A/N: Wow! I am humbled by the response to this story! A different endeavor for me, but definitely fun to write. Glad everyone is enjoying it. Let's start moving things along. We have to get them together in 8 chapters. Now's a good place to start. The life situations of the characters are drastically different, but they are essentially the same people. That is what I am trying to stick to. Enjoy!

A quick squeal of feedback sounded as the music stopped. We were still holding on to each other. Chuck turned, looking over his shoulder at the podium next to our table, where a nicely dressed woman had stepped up to the podium. When he turned back, he looked pale. His palm felt sweaty against my hand.

"Oh boy," he muttered. He let go of me, too quickly, almost tripping me.

"They're about to read the donation list. Wanna…get some air?" he asked quickly, sputtering his words. He was already pulling me by my wrist before I even agreed to accompany him.

We were weaving through the crowd and then we were in the vestibule outside the function room. I was double stepping in my heels to keep up with his long strides.

"Won't they…be wondering where you are?" I asked curiously.

My voice seemed to make him aware of his hand holding my wrist, because he released me quickly, like I was too hot to handle.

"They just…read the list. That's what Ellie told me. I just…need some air."

He was still pale, uncomfortable, and fidgety.

"So no speech?" I asked lightly, trying to joke with him, maybe put him at ease a little.

"Good Lord, no," he sputtered. "There is no way I would have come if I had to do that, no matter what Ellie said, even if I knew I'd meet you here."

Randomly, I wondered how Chuck could be the CEO and founder of a successful business in New York City and still be so ill at ease in front of people. But I stopped walking forward, almost stumbling when I heard what he said, really heard it— the second part. My skin got so warm it felt prickly, like I could be getting hives.

I had never seen anyone blush and go pale at the same time, but Chuck managed to do it. He had his hand over his mouth when he turned around.

"You know my palms sweat, and that I ramble when I'm nervous…now you know I also lose my inner filter. Gone," he added dramatically, waving his other hand in front of himself.

I thought eating and then dancing had helped him relax. I hadn't just imagined it, right? He seemed calm when we were dancing, when he was singing to me. Of course, doing both of those things myself had shaken me up like a bottle of soda, ready to explode.

Why was he all upset again?

I was ready to ask him when the framed placard on its stand at the function room door caught my attention. I saw Chuck's name at the top of the list. This was the list the hostess was going to read, prompting Chuck's desire to flee.

I scanned it quickly. He was at the top, apparently because he had donated the most this year. A whopping $250,000 dollars. That was almost quadruple my yearly salary. The donation was to the Substance Abuse and Outreach Clinic at Westside Medical Center, the hospital where Ellie and Devon worked.

I instantly thought of his ex-wife and what little I knew from Ellie. No wonder he wanted to bolt out of there. My being here with him had only made it worse, I guessed, even if he had let it slip in a roundabout way that he liked being here with me.

He liked being here with me…

I was still out of sorts, feeling torn in half from wanting and fearing the same thing so badly it was painful. He sensed something. I don't know what he sensed, or how he sensed it, other than he listened and he paid attention to me every minute we had been together so far. He saw something on my face that told him I was in turmoil.

Almost instantly, his own discomfort was forgotten. He studied me, his forehead furrowed with concern.

"Come on, Sarah," he said softly, taking my wrist again.

I was still warm from the wine…and my thoughts…but it was less stuffy in the hallway, easier to breathe.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

He never let go of me, gently sliding his hand down from my wrist and threading his fingers through mine. He was holding my hand. It was intimate, but I didn't take it as a romantic gesture. He was guiding me somewhere.

"The gallery," he explained, as if I should know what that meant. We were in an art museum. Wasn't the whole place a gallery?

We emerged into an open room, through a set of glass doors, to see several sofas and plush chairs positioned strategically throughout. The ceiling was vaulted, and it was quite humid in the room. A fluttering thought about the ideal atmosphere for priceless artwork crossed my mind. Each wall was lined with paintings, all beautiful works of art. "I was waiting in here before you arrived," he added.

I recalled that I was on time, which meant he had come early. I wondered if it was because of his nerves, his fear of being late making his nerves worsen.

Not mingling, not networking, or whatever it was people did at these things. Instead, he was avoiding people while he waited for me.

He was more relaxed now that we were alone. He released my hand and smiled, tilting his head, indicating I should walk around and admire the paintings. "Better than Bob Ross, I promise," he said with a soft chuckle.

I didn't know what he meant, but my attention had been stolen by the paintings in front of me, so I never responded.

Slowly, we strolled around the room, moving counter to one another. I assumed we would meet back at the beginning. This room contained modern art, it seemed. Abstract art.

I was a musician by trade, but all forms of art intrigued me. People who have art in their souls understand other mediums, at least that was what my professors at UC Berkeley always told me. Chuck was a software engineer, or something like that, which seemed the exact opposite of me. But he studied each painting with a discerning eye, taking his time and admiring each one patiently. When I would steal a glance at him, I could see the intelligence in his eyes, and I wondered what thoughts were running through his mind as he took everything in.

I stopped at a painting that struck me. It reminded me of Jackson Pollock, but it wasn't his work, instead a lesser known artist from the same time period and style. It looked like someone had left the canvas on the floor and hurled globs of black paint from a brush onto it. Heavy lines, pooled paint, pinpoint splatter…all crisscrossed in a chaotic jumble. But just off center was a red circle, untouched by black paint. Tiny, dwarfed by the fuzzy, uneven black lines, its edges were pristine. The circle possessed the only defined lines on the entire canvas.

My father used to say paintings like this were the ultimate scam—that anyone could splash some paint around and put a famous name to it, and suddenly it was worth millions of dollars. He didn't understand, of course. He was an uneducated criminal. That would be what he saw–the bad in everybody, everything.

Why was I thinking of my father? I chastised myself. My mood plummeted.

Was it all the Christmas decorations, the twinkling lights, the clinging scent of pine and cinnamon and the soft jazzy Christmas music we could still hear, coming from the party we had abandoned for peace and quiet?

Or just the damn painting?

I told myself it was the painting. It was haunting. If loneliness had a landscape, full of lines and colors, this painting captured it. A single red circle in a sea of angry black lines. Art interpretation is open-ended–it has to be for it to appeal to the masses. But that was what I was looking at, what I believed the artist was trying to convey with his work.

My eyes started to sting, and I panicked. I couldn't cry here like this. But no matter how hard I tried, I also couldn't look away. I felt like I was having an out of body experience. Like I was inside the painting, black lines and white space surrounding me for 360 degrees. I couldn't even see the dot any longer. I was the dot. And everywhere I looked were the black lines, barriers separating me from the rest of the world.

There it was again, that loneliness now acute, waking from its deep slumber under my skin. I had thought before that being with Chuck had made me feel lonely, despite how crazy that sounded. How could being with another person, as opposed to being alone, make me feel lonely?

That feeling, that pain, was like an empty tooth socket exposed to the air. Completely unnoticed until it was juxtaposed with its counterpart. If loneliness was my toothache, Chuck was the cure, my novocaine, an anesthetic I had never known I needed. A cure that, no matter what, was out of my reach.

I don't know how much time passed, if Chuck said anything at all while I was there in a trance-like state. It was the splashing of my tears on my hands, crossed in front of me, that forced me to acknowledge my body again.

"Sarah, what's wrong?" Chuck asked gently, standing close to me, but not touching me.

I shifted my gaze down, then back at the painting, willing him to understand, knowing there were no words I could say that could explain my mood, my behavior. It didn't make any sense that he would know something so obscure. His gaze shifted from me to the painting.

"I don't usually like modern art," he said softly. "But…it…speaks to you, doesn't it?"

Did he know? How could he know something so profound, so unknowable?

I looked up at him then, almost losing my breath when I saw the pain in his eyes, on his face. He hadn't said a word to me about any of it, but he understood pain…and loneliness. I had no doubt as I regarded him.

It was like I was an ancient, long-dead language…and he was the only one left on the earth who could read or speak it.

The walls inside me started to crumble, now unable to hold back the weight of the emotions contained behind them. "Your sister invited me for Christmas. To her apartment," I whispered. I surprised myself, wondering why that, of all things, could explain the way I was acting.

He waited, listening attentively, even if my words seemed non sequitur. "I've been alone every Christmas since I was 17. This year is the first time I won't be." I barely knew him, but through the cracks in those crumbling walls, my inner self was starting to show.

I heard his sharp intake of breath, and though I waited, I never heard the exhale. He had trouble breathing regularly after I told him that. I felt his hand brush mine, and I grabbed his, pressing my palm against his and squeezing. I kept my eyes on the painting.

"I always spend the whole day watching that old movie, you know, It's a Wonderful Life? I've seen it hundreds of times, and it always makes me cry. But never at the same places or for the same reasons as I've heard other people say they do."

Every word surprised me, rising from some place deep inside me. I could hear his ragged breathing, feeling his breath warming the skin on my neck. So close, my hand clenched in his. He had listened to everything I said all night, and paid so close attention to me. A part of me just knew he would understand.

"I cry because…the main character, George? He's such a good person, the best person anyone could imagine. Maybe he was based on a combination of different people…or a fantasy, like Santa Claus. I've never known anyone like him. I don't believe people like him are real, that they're possible."

My father had convinced me at a young age that people weren't really like that. People were selfish and cruel. I couldn't say that to Chuck, though. Instead, I continued speaking.

"And Mary knows that she loves him, even when she's little, and she never gives up hope that he feels the same. She waits for years for him. And…when he doesn't exist, you know, when he wishes he was never born…then…she…she ends up alone. He could have been meant for her, only she never found him, because he didn't exist."

I'd had those thoughts in my head almost all my life, but I'd never said them out loud to anyone before. I was really scaring myself. Was I drunk? Had four glasses of wine made me drunk? What other explanation was there for me just sharing so much of myself like this?

I scared myself, and then when I finally turned to look at him, the way he was looking at me scared me even more.

I said too much, opened up my heart and spilled it out to a complete stranger…a complete stranger with more emotion in his eyes than I had ever seen from another person.

Emotion that seemed directed at me.

He sounded like he was fighting back tears when he spoke again. "But the end…the end is the best, isn't it?" he asked wistfully. "George carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, by choice, and thought he was a failure because he couldn't carry more than the whole world." Chuck cleared his throat, his voice stronger when he continued. "But he had people who loved him, who appreciated him. That's what saved him."

I couldn't look away from him, his eyes holding me captive. The air was charged between us, an invisible magnet pulling us together.

"Don't they just feel sorry for him?" I whispered, hearing my words take on a double meaning. A hundred times through the movie, and yet, I had always only seen the end that way. People took pity on him.

Chuck pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Mary did all that, organized it, and asked everyone for help. Because she loved him," Chuck whispered. I could feel his breath on my cheek, drying the wet trails my tears had left.

I blinked, slowly…and then he kissed me.

No one had ever kissed me the way he did. His lips were luxuriously soft, just as I had imagined they could be when my palm had pressed down over them. His mouth relaxed, molded to mine, but he was so careful, so tender, not the least bit demanding. It made my heart clench for the sweetness of it. It felt like he was offering me comfort.

One of his hands reached behind my back and pulled me flush with his chest, his other hand was on the base of my neck, threading into my hair. More intimate, but still so restrained. I had been attracted to him all evening; his kiss put me over the edge.

Losing myself, I opened my mouth, exploring with my tongue. I could taste his dessert, his mint…something else that was just Chuck, and it made me feel almost thirsty for more. The tip of his tongue found mine, and then our tongues were in each other's mouth, probing, touching…hungry. The kiss became more passionate, more demanding. I sighed into his mouth, completely lost to everything but him and how close he was to me.

He pulled back first. I was breathless, my chest heaving against his. His eyes were closed, my lipstick smeared on his lips. It was so adorable I giggled, reaching up to wipe it away with my thumb.

He smiled against my thumb, then kissed it gently and sighed. "Sarah, what are we doing?" he whispered.

"Talking…when we should be kissing," I whispered, and kissed him again. No before, no after…just those moments while our lips touched.

I swooned against him, melting, overpowered by his passion. He was no longer holding anything back from me now that he was sure I wanted to kiss him. He turned his body, keeping me snug against his chest, leaning me up against the wall. I felt like I sank into the wall, and he pressed himself over me. His hand drifted, creeping from my waist. He was hesitant, his hand fluttering on my ribs, just below my breast.

Respectful too, I thought, adding that to the list of qualities about him I admired. He restrained himself, waiting. I reached for his hand.

"Sarah," he breathed against my lips. "You had…a lot of wine…" He sounded apologetic.

Did he think I was drunk? That he was taking advantage of me?

By my own internal admission, I'd had more alcohol than usual. I was buzzed, as Bryce used to say. But in complete control of myself. Only delightfully relaxed.

"I'm not drunk, Chuck, I promise. I'm just finally not nervous anymore," I said, slightly out of breath from the passionate kiss.

I pressed his palm over my breast. He studied my face, I thought looking for assurance that I was of my right mind. I believe he could see how badly I wanted him to touch me, my desire burning in my eyes. He caressed me through the fabric of the dress. My nipple was erect, hard, but inside my bra. I moaned softly as his caresses intensified to massaging.

My entire body was on fire, its flashpoint the heat between my legs. I was wet, throbbing for him. It was almost painful. I hadn't had sex for almost three years. The more he touched me, the more I wanted him. I could feel the hardness of his erection, pressing against my thigh as he pinned me to the wall.

He's Ellie's brother…what are you doing?...he's not a stranger in a bar…you wouldn't be doing this if he was a stranger…he's…amazing…you barely know him…and still, he understands things in a way you can't even put into words…

This crazy schizoid argument raged in my head while Chuck continued to kiss me, touch me. His lips trailed down my chin, down to the hollow at the base of my throat, across my shoulder, into the fold between my cleavage just visible above my dress. His mouth was deliciously soft and wet, his lips interchanging with his tongue as his mouth caressed my skin. I could feel my pulse between my legs, so wet I feared I was dripping.

He may have been ill at ease around all those people, hiding away from them, but he was certainly not shy, not the way I defined it. He got to second base way too fast for a guy who was shy. I thought of his nerves, his cluelessness, his awkwardness and dislike of the crowds and attention. If he wasn't shy, then what was the real reason for all that?

Asking him would have meant I would have had to stop kissing him; I kept it to myself, reminding myself to ask at some other point. Instead, I started imagining what it would be like to have sex with him. What would happen if I reached for his belt, freed him from his pants, jumped on him with my legs around his waist. I craved the feeling of him inside me…just the thought had me close to orgasm, so close it scared me.

I wasn't drunk. I knew exactly what I wanted, but the power of that desire was what frightened me, pulled me back to the ground from the height of passion. This level of attraction, of desire, was new to me.

The noises I started making, the way I was moving my body against him, were too much for a public place, an art museum no less. He pulled away from me. I saw his eyes tightly closed, like he was struggling, upset with himself for something.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he whispered, his eyes still closed. "I don't…I mean…I wasn't expecting this to happen. I'm coming on too strong…I—"

I pulled him back against me, wrapping my arms around his neck as I kissed him again, equally as passionately as all the others. "Ssh," I whispered against his lips.

I looked into his eyes, panting, straining to breathe, pressed up against him. I was helpless, like a pool of jelly. It frightened me to know that whatever he asked, whatever he wanted, I would have given him. Myself–in his car, in his apartment, hell, in a broom closet somewhere in the museum. That wasn't me, never, not who I was at all. But something had happened to me, something I couldn't explain, something he had done to me, which rendered me helpless.

"Take me somewhere," I said, gasping for breath.

He didn't answer, just nodded.

He released me, stepped away from me. I was dazed, but I turned to the closest glass, fixing my smeared lipstick. I saw Chuck wiping the rest of my makeup from his face with his fingers. I adjusted my dress, fixed the straps, though it did little to help with how my body had reacted to him.

Chuck took off his jacket and folded it over his arm. "I'm a little…you know," he stuttered, bright red, embarrassed of the visible sign of his desire for me.

"It didn't feel…little…pressed up against me like that," I said softly, a sultry lilt to my voice.

He choked on nothing when he heard me. It was so adorable I couldn't stand it. I wanted to kiss him again. Instead, he grabbed my hand, threading his fingers into mine and holding my hand tightly. He walked me out through the foyer and to his car.

He drove a small black BMW, a two seater, the most expensive car I think I've ever seen up close. I think he saw my eyes go wide, because he offered, almost apologetically, "I'm tall, you know. It was hard to find a car where I could fit comfortably behind the wheel. I never needed a car in New York, but L.A. is not very…public transportation friendly."

It was very him. Very sexy. Although I kept that to myself. I got the feeling I would have flustered him if I said so. Or better…that he wouldn't believe me. He didn't know or think he was attractive or sexy.

Once I was in the car with him, my heart started beating faster. All I could think about was climbing on top of him, feeling him inside me. I was distracted, uncomfortable, my ability to reason with myself gone.

I was drunk, I realized, but not from the wine. Somehow, I had gotten drunk on Chuck Bartowski.

"Sarah," he said, suddenly intense. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard, so tightly the ligaments in my hands hurt. "I…I don't act like this. I don't know what's the matter with me. I would never just try to…hook up with someone. Certainly not with someone like you."

He was nervous rambling again. I saw him wince, as if he realized he had said something the wrong way again. "Someone like me?" I asked coyly.

He released my hand. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head, full of self-recrimination. "My sister's friend. Someone who trusted me. Someone who did me a favor when I needed a date."

"I…wasn't doing that either. Trying to…hook up," I said, repeating what he had said, trying to not sound offended.

Maybe not before I started. But once he kissed me? My face burned with shame, as I admitted to myself that was exactly what I was trying to do.

He was so florid, flushed with embarrassment, I could tell even in the dark interior of the car. "I didn't mean it like that, I swear. I would never insult you like that. You're just so…beautiful and smart and…"

He was rambling on overdrive, worrying he had hurt my feelings, by implying I was easy or whatever. He was the kindest, sweetest man I had ever met. I couldn't imagine him being disrespectful in the slightest.

I wanted to tell him that, but he continued talking.

"It's just…been a long time," he breathed. "And not just that…you know…everything. I don't know what Ellie told you about me, but–"

He looked so uncomfortable, like he wanted me to know, but was dying having to explain. I tried to tell him what I knew, so he wouldn't have to say it. "I know you went through a difficult divorce about two years ago."

He nodded, looking out the windshield, not at me. "Yeah," he mumbled. "That's how you met Ellie, right? At that class…that Ellie needed to take because I was driving her crazy by relying on her all the time. I caused too many sleepless nights for her, too many days worrying herself sick about me."

He was so guilty, so ashamed. I tried to make him feel better, the little I could do. "You were in New York. Your entire support system was here, in California. It must have been awful for you."

Support system. Words I'd learned during that class. Something non-existent in my life. Carina was my closest friend before I met Ellie and she was a jet-setter, always busy, never around when I needed her. The instructor had gone around the circle and asked us individually who our support systems were composed of. My awkward, stuttering, red-faced reply had no doubt caused Ellie to seek me out. That was when my solitude came to her attention.

"I never should have left California in the first place," he said softly. He didn't elaborate.

He started driving. I had no idea where we were going. I didn't ask him. I realized I trusted him, that it didn't matter where we were going. As long as I was with him, nothing else mattered. I couldn't fathom why that was, how it had happened so quickly, that all my defenses had been neutralized.

He didn't say anything for a long time. I watched his hands, white knuckled on the steering wheel, his whole posture tense and stiff. "Would it…would it be alright with you…if we went back to my place…just to talk?"

His apartment. I felt the heat rush through me at the thought.

"And I mean talk. Just talk. I…I…"

I reached for his hand and held it. "It's ok, Chuck." All of it, his apartment, his honorable intentions clashing with his desire. My wildly incapacitating attraction to him. "I'd like that."

He smiled, the relief noticeable on his features. We drove in silence through the streets of Los Angeles. Everything was beautiful at night, sparkling for Christmas.

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "I think it's fair to preface any future conversation with this: my sister has strictly forbidden me from talking about my exes when I'm with women." He was teasing, chuckling lightly, but the truth was there in his words.

"Maybe when you're trying to pick someone up," I offered with a smile. "You already have me."

I heard him swallow hard, watching him grip then release the steering wheel, leaving foggy handprints on the leather.

What was wrong with me? It was like I had no control over my mouth any longer. I was rambling, and hitting on him while I was doing it.

"Relatively speaking, of course," I said softly.

He chuckled nervously. "Of course," he repeated as he laughed.

He flashed me a grateful smile, pulling my hand into his lap, entwined with his. We drove the rest of the way in silence.