**********
Judging by the way she sashays into my apartment, she has a pretty good idea what to expect tonight. She spins around gracefully, taking in the whole of my apartment, every book, light, and remote, a not too unattractive smirk on her face, and looks expectantly at me.
"Roses," she says, indicating the dining room table. "How nice." She grins widely. She makes a big show of going over to the arrangement and inhaling their scent. I'm still standing by the door, holding it ajar. She's dressed to kill: a black lace cocktail-type dress, with a scoop neck that accents her perfect form, complete with a pair of very high high heels (which don't look the least bit comfortable, for the record), and a matching purse, which she places next to the flowers. I finally close the door, and step towards her.
"Yes, somebody at work gave them to me," I begin. I see her shoulders quiver in what I can only guess is quiet laughter. "A note, too." I pull the card out of my pocket and begin to read aloud.
By the time I get to the 'mile high and mach 2 club,' which, through a miracle of God I am able to say with a straight, somewhat pale face, she's given up trying to hide her amusement. In fact, she's doubled over before me, laughing out loud.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" I say, placing both hands on hips—not that she can see me. She's still facing the floor, grasping her side while desperately (but inadequately) trying to get her amusement under reign. She gives up and nods.
"…Your face…" she chokes out. "I'm not sure…if I ever…seen you…that red…before…"
"I can't believe you sent something like this to the office." I wave the card around down by her face. She finally stands erect, her face suddenly solemn.
"You're very handsome when you blush," she manages to get out before she starts chuckling again. I roll my eyes.
"I'm serious, Mac. I mean, the admiral, Bud, Harriet…Sturgis," I add, thinking of his 'helpful' office visit. She only laughs harder. "What if they suspect something, Mac? I thought we were going to keep it quiet about us." Again, she nods, the gesture punctuated by each spurt of laughter she emits.
"Are you quite finished?" I ask testily, growing tired of her frivolity. She shakes her head 'no.' "Fine. When you're done tee-heeing over your ingenious prank let me know. I'm going to dinner."
"Harm! Harm," she gasps, the sudden absence of giggles replaced by a somewhat charming, I admit grudgingly, case of the hiccups. Her entire face, as a matter of fact, is aglow with happiness, and I feel my annoyance fade a notch upon looking at her. She's quite beautiful. Her fingers, soft and delicate, wrap around my forearm as she gently tugs me back to her.
"I'm sorry," she says, looking somewhat sincere. If I ignore the mischievous glint in her eyes, that is. And her twitching lips. And those hiccups, which are really laughter in disguise, anyway.
"And besides, it was funny. Admit it."
I give her my best 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look. "Which part? The part where I had to read aloud the contents of this"--I wave the card again—"or perhaps when the entire office—at your urging--went through my dating history to determine my secret admirer, or maybe when Sturgis came into my office and gave me a lesson on being 'sensitive' to your feelings."
She sobers up a little at that. "He said that?"
"Yes," I huff. She smiles a little.
"He's just being a good friend," she defends softly.
"And I'm not?" She smiles again, this time a weird expression flickering across her face, but it's gone before I can really analyze it.
"You're my best friend," she affirms. "Maybe a little more than that," she adds, stepping close enough to slip her arms around my neck.
"Well, I should hope you're not doing this with Sturgis." She gives me a sweet kiss on the lips that quickly intensifies as our mouths melt together. "Or that," I add when we part, breathless. "Or any of the behavior we've been engaging in at the office."
I'm not sure what's funny about that, but it seems to set her off again. I heave a sigh.
She waves her hand around, indicating she'll only be a minute. It's about three before she finally calms down. Seeing my expression, she leans forward again, tightening her hold on me, and cocks her head to the side.
"I'm sorry." She actually sounds like she means it this time. She toys with the hair at the nape of my neck. "What can I do to make it up to you?"
I grin inwardly. I've got her right where I want her. Everything's going exactly as planned. Outwardly, I frown a little and gaze into her eyes as though I'm thinking.
Despite having already conjured a response to such a question, about half a dozen remarks flit across my tongue as I wrestle with control over my hormones. It's been a long time since I've been with a woman. A damn long time. Certainly longer than I care to admit to, but I don't want to rush things too fast with Mac, so I manage to stay on my present course and reply with my predetermined response.
"Well…"
*********
"This is so frustrating!"
"Keep going, you'll get it," I advise. She flashes me a dirty look. I shrug. "Hey, I didn't start this," I remind her.
"I didn't know you were going to be such a sore loser," she taunts.
"Loser? Who said anything about losing? If you want to talk 'loser', might I remind you you're still five clues away from redemption. Provided of course, you progress on to those, which, I must admit, doesn't seem very promising."
"You're very irritating, you know."
"I know."
She picks up the seven slips of paper she's accumulated so far and studies each message written on them. I take this opportunity to pat myself on the back. Commander, you're a genius. There have been times, I admit, where I've suspected it (long since suspected it, if truth be told)—and okay, (if truth be told here as well) times where I've suspected I fall way down on the other end of the spectrum, but I really outdid myself here.
She quickly flips to the next message in line, and I pause in my reflection to admire the view.
She is lovely. And I'm in love with her. We're not very far into this new phase of our relationship and I already know that. Hell, I suppose I've known it for a long time. But now…now it's come clean or bust. I suppose it's progress that I can finally admit my feelings for her to myself. For so long I refused to acknowledge even the possibility—okay, I refused to entertain the possibilities of loving her. It just seemed too hard and too complicated. And we both let so many things get in our way.
But now…
Now, I am so tired of fighting it. I spent too many long, draining hours in that icy ocean. Too long recovering and spending that time in recovery—three months—without her. Too long watching her become more involved with Brumby, while I did nothing, and maybe could have—hell, I know I could have.
The simple fact is I'm getting older; and while my career is going strong, it would be understating the obvious to say that my personal life isn't. Or wasn't, at any rate. I was about as close to settling down as Singer is to inheriting the admiral's office. At any rate, it's time for me to figure out what I want out of life, and go for it. And I want Sarah. I want a family. I want a family with Sarah.
"Harm…" she pouts, drawing me away from my thoughts. Dear god she's pouting and she looks damn delicious doing it. I don't care that she's trying to sucker me. She's indulging me, I know, with her coquettish behavior—this is something I won't see too often--but I don't mind.
"Yes?"
She bites her lip, as though debating. "At least give me a hint."
"Oh no, marine, I don't think that would be fair, do you?"
"Haaarrrmmm…" she whines. I chuckle. "Just a little one," she pleads.
"I don't know," I say, in a tone that says I might be swayed. And I might not. "This is supposed to be your retribution for those flowers." She raises her eyebrow. "And ruining the perfect Valentine's Day dinner I had planned."
"Please?" She bats her eyelashes and gives me an inviting smile. Screw dinner. This is better than anything I had planned.
"Why, Sarah MacKenzie, are you trying to seduce me?"
She grins even wider. "Commander, if I were trying to seduce you, I would have succeeded a long time ago."
I suspect she's right, but I have to put up a front anyway.
"Really? That sure, are we?"
The open-mouthed grin is replaced by a very seductive smile and I feel all my sense and good intentions rush out of the room, along with the blood in my head. She sets the clues I had scripted for her down on the end table, and inches towards me on her knees.
"Oh, I'm positive," she whispers, sliding her hand just below my knee. The lawyer in me wants to point out that I've already resisted her overtures once—that damned ferry ride where she offered to go topless (and more) for me, if only I say the word—I found the strength (or the stupidity) to refuse her. Although, I wasn't really refusing her, just asking her to give me a little more time to get the mess my life was then in order, but no since splitting hairs now. Bringing that particular incident up would undoubtedly kill her seductive spirit right now, and truly ruin my Valentine's Day—and quite possibly any chance for something amazing with Mac, given my penchant for screwing things up in our relationship courtesy of the extremely vast synapse between my brain and mouth.
But if 'a long time ago' only includes maybe the last three or four months, then, yeah, I don't think I would have given her too much flak.
"I'm not so sure, marine." She's on her knees between my legs now, staring at me with heavy-lidded eyes, her hands resting lightly on my thighs.
"Really?" She scoffs. She reaches up, hands pressing down on my legs to give her the momentum to halfway stand up, and presses her lithe body against mine. I feel her hot breath against my chin before she closes the distance between us.
Goddamn, can this woman kiss.
My hands slide along her back, my brain just focused enough to realize there's no back zip, and I'm alternately annoyed and relieved by the fact. Well, relieved may be too strong a word, but I was serious when I said I didn't want to rush things with Mac. Really. I mean, we've only been going out for a week or so.
The problem is that it's been so long since I've had…relations, and I've wanted Mac for so long and so badly that if she doesn't stop this, I can't guarantee that I will. (I can't even guarantee that I might make an effort—too much risk of her agreeing we should slow things down.) We haven't discussed sex, yet. In the four cardinal rules we chartered out on exploring our relationship, sex seemed to fall under the "not rush things" and "just let things happen" guidelines.
Great. As if I don't have enough opportunity for interpretation and debate in my life.
"Mac…" I manage to get out during a short break for breath. She doesn't reply, just focuses her attention on the juncture of my jaw and neck. She traces her lips along one side before switching to the other.
"Uh, Mac, uh, maybe we should, you know…" what? Slow this down? Talk about this? Neither is particularly appealing. Move this to the bedroom? Dear god, I hope I didn't say that out loud. I jerk nervously at the thought, enough to jar Mac out of her ministrations. She looks confusedly at me.
"Uh…" I say unintelligently, trying desperately to construct a few coherent sentences.
"Maybe we should—I should…I should check on dinner," I finally choke out, shifting off the couch and taking her with me. She plops down in my stead, arms crossed and a genuine pout marring her face. "I'll…I'll just be a moment. One moment." I hold up a finger, emphasizing my point, and quickly haul ass to the stove.
Okay, Rabb. Think.
Why am I here? In the kitchen, I mean. When I could be over on the couch satisfying my curiosity about that tattoo I always wonder about. Yes, Rabb, why are you here, instead of over there in her arms having the best Valentine's Day in a long time. You're debating whether or not you're ready to progress to the next level with Mac, when all her actions indicate she's more than ready and willing, and is just waiting on your sorry ass to get with the program—and she's waited on you long enough in her life.
I quickly flip the burner for the pasta down to the lowest setting. After a moment, I slowly click it off. Checking to see that everything else is in order (and to see that there are no more interruptions), I hasten back to the sofa.
"Now, where were we?" I ask, flashing her my best smile. I take a seat next to her, eliciting another look from Mac before that wicked little smile surfaces again. Carefully, she leans forward and slowly eases me onto my back, our lips never losing contact. I wrap my arms around her again, and begin the apparently not-so-subtle search for how to slip her dress off. I'm just about to conclude whipping it over her head, when she stops and sits up. Smiling, she reaches for a zipper just along her side.
She has her fingers on it when the phone rings. We both tear our eyes away from each other to look at it, before returning our gaze to the other. She's clearly as perturbed as I am over the interruption. Dammit, I should have remembered to turn off the ringer.
"Leave it," she advises, echoing my thoughts. I nod wholeheartedly. Slowly, she inches the zipper down, the ringing of the phone becoming quieter and quieter with each centimeter of open zipper gained as I focus all my attention on her. She's just about to slip the garment off her shoulders when the machine picks up.
"Commander!" Dammit, dammit, dammit. Should've turned that off, too. Nothing like a mood damper than your C.O. calling on Valentine's Day just when you're about to get lucky with the partner you've only ever dreamed about being with. I heave a very heavy sigh of disappointment. So does Mac.
"Commander, pick up! I know you're there," Admiral Chegwidden commands. How does he know that?! It is Valentine's Day, and therefore conceivable I have a date. And why does he just assume I'm home? Alone. I did, after all, receive those damn roses—I could very well be out enjoying the company of the person who sent them. I sit up with another sigh and a look at Mac, who now has everything in order, before stalking over to the phone.
"Listen commander, when you get this message call me imme--"
Picking up the receiver, I cut in, somewhat testily, "Sir?"
"Commander?"
Yes, you're calling me at my home, I jab silently, who do you think would pick up? "Yes, Sir."
"Good. I've been trying to reach the colonel, too. Is she with you?" he asks suspiciously. Or maybe that's my oxygen-deprived brain. I panic for a moment, wondering how he knows, before a tiny voice of reason reminds me that he doesn't, and is just asking after her whereabouts. I suppose it might be reasonable to assume she's with me, since we generally are together. On any other day, I would have no hesitancy in answering him honestly, but to confirm his suspicions today—of all days—seems like I'm confirming too many of his suspicions. And I know he's often wondered if there's more going on between Mac and I than just our squabbles at work.
"Ahh…I think she had a date, Admiral," I answer, once again patting myself on the back for not lying. I meet Mac's eyes as I say this and watch her shift nervously.
There's a moment of silence before he responds. "Hmph. Well, I suppose you can fill her in later. There's been a new development in your case, and not a good one. I think you'll want to see it for yourself. And thank Webb for digging it up," he adds sourly.
Oh, christ. He wants me to come in. I stare hopelessly at Mac, who looks worriedly back.
"Yes, sir. I'll be in…right away, sir," I finish, saying the only thing I can say in this situation.
"All right, commander. Maybe you can try reaching the colonel. You might have better luck than I have." He hangs up before I can respond.
Tossing the phone on the chair, I inform Mac of our change of plans.
"He thinks I'm on a date?"
"Yeah. So you don't have to worry about coming in. I'll go see what Webb has dug up. With any luck, it won't take too long. We may be able to salvage our evening." Even as I'm saying this, I know it's shot. Nothing with Webb is ever neat and tidy and 'won't take too long.' I'm liable to be there half the night.
"With Webb involved? Right. You're liable to be there half the night." I smile. "And there's no way I'm going to let you go there by yourself—what if whatever Webb tells you sparks some damn fool idea that you should go investigate by yourself?"
"Mac—"
"Don't 'Mac' me." She picks up her purse. "I'll go home and change, and meet you at the office."
"Mac—"
"And you better not make a move without me, Harm. I mean it." She gives me her best marine glare. She kind of ruins the desired effect when she pauses, on her way out the door, to give me a goodbye kiss.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Mac."
She gives me a 'yeah, right' look.
Well, I only have her best intentions at heart. "Mac!" I call, just as she disappears down the stairwell.
"Yeah?"
"I told Chegwidden you were on a date."
"I know."
"Yeah, well, you might want to take your time coming in. If you get there right after me, he might, you know, suspect something. And I'm supposed to be trying to reach you."
She narrows her eyes at me, no doubt thinking I'm trying to ditch her so I can 'run off half-cocked on some damn fool idea.' After a moment, she nods her head slowly.
"You'd better be there when I get there, commander, or God help you when--if--you return from wherever it is you just had to go without me."
The tone of her voice reminds why I'm loathe to really piss her off.
"Yes, ma'am."