A/N

My thanks to Scattered21, YoungBoho, and all my dear friends who helped. Also thank you all for reading and reviewing. This is a short chapter; Sookie insisted on talking some more. Nevertheless, the next one will be solely Eric.

My inspiration for Eric's house is the Çinili Kiosk, or Tiled Pavilion, in the Topkapi Palace of Istanbul, Turkey. Link of its picture you can find in my profile.

From the previous chapter:

A dark haired man with a deep tan is seated on the front steps. Observing me steering my little car in front of Eric's imposing house, he stands in greeting, a genuine smile lighting up his strong features.

10. Inside His Fortress

SPOV

"Tray!" Eric's howl/shout to the man through the half-open car window startles me.

"Eric, you look like an oversized sardine stuck in a yellow submarine," the sturdy man shouts back as he nears the car.

"A sardine sporting a broken leg. Suzana, this is Tray Dawson, my colleague. Tray, Suzana Stackhaus, my gracious savior from a ride home in an ambulance."

Tray doesn't say much, just nodding in acknowledgment. He's a supersized man: I bet you could crack pecans on his biceps. He has dark brown hair beginning to show just a little gray at the temples and a neatly trimmed mustache.

With Tray's silent help, we manage to climb the few front stairs and enter Eric's house through the imposing carved wooden door, Tray carrying Eric almost bridal style. While they look really funny like that, the image is somehow disturbing.

Shyly, I follow them inside. The entry hall is utterly empty, with just a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Only a couple of pairs of shoes are neatly aligned near the white entrance wall.

"Where to, man?" Tray asks, finally speaking in my presence.

"The couch will do for now," Eric offers, a note of weariness evident in my Superstar's reply.

"I also brought you a pair of crutches and a bag of groceries."

"Thank you."

"Thank Amelia," Tray shrugs.

"I would if she had brought them to me in person." I have a feeling there is some unpleasant history behind this.

"I'll be right back," Tray offers apologetically and makes his escape to retrieve the crutches and food supplies.

I remained standing at the entry to the adjacent room. Calling this room a living room is grossly inadequate. It is a huge empty space, with a dome-shaped ceiling, lit by a huge suspended Moroccan light fixture. The only objects in the cavernous space are a big brown L-shaped leather couch, where Tray has carefully arranged Eric, a red Persian carpet in front of it, a big flat-screen TV, a small Turkish coffee table, and some brown cardboard boxes piled in the back of the room. It looks like a dream palace with a story just beginning to unfold. I really hope it will become my dream, an Eric/Sookie fairytale.

"Come in Sookie, take a seat." Embarrassed now, I sink down into the couch cushions, careful to keep a circumspect distance between us.

"I'm sorry I can't be a better host. The kitchen and the fridge are over there." Eric points to a door on the left. "But I am afraid there isn't much in it, except some bottled water and beer."

"Here it is." Tray returns, smiling as he enters the room with a large brown bag and aluminum crutches. He places those near the coach then just stands there for few moments, observing us. Modulating his voice, he gently inquires, "How long will you be stuck in this?" gesturing at the white gypsum that encases Eric's leg.

"About two weeks, then I'll probably get to wear a Velcro fastening split. Do you want to sign my cast? Maybe make me a get well drawing?" Eric smirks, and Tray scowls.

"Don't think so dude, but perhaps the next time, when you break your neck."

"Need anything else before I leave, Eric? I have to get back; there is a system meltdown at one of the sites. Think I told you about it."

"A sponge bath, perhaps. Do you think Amelia would do that for me too?" My gulp is clearly audible at the image that pops into my head. Those lean yet strong muscles under my soapy hands… err, sponge... I would volunteer to help him with that any time. If only he would ask.

"Ha! Funny, Eric. Call if you need something. Bye." And without further ado, he is out of the door. I don't know if Tray spoke five words to me, and I still know nothing much about him.

"Are you hungry?" Eric turns towards me, the tip of his long fingers lightly touching my thigh. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes me realize we are alone, sitting on the same cozy piece of furniture, the heat of his fingers searing the denim fabric of my pants. The sight of his long fingers, shaped like those of a classical pianist, transfixes me. I'm mesmerized by his hand until the movement of his cast, as he adjusts it, snaps me out of my daydreaming.

Oh God, this man is injured, and I am lolling in my inappropriate thoughts about him! I feel like slapping myself.

"Sure, I will check the supplies from Tray. Maybe there's something I can prepare for you." I bolt off the couch, grab the bag, and begin to rummage in it. It is filled with packages full of finger foods and fresh appetizers. "Do you have some serving dishes?"

"Probably so. Feel free to explore the cabinets in the kitchen; I don't spend much time in there myself."

The kitchen was as impressive as the rest of the house, with massive dark wooden cabinets and solid ruby-red Corian countertops with integrated sink, made from the same material. Above the ceramic cook top, there was a striking blue tree-of life-panel, made of hand painted tiles. Most of the appliances discreetly concealed behind furniture wood panels, except the classical looking black oven. A combination of classic and modern, with ethnical accents. Quite nice for one who is a stranger in his own kitchen.

I contrast this chef's delight again my kitchen, with its moth-eaten chairs and table, and battered cabinets. The sink is chipped and stained, and my appliances might have come from the Soviet era. I scowl at the comparison, wondering what I am doing here: Eric is so obviously out of my league.

Eventually, in one of the cabinets filled with never-used chef-quality cookware and Rosenthal china, I locate some platters. After arranging the food on the delicate white and gold dishes, I take a water bottle from the fridge concealed within one of the cabinet door, snare a couple of glasses, and bring it all back into the living room.

"Do you need to take any medicine before eating?"

"No, I won't take pills."

We eat in a silence broken only by my appreciative sounds about the food.

"Delicious, try this, I think it is Sturgeon," I say, passing him some fish in a meunière sauce.

He takes the choice morsel from the pro-offered fork, and a bit of sauce lingers on his lips. Noticing, he casually licks it up with the tip of his pink tongue. I could have done that for him.

"It's good, but just fish. I only hope I don't choke on some bone. For me, food is nothing more than sustenance."

"Sturgeon or not, this is a really good feast. I've never eaten anything this good from a catering company. If only they'd assembled these shrimps on real shells, caviar on white chocolate discs, and a Pinot Gris wine, this would be a heavenly treat. I couldn't imagine a more perfect meal." Yeah, keep on rambling, I think as I feel the blush creep up my neck and warm my cheeks.

"Do you have much experience with caterers?" Eric has a strained look. Good for him for not using too many chemicals, but his abstinence must be painful, too. I notice he has hardly had eaten much from the trays of food I've prepared for him.

"In the Pharmaceutical industry, taking excellent care of the customers is essential, and they expect it. There are plenty of company resources devoted to doing just that, so we have cocktail hours at most presentations and seminars. I manage the events and am responsible for arranging for the catering and open bars. In the last two years we've had... let's see, over thirty events that required extensive catering." I explain, licking the remnants of the delicious food from my fingers. I'm not too proud to enjoy a good meal when it comes my way.

Eric eyes me, a speculative look that has me crossing my legs and wondering if he's about to propose something more exciting than another question about caterers. His next words are both surprising and enticing; I was right about the offer, but it isn't quite the one I've been hoping he would make.

"You know, we are looking for an events assistant. My company has begun to develop an events department over the last six months. Would you be interested in applying for the opening?"

How could I not be interested? I nearly scream. Instead, I consider the possibility of having Eric as a boss. Could I keep things on a 'professional' level?

The real question is would I want to keep our relationship strictly business? Most likely, I would not. Just the thought of seeing Eric every day, sitting across from him at meetings, watching him present in front of a crowded room, taking orders from him… Oh, swoon, what a delicious amount of trouble I could get into with such opportunities.

Dropping my eyes demurely, I softly answer him with, "I don't know, perhaps. May I use your bathroom?" I glance upwards at Eric, disappointed to find him with his eyes closed.

"Of course, Sookie, it is near the kitchen," he says wearily, flicking his hand towards a hallway that leads off the main living room.

Stepping into the bathroom, I can't stop gasping. I have never even dreamed of visiting a hotel with such accommodations, much less finding this sybaritic retreat in a single man's house. Strips of golden mosaics adorn the white tiled walls and floor and a complex chandelier-style light is suspended from the ceiling. All the bathroom fixtures have egg-shaped forms, including the soaking tub in which I imagine Eric looking like Castor, or maybe Pollux in one of Leda's swan eggs. I giggle at the image in my head; Eric is closer than anyone I can picture as a Greek demigod. There is even a separate terrazzo steam shower with several benches, larger than my entire bathroom back home, behind a clear glass panel. I've seen photographs of these types of bathrooms in magazines of luxurious homes in foreign countries but this room alone would barely fit into a standard apartment.

I feel too self-conscious at first to use the round toilet, but nature must be satisfied, and I eventually manage to do my thing. The sight of my tired-looking face in the mirror appalls me; no wonder Eric has been falling asleep on me! I wash up with a large bar of jasmine scented soap, pinching my cheeks for some color, all the while marveling again at how un-Eric-like it all seems here.

Back in the main room, Eric seems to have fallen asleep, so I quietly gather the food and reusing the containers, place it on the shelves in the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator. Taking a last careful look around the kitchen, I'm not certain if it is safe to leave Eric alone, so I return to the far end of the couch, close enough to help, but careful not to awaken him.

I am so tired. These last two days were so off the charts... Riding on a motorcycle, bungee jumping, racetrack accident. These are far too much for a weekend adventure. Maybe I should rest a bit before going home. I snuggle into the buttery-soft leather and pulling my feet up underneath me, I settle my head against the back of the couch. Closing my eyes for just a few minutes, I listen happily to Eric's gentle snoring and begin to imagine this is what my life could be like. If only...

~o~

Morning sun awakens me after what seems likes minutes, but has clearly been hours.

Oh God, it is eight thirty already; I cannot afford to be late for work! Yesterday I called in to excuse myself because of the accident and will bring the medical certificate. But with my luck, my colleagues will think I was injured while bungee jumping and probably dock me a day's pay.

Pushing away the beige wool blanket (where did this come from?) I make a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up for work. Returning to the couch, I find my sandals and refasten them. That's funny, I do not remember taking them off last night. Eric is still asleep so after thinking carefully, I write him a message on the back of one of my business cards and tuck it under a crutch. Gathering my reserve, I swallow my anxiety about the day ahead and storm off to the office.

Only as I park my car in the company lot do I notice that Eric's bag is still in the trunk, next to mine.

A/N

Disclaimer: Again, none of the above characters is mine; I just weave a new tale with CH's toys.

In my profile pictures of Eric's Moroccan chandelier, kitchen furniture, a Tree of life tile mural ceramic design, china, and his bath fixtures.

The next chapter will answer some questions you probably have, especially why Eric is so uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn. He has conflicted emotions, which might take some time to put on paper. The good news is that the next chapter is partially written already.

Thank you for reviewing, your comments are a huge help in keeping this story moving, despite the demands of RL.