Recap of Previous Chapter: Sookie and Tara finally escape the hospital. On the ride home, Sookie recalls Halloween, the night she announced her pregnancy at the diner, and ends up having a love life chat with Tara.

Chapter 6: An Invitation Rescinded, Another Offered

"It's like a freaking puzzle." Jason threw up his arms in exasperation.

"Lafayette, it's twisted," Sam pointed out.

"No it's not! Look at the picture. This piece should be facing out."

"Yeah, but look at the pouch down here. It's twisted, I'm telling you."

"Here, you do it, then." Lafayette pulled the baby sling off his shoulder and threw it at Sam.

From my perch on my green recliner, nicknamed the Green Monster, I was witnessing four grown adults being defeated by a piece of fabric with a buckle. We'd already watched an instructional video (yes, a video) which made it look really easy to use in a variety of positions. It wasn't.

Sam fooled with the fabric for a bit before slinging it over one shoulder. I rested my head, even started to doze off, when suddenly I heard Sam shout, ""I got it! Quick, Sookie. Get the baby!"

"Hold on. Hold on. He's not going anywhere. And were you planning on feeding him?"

I had eased myself out of the chair and was stooping low pick up E.J. out of his carrier. My head suddenly swimming, I grabbed at the handle for a bit of support.

"Whoa, there!" Sam reached for me while Tara swooped down to pull out E.J..

"Have a seat. We can do this later."

"I got it. Let's figure it out so I can have a set of free hands when I'm alone."

Sam was on a roll. "Okay, so the trick is to always keep the buckle right here where you'd pin a corsage. And pull this little padded flap up against your stomach. Once you get E.J. in the pocket, you pull on the tail, but make sure you keep the buckle in place."

He draped the sling across my shoulder as Tara tucked E.J. into the pocket. Tugging on the belt, E.J. pulled up snug and secure to just the right height.

"It's discreet, right? You can't even tell the dairy bar's open for business."

Drawing strongly, E.J. let out a noisy snort and grunt.

"Aw, that ain't right," Jay complained, walking away from me as someone knocked on the front door.

Opening it, I found L.L. standing just below the front step on my walkway, holding a small present and a bouquet of pink double tulips from his gardens. The big grin on his face, flashing like a neon sign, told me he hadn't taken our "heart-to-heart" conversation to heart. My own heart sank. I liked L.L.—loved him even—but I needed to make a break from him in order to move on.

"Hey, L.L."

"I noticed you're home." He started up the step casually, not even noticing the way I lingered in the doorway, blocking his path, until he'd nearly bumped into E.J. and me. I remained firmly planted, wanting him to at least begin to understand just how our boundaries would be re-established, that he could no longer walk into my house without an invitation.

He took another step closer, confusion and uncertainty registering on his face as I held still for just that fraction of a second longer. E.J., meanwhile, had gotten a groove on, practically snarling into my breast. Within an arm's length of me, L.L. looked down, noticing him for the first time.

It was a needed icebreaker, perfect in its timing, now that I had stopped L.L. at the front door. "This sling is great, but you should have seen how many adults it took to figure it out."

L.L.'s expression turned sour—macaroni salad sour. "I put the video right by your VCR when we were setting up all your gear."

Crap. This would be harder than I had expected.

Finally stepping aside I offered, "We're a little busy right now, but it's no problem if you'd like to go back to the guest room and get your belongings."

"I brought you these." He thrust the tulips and present in my direction before stepping into the house to face my guests, silent in their reception. L.L. tended to do that—to make a crowd quiet and tense. Maybe it was his formal mannerisms, stiff and awkward, though with this crowd, their knowledge of our history was enough to give him a frosty greeting.

Finally it was Jason, blissfully oblivious to the social cues, who offered a friendly, "Hey, Bill." The rest followed suit with an uncoordinated chorus of head nods and "Williams."

"I noticed the balloons and banners and saw the cars, so I figured you'd come home."

"Yep. Just about half an hour ago. If you don't mind, I'm going to have a seat here. But feel free to go on back and get your things."

I settled back into the Green Monster while the others wandered around aimlessly, giving each other knowing looks. Fed up with them, I asked Jay to help get them something to eat.

L.L. came back a few minutes later with his suitcase, saying he'd put his linens in the washer. He hovered near my chair before abruptly stooping in front of me with his present. Untying the bow and opening the lid, he pulled out a pretty, delicately-beaded, stretchy bracelet that he slipped over my wrist. "I heard one of the nurses in the hospital suggesting this to another patient. It's to help you remember which side to breastfeed on."

His timing couldn't have been any worse. What might have been a sweet, kind gesture between the two of us was awkward and embarrassing in the presence of an audience. I knew what he was doing—trying to keep himself connected to me, trying to make me accept him in front of others, verifying his importance in my life. But I was pissed he was putting this kind of pressure on me at this moment.

The problem was he really had been—and would always be—important to my life. He'd been an intimate part of too many major personal life events to easily and casually relegate him to the sidelines. Mourning Gran's death. My first major relationship. Losing my virginity. Pregnancy. Giving birth. He could not just be plucked out.

Jay blundered on. "How is she supposed to remember whether that's the side she needs to feed on or whether that's the side she just fed on?"

It was an innocent enough question, and one that frankly I had wondered too, given how tired I was. But L.L. snapped back defensively, "I'm sure Sookie will be smart enough to figure that out."

Though I had been prepared to handle L.L. with kind firmness, his insult to Jay's intelligence pushed me over the edge. "L.L. just hang your key on the hook by the front door."

He lost his cool, his face transforming beyond the macaroni salad look to something hard and mean and steely as he worked to unwind the key from its ring. It jangled in his hands as the rest of us looked on silently. Finally, after minutes of wrestling with it, he shot me a pointed look as he deliberately placed the key on its hook. Without saying goodbye, he left.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the rest began talking at once. "Did you see his face? Nice job, Sookie. What a jerk…"

I wasn't interested in hearing everyone dissect L.L., insulting me and my judgment at the same time. In fact, I'd reached my limit for the day. I handed E.J. to Tara. "Wake me up in two hours if he doesn't wake up first, please."

And then I excused myself, made a trip to the bathroom, took a painkiller, and promptly crashed in bed.

"Hey, there," he said simply, startling me from my position on my belly in the sand. I saw his boots first.

"Oh!" I glanced up to find Eric looking down at me in amusement. "You scared me!"

I was trapped, really. It was a good thing that I hadn't jumped up quickly. Not expecting to have any visitors, I'd untied the strings to my bikini. Fumbling, I reached behind myself to get everything secure once again.

He squatted down next to me. "You said Tuesday was your day off and I could drop by anytime, right?"

"Sure." Once again, though, here I was, thrown off kilter in front of him. Still flustered, my fingers weren't working right as I struggled with the strings. I felt like a flipped beetle, legs up in the sand.

"I'd help you out there, but I wouldn't want to seem too forward. You know?"

I stopped. With that smirk on his face, he was definitely goading me, reminding me of our first encounter.

"Go ahead," I dared him. (Go ahead, I dared myself.)

His fingers nimbly pulled at the strings. "How's that?"

"Good, thanks." I decided to just forge ahead with him. "I wasn't expecting you so early in the season. Isn't it still chilly in the shacks?" I knew they weren't heated or well-insulated.

"Not any chillier than it is here in a bikini." I stopped again. He wasn't letting any forging ahead happen. But that was okay. I could play his game too.

Casually, but purposefully, I reached down to adjust myself and make sure everything was tucked into place. And then I pushed myself up out of the sand, standing in full glory in front of him, well aware of the way that the brisk breeze was bringing my girls to life.

There was no doubt I caught him by surprise, that his eyes smoldered for the briefest of moments before being snuffed out. In that flicker of transformation, my own boldness turned on me, scuttling away and leaving me feeling laid bare and buck naked. I scrambled for my towel, cursing myself for the way I was practically throwing myself at him, and wrapped it snugly around me.

But I wasn't ready to fold just yet, not by far. I shook myself and tried to turn the conversation once again to more casual chit-chat. "Come on up. I'll show you around." I motioned toward the path up to the house. Barefoot, I led him through bits of broken shells, through the bank of beach roses, and up onto the lawn.

"Did you have any trouble finding the house? I know it's kind of hidden."

"Had gave me good directions and also warned me about your driveway."

I looked toward my driveway, and saw, not his red Corvette, but a beat-up junker of a Jeep.

"No Corvette?"

"It's in the shop getting repaired from being hit out in front of Merlotte's" He paused for emphasis. "Someone named Larry."

He was obviously toying with me again. But remembering the way that his cocky assuredness had broken that day, revealing a hint of vulnerability, I felt the thrill all over again. What was he up to now? Goading me into another chase? Laying himself open to me? Which one was he: badass womanizer or charming boy next door?

Eric had stopped on the lawn, his hands in his back pockets, looking from the house out onto the bay, appreciating the view. So was I—appreciating the view, that is. He was wearing that belt again.

Abruptly, he looked back at me. Embarrassed at having been caught looking at him, I babbled. "So this home hasn't been in my family for too long. My gran inherited it nearly 20 years ago from a dear friend, and then when she died, she left it to me. So I have no idea how old it is. Most of the repair work completed in more recent years was done by the previous owner, who was a bit of an eccentric. You'll see where he did his own handiwork and used whatever reclaimed materials he could scrounge up. A lot of the work is mismatched."

I started walking toward the house, but he remained firm, pointing. "This style of house, the saltbox, got its name from the way salt boxes used to be shaped. It's a style that evolved over time. Originally, there was the simple rectangular shape, like this portion of your house, here." He pointed to the main section with my front door. "Then, as people prospered and wanted to add more space, they added this back part." He pointed toward my kitchen area. "It is thought that the addition was built to only one story in order to save on taxes. But eventually this look developed into a style of its own."

Again, I started to walk toward the house, but he didn't budge yet.

"Sometimes you can tell whether a house was built in separate pieces by looking at the roof line. A smooth, unbroken roof line can indicate that the back portion was built at the same time as the front part. But that's not always the case. Sometimes as repairs were made to the original house, an entirely new roof was added over the main house and the addition, creating a smooth roof line."

"You love your work," I blurted out.

He turned a stone face to me. "I'm boring you."

"No! I love it!"

He smiled back. "Good."

There it was again—the way he first drew me in, then knocked me off kilter, followed by something that tamed my inner turmoil. I couldn't decide if it was exciting or exhausting.

"Come on in," I urged. "I don't normally invite strange men into my house, but since Had sent you to me, I'm sure you're safe enough."

"Maybe I should be worried about you."

I was just about to snap back at him when his hand reached out for me, brushing against my arm as we stood on the threshold. "Sookie, it's a beautiful home."

I didn't know it at the time, but later I would look back on this exchange as the moment when my house shifted and heaved, opened wide without cracking apart. Swallowed us whole.

Stepping inside, I noticed him taking a deep breath.

I didn't need to breathe to know the smell. "It never gets old."

His eyes flickered to mine, startled.

"I mean, of course it's an old house, but that smell, even though it's centuries old—it never grows old. You know what I mean? It's not one of those smells that fades into the background. It's always here. I always notice it. It pokes at me."

He nodded. "Old wood. It's all around us. Some people called it musty."

I could tell he didn't agree. "I know! Can you imagine? Even my gran tried to cover it up with dishes of potpourri and Yankee candles. But I wanted none of that stuff. Smells are powerful reminders of feelings. I want to remember. And the smell of this house, it goes straight to my heart.

"Some people like the smell of new wood. Of a fresh start."

"I guess that's fine for some. To each, his own, right? But I like thinking about what's been. All of it. Everything. Good things, bad things. The whole shebang."

"A lot of things must have happened in this house over the years." His arms opened wide.

"Right! I like to imagine. Like this little dent in this molding here. Maybe Gran banged into it one day while she was vacuuming. Or maybe my brother Jason hit it with one of his toys. Or maybe Fintan—that's the man who owned this house before Gran—accidentally gouged it with a tool. I'll never know. But I like it right there. Just where it is. I wouldn't dream of fixing it."

I paused, suddenly aware of how much I had spilled. When I glanced up, I noticed he was looking at me, and when our eyes met, he immediately shifted, scanning across door frames, moldings, floor boards, nails, window panes, and light switches. I wanted him to see it all. I was proud of my house. Though I hadn't been born here, and though it hadn't been in the family for long, relative to its entire history, this house was where I had done most of my growing up, where I'd been loved. I'd happily show off every quirky corner to him.

Glancing at me first for permission, he pulled open a crawl space door.

"Look at this." He pointed out what he called a mortise and tenon joint, explaining that this kind of workmanship was standard back in the 1600s, when nails were actually more expensive to use.

"Do you really think this house is that old?"

"Are you kidding me? This house might have been one of the original houses in North Dormer."

He'd hoisted himself out of the crawlspace and was unscrewing a light switch to reveal a portion of loose plaster. Pulling a knife out of his front pocket, he gently scraped away a small piece. "Here. Do you see this?" Fine hair-like pieces stuck out of the plaster.

"What's that?"

"Animal hair."

"Real animal hair?"

"Yeah, like from cattle or hogs. It was mixed with lime—probably from oyster shells around here—water, and sand to make a plaster that's applied over sections of wood strips called lath." He looked up, his forehead wrinkling as he glanced from one end of the ceiling to the other. "It's hard to say, but I think this wall was originally a few feet that way." He pointed. "It's not necessary to fix it now, but do you see how this wall is kind of bowed out, like it's pregnant? That's the plaster loosening from the wood lath behind it."

Together, we explored every inch of the house. As the afternoon went on, he tugged at windows, crawled into dark spaces, peeked behind loose boards, skimmed his hands across walls, examined door frames, and generally got to know every nook and cranny. Just when I thought there was nothing more to be discovered about its inner workings, he asked for a ladder, and then climbed up into the space above my kitchen.

Suddenly, just his head poked down. I laughed at the sight.

"You have wattle and daub up here."

Was he deadly serious or intensely excited? Somehow, for him, it seemed the same. "Excuse me?"

"Sookie, there's a wattle-and-daub wall here. Maybe the best preserved section of wattle and daub I've ever seen."

"That's a good thing, right?"

He chuckled. "Better than good. Remember what I told you about the plaster and lath on that other wall? Wattle and daub is a similar, more primitive method used by early colonial settlers. I'm stunned it's still here. Mind if I take a picture?"

"Of course not."

But he'd already gotten a driven, single-minded kind of set to his mouth, not even waiting for my answer before he'd strode out to his car, returning with a big, fancy-looking camera. I took a seat at the kitchen table, watching the light from his camera flash overhead like bolts of thunderless lightning.

He still had that intense look on his face as he was climbing down the ladder, which is maybe why he didn't notice me at first standing right there, his expression changing to surprise.

"Now I see how you get so dirty." I reached toward him to swipe some cobwebs off his shoulder. "The maid missed those about 200 years ago."

And then, just like that, the house around us shushed its resonant hum. We stood before each other, the full length of our bodies hovering just outside the point where two magnets would snap together.

"Do you feel that too?" I asked, my voice caught in a skipped whisper.

Silent stillness passed back and forth between us until suddenly, he committed the first move. My body alerted to that flicker of motion, that stirring of underbrush, and—fighting instincts to flee—stayed, held ground, even invited him with a slight sway of hips. Watching his hands reach toward me, I felt the long, lonely stretch of touchless nights and the lovely, jangly shiver of anticipation. Finally, his arms slinked around my waist.

Pulling me closer, he leaned down, resting his forehead against the top of my head. He seemed lost in thought until he breathed sharply, seemingly on the verge of a verbal leap. The words he would speak would release any inhibitions.

"Sookie, I'm just passing through for the summer. I can't commit to anything else. I have…obligations."

"My life is complicated too." I sighed with relief against him, eagerly anticipating a summer of carefree abandonment, and tilted my mouth toward his. He was already there, brushing his lips against mine purposefully, parting them, sharing warmth.

As far as first kisses go, this one was epic, long and slow and sweet and incomparable-just like a first kiss should be-nurtured and coddled and coaxed on a low burn that later would be hard to control without flaring. But at that moment—at that very moment when our lips joined—the gentle tug of our first kiss stretched on and on like a pulled piece of taffy, warm and soft—lingering, lingering, and lingering still—until finally broken, trailed wispy smiles.

And then we spontaneously combusted.

Without giving it any thought, I released the towel still wrapped around me, standing before him in nothing more than my bikini. Immediately, his fingers plucked at the strings of my top, the scraps falling to the ground. "I've been meaning to do that all afternoon," he laughed as he kissed his way down my neck, sounding deadly serious at the same time. His warm breath slipped into the crevices of my throat. My own fingers had found their way to the nape of his neck, where I tugged to release his hair. He pressed his solid form against my bare body, drawing a long, jagged breath out of both of us.

We tripped and groped our way to the parlor then, shedding clothes along the way, and tumbled onto the sofa in front of the cavernous fireplace. Though for now the fireplace yawned dark and empty, the blackened bricks told the story of centuries of fire and heat. Here, my breasts would spill over his warm hands. Here, hard and soft flesh would meet. And here, the shadow of his broad shoulders would fold over me like a cloak.

"Look at me," Eric directed in that bold, confident voice of his. But when I pushed against his shoulders, he yielded, flipping over with me onto the floor. Here, I would brace my palms against his thrumming chest. Here, his hands would ply the flesh of my hips and thighs. Here I would not be contained.

The house held us, held quiet, uttered not a single moan or creak, our panting and labored breathing stuffing the silence, splitting its seams. When the moment came, the house swelled and gasped, drawing its whooshing breath over us through its gaping mouth. And its hand-hewn timbers, still lithe and supple, would give, but not give way.

For a moment, we both lay absolutely still, joined intimately. I felt for sure that all the sturdy parts of me had turned to jelly. My surroundings now back in focus, I looked at the chaos around us—the strewn pillows, clothes, afghans, and condom wrapper. And then, stretching my arms out, I set free a deep belly laugh that sounded like a stranger to me. "That was amazing."

Below, he observed me in smug amusement before joining my laughter.

"Come on," I said, abruptly climbing off of him. "I don't think you've seen my shower head yet."

A/N: So... big chapter in the storyline. I thought long & hard about this one, which is why I delayed posting it, and I'm really curious about your thoughts...What do you think about their relationship? Do they have a connection? Is it just sex? Something more? Is it sleazy? Romantic? Messed up? Something else? All of the above?

~Sookie's recliner, The Green Monster, is named after the big green wall that prevents many homeruns from being hit in Fenway Park.

~Thanks, makesmyheadspin, & peppermintyrose too.~

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris. I am just taking them on a tour of New England.