Nora Roberts - The Hollow

“We’ll work on it.”

“I’m not relaxed around you, most of the time.”

“I’ve noticed. Why is that?”

She turned away to get more dishes, then slid a bowl into the sink. The little boy had gone inside, she noted. In to eat dinner. His dog curled on the porch by the back door and slept off playtime.

“Because I’m aware you can, or could, sense what I think or feel. Or I worry that you can, so it makes me nervous. But you don’t, because you hold back, or because I’m nervous enough to stop you. Maybe both. You didn’t know what I was thinking, or feeling earlier today when you kissed me.”

“My circuits were crossed at the time.”

“We’re attracted to each other. Would that be an accurate reading?”

“It’s dead-on from my end.”

“And that makes me nervous. It’s also confusing, because I don’t know how much we’re picking up from each other, how much is just basic chemistry.” Layla rinsed the bowl, passed it to Fox. “I don’t know if this is something we should be dealing with, with everything else we have to worry about.”

“Let’s back up, just a little. Are you nervous because I’m attracted to you, or because we’re attracted to each other?”

“Door number two, and I don’t have to see inside your head when I can see by your face you like that idea.”

“Best damn idea I’ve heard in weeks. Possibly years.”

She planted a wet, soapy hand on his shirt as he started to lean in. “I can’t relax if I’m thinking about going to bed with you. The idea of sex generally stirs me up.”

“We could relax later. In fact, I can guarantee we’ll be a lot more relaxed later if we finish the stirring-up part first.”

She not only left her hand planted, but nudged him a full step back with it. “No doubt. But I compartmentalize things. It’s how I’m built, it’s how I work. This, between us, I have to put it in another compartment for a while. I have to think about it, worry about it, wonder about it. If I’m going to learn from you, if I’m going to help end what wants to end us, I need to focus on that.”

His expression sober and attentive, he nodded. “I like to juggle.”

“I know.”

“And I like to negotiate. And.” He dried her hand, then brought it to his lips. “I know when to let the opposing party consider all the options. I want you. Naked. In bed, in a room filled with shadows and quiet music. I want to feel your heart pound against my hand while I do things to you. So put that in your compartment, Layla.”

He tossed aside his dishcloth as she stared at him. “I’m going to go get your wine. It should help you relax some before we get to work.”

She was still staring when he strolled out. She managed to press a hand to her heart, and yes, it was pounding.

Obviously, she had a lot to learn if he’d had that in him and she hadn’t sensed it.

It was going to take more than a glass of red wine to help her relax now.

SHE DRANK THE WINE; HE CLEARED OFF THE kitchen table. Then he poured her another glass. She didn’t say a word, and he gave her room for silence, room for her thoughts until he sat.

“Okay, do you know how to meditate?”

“I know the concept.” There was a thin edge of irritation in her tone. He didn’t mind it.

“You ought to sit down so we can get started. The thing about meditating,” he began when she joined him, “is most people can’t really reach that level where they turn their minds off, where there’s not something in there about work or their dentist appointment, the ache in their lower back. Whatever. But we can get close. Yoga breathing, using the breath. Closing your eyes, picturing a blank white wall-”

“And chanting ‘ummm.’ How is that going to help me tap in to this thing? I can’t walk around in a meditative state.”

“It’s to help clear yourself out after. To help you-I sound like my mother-cleanse your mind, your aura, balance your chi.”

“Please.”

“It’s a process, Layla. So far, you’ve only skimmed the surface of it, or dipped your toe in. The deeper you go, the more it takes out of you.”

“Such as?”

“Too deep for too long? Headaches, nausea, nosebleeds. It can hurt. It can drain you.”

She frowned, then ran her finger down the bowl of her glass. “When we were in the attic of the old library, Quinn had a flashback to Ann Hawkins. And she came out of it pretty shaken up. Severe headache, queasy, clammy.” Layla puffed out her cheeks. “All right. I’m crappy at meditating. When we end with the corpse position in yoga class, I’m relaxed, but I’m going to be thinking of what I’m doing next, or if I should buy this great leather jacket that came in. I’ll practice. I can practice with Cybil.”

Because she’s safer than I am, Fox thought, and let that go. “All right, let’s just skim along the surface for right now. Relax, clear the clutter out of the front of your mind. Like when you were doing the dishes.”

“It’s harder when it’s deliberate. Things want to pop in.”

“That’s right. So compartmentalize,” he suggested with an easy smile. “Put them in their slot. Tuck them away. Look at me.” His hand moved to rest on hers. “Just look at me. Focus on me. You know me.”

She felt a little strange, as if the wine had gone straight to her head. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’ll come. Look at me. It’s like opening a door. Turn the knob, Layla. Put your hand on the knob and turn it, ease the door open, just a couple inches. Look at me. What am I thinking?”

“You hope I don’t eat all the pot stickers.” She felt his humor, like a warm blue light. “You did that.”

“We did that. Stay at the door. Stay focused. Open it just a little wider and tell me what I’m feeling.”

“I… calm. You’re so calm. I don’t know how you manage it. I don’t think I’m ever that calm, and now, with what’s happened, what’s happening, I don’t know if I’ll ever be really calm again. And… You’re a little hungry.”

“I pretended to eat most of an eggplant salad at lunch. Which is why I ordered…”

“Kung Pao beef, snow peas, cold noodles, a dozen egg rolls, pot stickers. A dozen egg rolls?”

“If there are any leftovers, they’re good for breakfast.”

“That’s disgusting. And now you’re thinking I’d be good for breakfast,” she added and drew her hand from under his.

“Sorry, that slipped through. Doing okay?”

“A little light-headed, a lot dazed, but yeah, okay. It’s going to be easier with you though, isn’t it? Because you know how to work it. Work me.”

Picking up his neglected beer, he tipped back in his chair. “A woman comes into the shop you managed in New York. She’s just browsing around. How do you know where to direct her, how to work her?”

“Satisfy her,” Layla corrected, “not work her. Some of it would be the way she looks-her age, how she’s dressed, what kind of bag, what kind of shoes. Those are surface things, and can lead in the wrong direction, but they’re a start. And I grew up in the business, so I have a sense of customer types.”

“But I’m betting nine times out of ten you knew when to get the flashy leather purse out of the stockroom or steer her toward the conservative black one. If she said she wanted a business suit, but really had a yen for a sexy little dress and fuck-me shoes.”

“I had a lot of experience reading… Yes.” She let out a hiss of breath, the annoyance self-directed. “I don’t know why I keep resisting it. Yes, I’d often tune in. The owner called it my magic touch. I guess she wasn’t far off.”

“How did you do it?”

“If I’m assisting a customer, I’m, well, I’m focused on them, on what they want, what they like-and yeah, what I can sell them. You have to listen to what they say, and there’s body language, and also my own sense of what would look great on them. And sometimes, I always thought it was instinct, I’d get a picture in my head of the dress or the shoes. I’d think it was reading between the lines of what they said when I chatted them up, but I might hear this little voice. Maybe it was their thoughts. I’m not sure.”