirt over her head. "French's is God-food when it comes to ham."
"You'll get no arguments here," he said as she ran a hand through her hair and turned this way and that in the mirror, adjusting the display of her breasts in her bra and fixing the position of the elastics on her underwear. "I'm in complete agreement with you."
He watched as she turned to her suitcase and unzipped it. "Good."
"So…who else is coming to dinner?" he asked, watching as she tossed clothing at the hamper.
"Chuck and Sarah are at the movies, and Devon is, um, out with his frat buddies tonight," she said, placing her grooming kit on the bed. "One of his former pledges is getting married this winter, and they're planning the bachelor party. I think it's just going to be you and me."
"Okay…how about I bring dessert?" John tried to remember what he had on hand in his pantry. "I can whip up a pudding pie in no time."
"Ix-nay the udding-pay – got a dress to fit into," she reminded him as she fished out the last garment from her suitcase.
He sat up straight in his seat, unsure if what he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing on the screen. "No…"
"Yes, sad, but true. No more deviations from my diet," she reminded him sternly. "If you're dead set on dessert, we could do berries and cream – got any ideas?"
He watched, transfixed as she held the dark fabric up to her nose and her eyes drifted shut. "Um, raspberries…?"
"Perfect – see you at seven!" she exclaimed before she hung up, rolled onto her side, and buried her face in the piece of clothing she was holding.
Well, well, well…
He no longer needed to wonder where his missing shirt had gone.
Ellie had taken it.