COMING BACK AT SEVEN

Robert accompanied Julie through the woods back to Rose Cottage. At the doorway, she set down the pair of shoes he'd
retrieved for her from the mud and also slipped off the ones she had on, which were in just as bad condition as the others.
Her eyes traveled down to his boots, also in very sorry shape.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"What?"  He'd been thinking about how the late afternoon sunlight made golden streaks in her hair.

"Your boots."

He looked down at his feet, then back into her eyes. "Meeting you has been rather hard on the footwear."

"I know," she laughed. "Would," her voice grew serious, "you consider coming in?"

"Not like this," he replied. "I have an appointment with a shower as soon as I get home."

Her mind went into gear, writing a scene in which he was in her shower and she joined him. She smiled absently as the
feel of lather became almost tangible in her hands. Suddenly she was aware he'd said something, but all she'd heard
were the last two words..."for now."

"You...you're going?"

"Shower's waiting," he smiled, which only brought back the image of that again.

She shook her head. "Ummm...."  She needed to say something. What? "Dinner. Would you come back for dinner this evening?"

He paused. This woman was not in his plans. He wanted isolation, quiet, anonymity. How could she be here, so close, so very appealing? Damn! There was that sunlight on her hair! He wanted to be with her. He did. It was as simple as that and as complicated. She had said back at the stream she didn't need to know. Perhaps he could chance it this evening, see if she really meant that. Perhaps.

She saw the indecision in his eyes, lay her hand on his forearm. "Please? About seven?"

"All right," he said. "Seven."  He touched her cheek lightly with a fingertip then turned to go. What the hell was he getting himself into?

He scrubbed himself rather roughly, disturbed by this unsought draw to her. This could prove his undoing. He was all too well aware of that. "Moth to the flame," he murmured. But something about the woman had gotten under his skin. Naked, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring into his own eyes, going back step by step over the day's events. It was all too strange. Twice in the stream with a delicate tea in between. "Mud and tea," he said aloud, then shook his head and grabbed a towel.

At precisely seven he knocked on her door. Timing had always been important in his life and since he'd agreed to seven, he'd be there at seven. She opened the door and he simply stood there a moment letting his eyes take her in. Her hair was loose, parted in the middle, and just slightly waving hung down over her shoulders. She had on an ivory tunic top, its deep V neck outlined in black ribbon and a lace insert. Her legs were covered in softly draping black silk pants so wide it appeared she was wearing a skirt. Indeed, he thought that's what it was until she moved.

She blinked, trying to still the writing her mind was doing at the sight of him. He was wearing form-fitting dark blue jeans with a blousy burgundy silk shirt, his collar-length hair brushed and shining. All he needs is a sword at his side, she thought. Somehow he'd look right with one. There was just something...something...about him that made that so.

"I'm glad you've come," she greeted.

He took a deep breath, glad himself that he had, though not at all sure he wasn't laying his head on some invisible chopping block.