Matchmaker 04: April

I tumbled out of bed, the smell of coffee and bacon calling to me. My dietician would have a heart attack if I were to eat bacon, but it smelled so good! I dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday and followed my nose downstairs. Chuck was standing in the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a ragged t-shirt.

"Morning," he said with a smile.

"Morning," I mumbled in return as I poured myself a cup of coffee. Breakfast was calling me, but that didn't mean I was completely awake.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Okay. You?"

"Like a rock." I grunted in reply. "You like bacon and eggs?"

"Whatever," I replied with a wave of my hand.

"The eggs are almost done."

The microwave dinged. He pulled sizzling slices of bacon out of the machine, the smells intensifying and making my mouth water as he forked them onto a plate. He worked the eggs a moment before dropping four slices of bread into the toaster. The toast popped just as he was scraping eggs onto a plate. He quickly buttered the four slices, cut them on the angle, and arranged them on the plate.

"Eggs ah-la Chuck," he said as he placed a plate in front me. "Sorry, but we forgot jelly for the toast yesterday."

I speared a bit of the eggs and forked them into my mouth. They were amazing, far better than the eggs I sometimes had at home. "Why are these eggs so good?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Eggs, butter, cheese, and Greek seasoning. That's it."

Butter and cheese, two things I shouldn't be eating. I almost pushed them away, but they were so good. When in Rome, as people say. I scooped up another bite, biting into a crunchy piece of bacon immediately afterwards. I was eating like a pig, but I couldn't help myself. I wolfed down my eggs like I hadn't eaten in months.

"Want me to make you some more?"

Chuck was smiling at me and I flushed, my face heating. "No. They were delicious, but I shouldn't have eaten all that."

"Why? You can't eat rabbit food all the time."

"Because nobody wants to see a fat-ass on stage."

"You hardly have a fat ass."

"That's because I don't allow myself to eat like this. At least not often."

"Okay, rabbit food for lunch." He glanced outside. The sun was shining, but there were clouds on the horizon. "If you want to grab your shower, maybe we can get in a walk before it rains." He smiled down at me. "You know, to burn off all the extra calories."

"I should run."

He groaned. "Unless something is chasing me, I'm not running."

"What if you're chasing something?"

"I can't imagine what I'd want badly enough to actually chase it," he said as he returned to his place and picked up his mug.

"How about me?" I asked, not looking at him, sipping my coffee so he wouldn't see me smile.

"I'll go put on my running shoes."

I didn't snicker, but I couldn't hide my smile. I sipped the rest of my coffee and slid out of my chair. "I'm going to shower."

"I'll clean up the kitchen and then get mine."

I paused, and he seemed to sense I was waiting for something. He kissed me like he had last night, but the kiss was even better this time. Having slept on it, I'd decided I'd let him pursue me and decide when he wanted to take me to bed. He'd better not wait too long, or I was going to take matters into my own hands.

I walked away, wanting to look behind me to see if he was watching. I was able to sneak a glance as I turned up the steps and was pleased that he was watching. I showered, hoping he'd join me. I took plenty of time, giving him a chance, but eventually realized he wasn't going to invite himself into my shower. Pity.

I dressed in something casual and comfortable that would work for running if he decided he wanted to give me a run. If he did, my trainer was a fucking slave driver and I was certain I could run his ass into the sand. I stepped out of my bedroom. I could hear the shower in his room, and I considered inviting myself into his shower, but refrained, unsure how he'd react. I pursed my lips. I was doing it again. I'd made the assumption that he wouldn't like a confident and aggressive woman, that Texans liked their women submissive. Maybe he'd like it if I barged into his shower, got on my knees, and blew his mind.

I heard the water shut off, making the decision for me. I waited downstairs until he appeared. He was dressed much like he was yesterday, wearing jeans and a button front shirt. He paused at the top of the stairs, looking down at me.

"Well, shit," he said, just loudly enough for me to hear.

"What?"

"I guess you meant it about running."

I smiled up at him. "Care to take the challenge?"

He scrunched his face up as if thinking. "What's the challenge?"

I smiled. "Okay, here's the deal. If you can keep up, I'll cook dinner. If you can't we go out, but I get to pay."

I saw a smile flash across his lips. He was on to me and knew I was trying to tweak his pride "Okay, you're on. Let me change."

He disappeared. I was coming up the steps when he stepped out of his bedroom wearing a bathing suit, sneakers, and the same ratty t-shirt he'd had on earlier.

"This is all I had," he said, waving a hand over himself.

His bathing suit wasn't the skimpiest I'd ever seen a man wearing, but they didn't look like boxers and fit him snuggly. "Looks good to me."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. Let's go."

"It won't hurt your manly pride to have a woman buy your dinner?" I teased.

"Not nearly as much as if you actually outrun me. And you're awfully sure of yourself. How do you know we won't be having dinner in?"

"Call it a feeling."

We stepped onto the deck, trotted down the steps, and then followed the wooden walk to the beach. "How far are we running?" he asked.

"How far do you want to go?"

He glanced down the beach. "That way, to the hotel."

I looked down the beach. Our villa was the last building north of South Padre Island, the hotel perhaps a mile away. "To the hotel and back?"

"I guess. Go big or go home, right?"

"You're on."

"So we're clear, if you beat me back to the steps, we go out and I have to let you pay, but if I win, you have to cook. That's the bet?"

I nodded. "That's the bet."

"Where are we going to turn around at the hotel?"

"How about just before we reach the first person we see on the beach, wherever they are. Say a few dozen steps?"

He took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do this thing."

"One... two... three... go!"

We began to run. My trainer had me focused on toning and strength exercises, and my cardio was high intensity dance moves over running, but I was certain with my routine I could eventually out pace him. I leaned into my run and began to pull ahead, but my legs started to burn far more quickly than they should have. By the time I reached the first person on the beach I was breathing hard. I was well ahead of Chuck, but not as far ahead as I expected to be or should have been. He was dripping sweat, his shirt stuck to his chest, and I smiled and waved as we passed, but that was for his benefit. I was starting to suffer as well.

I was halfway back to our villa when I sensed him behind me. My legs were like noodles and I had slowed considerably. He was maintaining a slow pace, but his much longer legs were paying dividends now. I put on a turn of speed and reopened a gap, but I couldn't keep it up, the fire in my legs more than I could endure.

With less than a hundred yards to go, he pulled abreast of me. He was breathing far harder than I was, but I simply couldn't maintain my pace. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I reached for my reserves, but he did the same and began to inch ahead. I dug for it, giving everything I had left to keep up with him. I couldn't understand how I was losing when Chuck claimed to never exercise at all.

I'd almost caught him and was within perhaps eight feet, when he slapped the wooden railings of the walk. He tumbled to the sand and rolled to his back, staring at the sky, his eyes closed as his chest heaved. I was spent, and I walked in slow circles as I panted, the muscles of my legs still shrieking in protest.

"You lied to me," I accused.

He coughed hard before panting again. "About... what?"

"Not running."

He rocked his head in the sand. "No... I... didn't."

"You really don't run?" He only shook his head. "Then how...?"

He coughed again, but his breathing was beginning to slow. He sat up. "I wanted... to see... you cook." He groaned as he struggled to his feet, grimacing as he held his side. "You damn near... gave me... a heart attack."

"You really aren't a runner?"

"No... and never... again."

I huffed out a laugh. "Your legs hurt?"

He nodded. "I hope I don't get splinters in my knees because I'm going to have to crawl back to the house."

I couldn't help but snicker. "If it makes you feel any better, my legs are burning pretty good too."

"It doesn't."

We trudged along the walk, Chuck going first. I smiled to myself at his slow, plodding pace, and he was still hunched over slightly like he had a stitch in his side. I didn't know if he was acting, of if he was that wrung out. If he wasn't lying, and he didn't run regularly, I was impressed. I was recovering quickly, but he looked positively wiped out. Having him exert that much effort on my behalf was kind of turning me on, and I wondered if he'd be willing to work that hard in other, more intimate ways.

We entered the house and he pulled his shirt off as we headed for showers. If I'd known we were actually going to run, I wouldn't have bothered showering first, and if I knew he looked like that under his shirt, I'd chosen a different form of physical activity for us to do together.

He didn't look like a gym rat, but he was lean and well-muscled. While he didn't have the six pack abs like guys who spent hours working out before posing and flexing in front of mirror had, he still had great arms, chest, and shoulders. He also hadn't shaved his chest, like so many men did, to show off their goods.

Like everything else about him, he was so laid back and natural, he didn't pretend to be anything he wasn't, and that was getting more appealing by the moment.

"Okay, now scrape half the meat and stuff onto one side of the tortilla." I waited as Tara used a spatula to push a portion of the sausage and bell peppers on to the flour shell grilling in a separate skillet. "Great. Dump on a handful of cheese, and then fold it over."

She did as instructed. She was still moving with easy grace, but it took every ounce of willpower I had to pretend my legs weren't killing me. After our run this morning, my legs had been getting progressively sorer all day, and walking normally was becoming absolute torture. I'd made a stupid bet, and even though I'd won, I was paying for it.

"Okay, now carefully side the spatula under the tortilla and flip it over to grill the other side." I watched as she struggled to turn the quesadilla over.

I hadn't expected to win our foot race. I'd only wanted to keep it close. Watching Tara's ass as she ran was a terrific motivator that encouraged me to keep up, and when we'd made the turn, I was more than a little surprised I was as close behind her as I was. When I made the turn, cheating inside her line by a few feet to take every advantage I could, she was only a few dozen strides ahead, and I'd decided to try to impress her by catching up. To that point I'd kept my pace slow, trying to husband my energy so I at least could make it all the way, but I put everything I had left into closing the distance between us. She'd put on a burst of speed as she tried to pull away, her increased pace almost breaking my spirit, but her sprint hadn't lasted long, and suddenly victory seemed within reach. I dug deep, ignoring the burn of my legs and the pain in my side.

I normally spent all day on my feet climbing ladders and such, plus I was a lot taller than her. Taking two strides for her three, my leg strength from climbing ladders and stepping on an off stools with cabinets on my shoulder, and the near constant walking on the job site had all helped. Still, after I'd beaten her, if just barely, I wasn't sure who was more surprised, me or her. It was a good thing I'd turned a few steps inside her line because if we'd run another twenty paces, she'd have caught and beaten me.

She finally got the quesadilla flipped and smiled at me in triumph. We were eating in and she was cooking for us with a little—okay, a lot of—coaching from me.

"That's grilled almost perfectly," I said.

She allowed the quesadilla to grill on the other side before she slid it onto a plate. She placed another tortilla in the pan and started it warming, pouring in the remaining sausage and peppers, added the cheese, and folded the shell over. After a couple of minutes, she flipped it over, having more success this time, grilled the other side, and tipped the meal out of the pan onto a second plate.

"You did great!" I cheered as I picked up the two plates and carried them to the table.

"With your help."

"Hey, you did it. All I did was make suggestions," I replied as she placed two beers on the table.

She cut into her quesadilla, blew it cool, and popped it into her mouth. "Oh, that's yummy!"

I tried mine and nodded in agreement. "Maybe you should take over all the cooking."

"Maybe," she replied.

After our run, we'd showered. I especially needed one to wash the sand off from where I'd collapsed on the beach. Tara probably thought my collapse was me playing for laughs or drama, but in actuality, I was totally wiped out. I knew she was gaining on me, and in my desperate attempt to beat her I'd overreached my stride. I'd started stumbling as I reached the steps and I simply didn't have the leg strength left to catch myself before I fell. Since I was already on the ground, I decided to stay there, so out of breath I felt like I was drowning.

After our shower, we'd gone exploring, driving north, up Padre Island, as far as the road would take us, which wasn't very far. When we reached the end, we turned around and drove south until the road ended again. The entire length of the road, end to end, was less than twelve miles. We'd poked around the town of South Padre Island, wandering into and out of quaint little shops, until it started raining. We'd both gotten our fill of being wet yesterday, so we'd returned to the villa.

"How's your legs?" she asked as we ate.

She'd been razzing me about it all day. My gait as we window shopped had been slightly stiff and uncoordinated. "Fine," I continued to lie.

"You sure?"

"Why do you ask?"

She smiled. "Hurting, huh?"

I focused on my quesadilla. "Yeah, a little. Yours?"

"I'm good. We can go again in the morning. I want a rematch."

"How about I just forfeit now and save myself the pain?"

She giggled. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Would it really have bothered you that much to have me buy you dinner?"

I shrugged. "No, not really."

She frowned. "Then why..."

"Why what?"

"Why did you want to win so badly?"

"I don't like to lose, and like I said, I wanted to see you try your hand a cooking."

"So it wouldn't bother you if I bought you dinner?"

"No. Why would it?"

"Well, the other night, you made it sound like it was important to you."

I took a pull from my beer while I tried to figure out how to explain my stand in a way she could understand. "It's like this. You win a bet, I have no problem letting you pay. Special occasion, like my birthday or something, if you wanted to pay, same thing. I'd offer to pay, but if you insisted, then okay. But generally, I feel like I should pay for dates."

"Why?"

I shrugged again. "I don't know. Old fashioned, I guess."

"Gender roles?"

"I suppose. But is that necessarily a bad thing?"

"Why should women be subservient, and the man pay all the time?"

"Nobody said you had to be subservient, and because if I ask you out, I think I should pay."

"But in a way, I asked you out, right? I mean, you're here because of me."

I nodded leisurely in acknowledgement as I thought it over. "You have me there," I said slowly, "but last night, I suggested dinner out. If it's that important to you, then fine, you can pay, but just because I pay for your dinner doesn't mean you owe me anything."

"That's good, because if I believed I did, that would be a problem."

"Really? You seemed to expect me to try to seduce you last night. In fact, if you recall, you were annoyed I didn't try."

"Yeah, I know," she said softly. "Things are so different here. You're so different than what I'm used to. Back home, it's expected you will fu... sleep together, even on the first date. When you didn't even try, I assumed there was something wrong with me."

"The fact you're black?"

She half shrugged. "Yeah."

"But you know different now, right?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"No suppose. I told you before, I don't care what color your skin is. It doesn't change who you are."

I worked to not let her unintended insult color my tone. I knew the reputation the south had, but all the people I personally knew had no issues with African Americans as a general rule. Like myself, their only issue came from being assumed they were a racist just because of where we lived. Also like me, they generally considered that to be the other person's problem, not theirs.

We finished eating and I rose from the table, groaning softly and moving stiffly. Since she was wise to me, I didn't see any point in pretending I wasn't hurting.

"Did you take anything for your legs?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not, dumbass?"

"I'll be fine in a day or two."

"Okay, but until then, you'd rather hurt?"

I grinned. "I know. Another thing you don't understand, but I don't want to take drugs unless I have to."

"I hardly think a couple of aspirin is going to cause you to become addicted to drugs."

"It's not that. It's the principle of the thing."

"Like men pay for dates?"

"Now you're getting it!"

She rolled her eyes. "You're different than most of the men I know, but you do have one thing in common. It must be a universal male trait."

She was setting me up, but I had to know where she was going. "Oh? What's that?"

"Stubbornness and stupid macho bullshit."

"Guilty, Your Honor, on the charge of stubbornness, but I object to being accused of stupid macho bullshit."

She smiled. "Why won't you take something for the pain then?" she asked as we rinsed and loaded the dishwasher.

"I told you. I don't take drugs, even over the counter stuff, unless I absolutely have to. That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger."

"Like I said, 'stupid macho bullshit.'"

I smiled. "I think this is another area where we'll have to agree to disagree."

"Men!" she spat, but there was no heat in her voice.

After clearing the table, we moved to the oversize leather couch, another beer bottle in my hand, a glass of wine in Tara's. I started the fire and stretched my legs toward the flame, hoping between the alcohol and the warmth, my tight, aching legs would relax a little.

She settled in beside me and leaned into my side. I draped my arm over her shoulder and softly caressed the top of her breast. She said nothing, so I kept it up.

We spent an hour or so talking about whatever topic came up. We compared our world views and talked a little about our past. She was a liberal while I was a libertarian. By tacit agreement, we didn't enter into an argument or try to change the other person's opinion, but oddly enough, during our discussion, we discovered that while we still had some fundamental disagreements, we shared more beliefs than either of us suspected.

Once we tired of politics, she told me how she got her break in music. When she was seventeen, she sang the National Anthem at a Lancaster JetHawks game, a minor league team for the Colorado Rockies. She must have killed it because a few days later the Hebron Agency contacted her with a proposal to represent her.