A/N When I posted Ch. 2 last week, I meant to give a heads up that this story is going to continue to include flashbacks (and then promptly forgot).

Chapter 3 picks up where Ch. 2 ends, on the first day Eric & Sookie meet, and then jumps forward to Sookie & E.J. in the hospital...

Chapter 3: That Was Then, This Is Now

"Why didn't you stop me?" I hissed, drowned out by the howls and loud laughter around me. I had reached embarrassment overload, the point at which the heat of shame and humiliation turns to cold numbness. Frostbitten, I would be feeling the full brunt of the icy-fiery burn later.

"Why would I have stopped you?" He smirked.

I ignored his flirtation. He was flirting with me, right? I was embarrassed, not stupid, my recent actions notwithstanding. "Who did you say sent you?"

"I didn't."

I threw up my arms in exasperation. He seemed to be enjoying toying with me in the same way a cat might bat around a mouse before going in for the kill. Maybe I deserved it, but it still infuriated me.

I didn't even try to hide the annoyance in my voice. "Okay. So who sent you?"

"Had Peabody."

Big uh-oh. Had Peabody was a long-time family friend, going back to when Gran first started visiting the Cape even before my dad was born. I would need to salvage this situation in a big, huge way.

"Mr. Northman, I'm sorry." Gran had taught me to admit when I was wrong, and I was sure that publicly molesting someone—calling the entire diner's attention to us, rubbing against him like an animal in heat, and grabbing his package—would qualify as a pretty big whoopsie. I extended my hand.

My arm outstretched, I awaited his grasp, feeling the whip and whir of the last few frenzied moments of my life suddenly halted.

He stepped forward, his hips closing in on my hand. And then—finally—he took hold of my hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. "After that introduction, I'd say we're on a first name basis, wouldn't you?" His eyes bore down at me, smoothly and quietly. There was barely a ripple in his composure.

Under almost any other circumstance, I probably would have laughed in his face. Did he think that kind of cheesy routine would work on me? If I didn't already have a mouthful of humble pie, which I suspected I would be eating all afternoon, I might have come back with a snarky remark, something like...like...oh, hell this was a big piece of humble pie.

I picked up Eric's jacket off the floor and led him to the only empty booth as a few remaining catcalls and whistles sounded from across the room. I held up my hand in a half-wave, half-halt kind of gesture, as if to acknowledge, "Yeah, yeah. Real funny, I know. But the show's over now, folks."

Eric took the jacket from my arms and reached in to pull out a business card with the name Leclerq, Northman, & Associates and slid it across the table toward me as he explained, "I'm renting one of the dune shacks in Provincetown from Had."

Had worked for a nonprofit group that administered a motley collection of dune shacks within the Cape Code National Seashore. They really were shacks—no running water, no electricity, minimal furnishings—and held together by a patchwork of reclaimed cedar planks and the fervent will of the renters who fought to keep them from being razed. On a good day, I'd call them ramshackle at best. But their setting was unparalleled, hidden from civilization among the rolling dunes spiked with beach grasses. They were a favorite of artists and the like who wanted to get away and convene with nature and their craft.

I was glad to be distracted from my blunder. "How long have you been renting a shack?" I asked, knowing the waiting list was miles long. He'd settled back, leaning against the wall to stretch out his long legs diagonally, comfortable in his own body even tucked into a cramped spot.

"Three years. My architecture firm is in Beacon Hill, but I come to the south shore a lot. So during the summer, I move my base down here."

"Beacon Hill," I blurted out.

Actually, I said it more like a snort, not even bothering to disguise my scorn. Beacon Hill was a historic district in Boston, one of the most expensive places to own property in a town full of expensive neighborhoods. Think Boston Brahmin. He was wealthy. Way out of my league. I didn't know why Had had sent him my way, but at that moment, I knew there was little I could do for him, except maybe serve him some lunch.

"Manners, Sookie," Gran would have admonished. Acting as my own puppet master, I tugged at the features of my face, transforming my grimace into a perky smile. Eric, meanwhile, had ignored my obvious gaffe.

"Can I get you anything to eat? Lunch is on me." As much as I disdained his wealth, after the way I had behaved, it was the least I could do, though it killed me to know it would be coming out of my tips for the day.

"So the gravy train hasn't left the station?"

Cocky bastard. (And just to make things clear, when I say "cocky," I am merely referring to his arrogant self-confidence and nothing more.)

Eric had picked up a menu. His hands were huge, just like the rest of him. Yeah, that too. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks just thinking about it. But oddly enough, he had a certain kind of grace I don't normally associate with men, at least not with men who wear leather and drive a Corvette. Does it sound strange to call him graceful?

At the same time all of these thoughts were running through my head, I was watching Eric's fingers lightly skimming and circling across the surface of the menu, probing at the edges and folds, and turning it in his hands. Around and around. Around and around…

He glanced up. I felt like he'd just listened in on my private conversation with myself and blushed.

"Don't eat out much?" I went on counter-attack. He still hadn't opened the menu. "Would you like me to show you how a menu works?"

"Manners, Sookie," I counseled myself. Truth was, though I'd tried to contain all of the embarrassment and other confusing feelings this man brought out of me, I was spilling over emotionally, pouring out the unrefined, impulsive parts of me. And the more I revealed about my flawed inner workings, the more exposed I felt and the more I spilled. Talk about a vicious cycle.

Without a word, he handed the menu to me. I could see, quickly, that someone had glued the damn thing together. He handed me the rest of the stack stored with the condiments. They too were glued shut.

I sighed heavily, knowing I'd be assembling more menus late into the night. "So how 'bout I give you the run-down of the specials and we'll take it from there?"

He nodded.

"Let's see…"

I trailed off, thinking at once about the protein he would need to take care of that athletic body of his, not obnoxiously muscle-bound, but firm and sculpted under the stretch of his t-shirt. With our difference in height, my head could probably tuck in right underneath the solid mass of his chest…hmm…

Snapping out of my lapse, I hated my thoughts and started babbling.

"You don't look like a salad or pub food kind of guy, so I'll skip the lobster roll special. It's too warm of a day for clam chowder, which is a shame because it's really good. Scrod is just too weird. I mean, what is scrod anyway? There's no fish in the sea called a scrod. The lobsters are messy, and I doubt you'd wear a lobster bib. So how 'bout the prime rib along with today's side, roasted butternut squash, and a baked potato? No sour cream. I'm guessing that you can do without the beans and brown bread, but I'll bring you some corn bread instead. And some Indian pudding for dessert."

He didn't actually look like an Indian pudding kind of guy, but I threw it out there to see what he'd do with it.

"What will I have to drink?"

"Just water." I pointed to the glass already on the table. I really had no idea, but it would save me a trip.

"Okay," he said as I was already walking away. But then calling to me, he added, "Oh, and Sookie, skip the Indian pudding."

Hmmph.

I passed by René's table on the way back to the kitchen. He called out, "Sookie, on your cheek! It's still there!"

"René, you're killing me!"

I returned with the corn bread. Eric nodded his head toward a framed photograph on the wall immediately next to him.

"Yeah, Sam's a huge Red Sox fan." That was an understatement. He was insanely proud of his picture with Curt Schilling, pitcher.

"Really?" He pointed.

I leaned in closer, noticing, for the first time, that someone had Photoshopped Sam to make it look like he was wearing a Yankees jersey and holding a pennant with the year 1918 stamped on it. 1918, as everyone around here knew, was the start of a painfully long period in which the Red Sox failed to clinch the World Series championship. Some attributed the stretch of unrealized dreams to the sale of Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees, a mistake referred to as the "Curse of the Bambino." Whatever it was, fans had suffered a lifetime of shattered baseball dreams until 2004, when their stunning and unprecedented comeback from a three-game deficit in the playoffs led them to a sweep of the Series. This was a culture of rabid fandom bred right into their DNA.

"Oh! I think I'll take care of this myself before Sam sees it." I hated to think about how Sam, generally a mature and reasonable man, would handle this prank.

I reached across the table to grab at the picture, which seemed to have caught on the hook. Meanwhile, Eric, his head turned sideways, his face so close that I could feel the heat of his breath on my hand, watched me for a moment before reaching over to help. Distracted by the glint of prickly stubble I was just noticing on his chin, I jumped when his hands brushed against mine. And then suddenly I was aware that my cleavage was practically shoved in his face. The photo clattered across the tabletop as I leaped back.

And this was how the bond seemed to be going between us—a rubber band-like connection that stretched to its max before snapping back. At this moment, he seemed to be sensing the way I had been knocked off kilter, both literally and figuratively, and took the opportunity to prod for personal information.

"Sookie. That's an unusual name."

I took the bait. "Yeah, that's my mama's doing. She had stars in her eyes and her heart in warmer places. Some say I'm like a fish out of water around here, but that doesn't make much sense to me since we live on the water." Even as the words burbled out of my mouth, I hated their raw, unsophisticated ooze. And I hated the way I was feeling "less than," my psychic sore spot of social class smarting.

My rambling was making little sense, which seemed to be amusing him, judging by the flickering smile behind his eyes. They were an unusual shade of blue. Really stunning blue eyes…

Without another word, I darted away, escaping his predatory posturing and running toward the shelter of the kitchen.

"Laf, do you think you could spare me the lecture about how my insecurities lead me to do really stupid things and get right to the part where we're joking about it? 'Cuz I don't think I can handle any lecturing right now."

"Grabbing a man's crotch is not exactly what I had in mind when I said you should get back in the game."

At that moment, Sam entered the kitchen from the back door leading outside. "I don't want to know what this is about. Just please tell me I'm not going to be sued for sexual harassment."

Looking at me pointedly, Laf said nothing more than, "Order up! Table 4."

Since the kitchen was clearly no longer a safe haven, I grabbed the food and darted back to Eric.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Pushing his card toward me for the second time that day, he explained. "I specialize in old homes. I help people with historic properties make repairs and update and remodel their homes and…"

Pointedly leaving his card on the table, I interrupted him, understanding now his attraction to me and immediately uninterested in hearing any more. "Do you have any idea how many people are interested in my property? It's the one thing I own that everyone seems to want a piece of. And as I've told the long line of people who got to me before you did, I'm not interested. And that's my final word."

I shoved his plate closer to him, urging him to drop the subject and eat. This would clearly end all contact we would have with each other. End of subject.

It was true. At least once a month, either a private individual or someone representing someone else with commercial interests, wanted to buy my little piece of heaven. And they all had deep pockets, but didn't dig too deep, thinking I was an easy target, in need of cold hard cash. He was just like the rest of them…except for the fact that he was extremely easy on the eyes…but this would be the end of that.

By some strange twist in circumstances, I had come to own this property, as if it were meant to be mine. I didn't take that lightly. It hadn't been in the family for long. Gran had inherited it from a dear, eccentric, wealthy friend who left it to her when he died. She'd passed it on to me, knowing how much I cherished it, and opted to give Jason cash instead.

Although no mortgage remained on the house, the property taxes, insurance, and upkeep were enormous, especially since Gran, for all her strengths, had overlooked maintenance over the years. She had left me a fund for handling these costs, but now, that money was gone, thanks to a series of really poor investment decisions.

"I'm not here to buy your property. But I would like to see it. Had told me it's a remarkable old saltbox. I hear the view is stunning, too. I'd love to take a look around to see how it was constructed, what materials were used... get an idea of how old it is. It's a personal interest of mine, and also it helps me with my clients. Sometimes we run into tricky remodeling issues. Actually, that almost always happens. But getting to know these houses better helps me anticipate problems so we're not hit with as many surprises. Sometimes I even have clients who are interested in designing new houses that look old—you know—for those who don't want a McMansion kind of house, but are more interested in old world craftsmanship. Those are my favorite kinds of projects."

It was the most he'd said to me since he'd walked through the door. He sounded like a different person, clearly passionate about his work. I believed him.

Maybe.

He was still too good looking.

On the other hand, he earned extra points for appreciating the unique character of my home.

I didn't know what to say. So I copped out. "Excuse me. I need to check on some other tables." Then I avoided him.

Eventually, though, as it became clear that Eric was finished eating, I needed to go by and check on him. He started to slide out of the booth as I neared him. He pushed his card, still on the table, toward me one more time. "Call me anytime. I'll be around all summer, as soon as the weather stays warm."

I really did not want the ball left in my court, so I pushed the responsibility back on him. "Feel free to drop by whenever and take a look. Usually I'm off on Tuesdays, and on other days during the week, I'm around in the mornings until about 10:00. And if I'm not there, then I'm here." Right. That just about summed up my life.

Eric stood. His size and height continued to keep me off guard, but there he was again, hovering over me and looking down. And then suddenly he was reaching toward me, gently wiping my cheek with his thumb. I didn't jerk back. In fact, what startled me more than anything else was the fact that I let him touch me. Whatever had been slipping between us took hold at that moment. I felt the catch of something. What it was, I didn't know. But something had changed, even if it was only a tenuous little toehold.

"Well I tried," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're wearing the chef's shade of lipstick on your cheek."

"Oh!" My hands flew to my cheeks, swiping vigorously, probably smearing Laf's signature Raspberry Infatuation.

"See you," he said. And with that, he ambled out the door.

Immediately, I headed back to the kitchen for another respite. Laf was quiet, for once, which seemed to be what I needed at the time, to allow the inner turmoil to subside. Grabbing a cold drink of water, I noticed Eric was still outside, holding a piece of paper, cell phone to ear, and circling his car, seemingly inspecting it closely.

"Looks like Speed Racer might have gotten a taste of Main St.." Lafayette broke the silence. Fender benders on the narrow street happened every day. I wondered how much Corvette repairs cost.

The rest of the day passed without much incident, the crowd apparently having been sated by my show, though it was busy. I cleaned up more than my share of salt-and-pepper shakers turned upside down, mopped up a big water mess in the bathroom, and on several occasions, peeled a sign off Arlene's back that said, "I work at Durgin Park on my nice days," a reference to the Boston diner's well-known brand of surly wait staff.

At the end of the dinner rush, when we'd settled down into the trickle-in, quiet kind of crowd that would sustain the rest of the evening, I finally had a chance to sit down and take a break. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. Attempting to retrieve my messages, I grumbled when I realized that someone had changed my language feature to Portuguese and that I'd have to figure out how to switch it back. In Portuguese.

There was only one new message. I barely recognized his voice. Gone was the solid assuredness. His tone cracked with annoyance and hinted at vulnerability.

"Hello I'm calling for Larry. My name is Eric Northman. I'd like to talk with him about the damage he noted that he caused to my car. I've been unable to locate the damage, but I'd like him to call me back as soon as possible." And then he'd left both his cell phone and office numbers. Twice.

I cringed. Was he really naïve enough to fall for that prank? Who, I wondered, had put the fake note there? With my number? The image of his circling his car, scrutinizing it for damage that didn't really exist, filtered back, now funny.

"Hunh," I mused. That's interesting.

So he did have an Achilles Heel. So he wasn't cocky to the core. So there was a real person in there. Just a hint of it was enough for me. He'd intrigued me, for sure. I smiled, knowing I'd be seeing him again, and that this could turn out to be an interesting summer after all.

E.J. slept beside me in his bassinette, his sweet lips pursing and smooching rhythmically on an imaginary nipple. The little guy was already a champion eater, latched on to me during his every waking hour, or so it seemed. I'll spare you the comparison I could easily make with his daddy.

This morning I would be discharged from the hospital, sent out into the world with this new little life whose every need I would be tending. I tried not to think about it too much, knowing that I'd just be ramping up the anxiety and not helping either of us.

"One step at a time," I told myself.

So here I sat, holding my cell phone, hesitating briefly right on the cusp of the next step, before finally pushing the buttons that would flick me back through time. I skipped back through a year's worth of saved messages until I landed on this one, from Eric, asking for Larry.

Yeah, I'd saved it. I just couldn't force myself to erase it, though I hadn't listened to it since that first day I met him.

His voice startled me. For so long, during the months since I'd severed our ties—all during the life-changing rites of passage of pregnancy and childbirth—he had lived only in my imagination, fading from a bold presence to the whisperings of dried leaves scuttling across the pavement. In his place, my own imaginings and musings of him had taken over, becoming louder and morphing along with me as time passed.

But I had changed so much that my memories of him had become more of my own creation than anything based on reality. This saved recording sounded like a stranger to me. It was unsettling and jarring to bring his real voice back into my head, not the one I'd cultivated over time. This was the real Eric, a living human, his own person independent from me.

So long ago, I had saved this message, amused by the way it had revealed his vulnerabilities. But now I no longer heard the humor, knowing the way I would soon hurt him. My pen scratched out his office number on my notepad. His cell phone lost to the waves one afternoon last summer, he hadn't gotten a new one before we'd parted. This number was the only one I had for him.

I dialed it before I lost my nerve.

Within one ring, a man answered.

"Leclerq and Associates," the voice said.

A/N Hello? Did you make it all the way here to the bottom? Thanks for reading! And thanks for all of the reviews & author/story alerts/favorites & PMs on the last chapter. It really does help keep me plugging away at it.

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris, and I am not receiving any monetary compensation through their use. I'm just taking them on a tour of New England.