His American Fling (4 page)

Maggie smiled, opened the door and bent over to find the pitcher. Much to his chagrin, he had a perfect view of her ass, round and inviting. He could feel his body respond. Campbell kept staring until he
realized she was looking over her shoulder at him with a smug grin.

"Is it the blue or white pitcher?" She straightened up a little.

"Uh..." he cleared his throat, "Blue, the blue one. Would you like me to get it for you?"             

"No, I think I can do it. Would you like a glass?"

Campbell walked over to the cabinet, retrieved a glass and held it out. She poured the water for him. He stared down at the glass which he happened to be holding at the same level as her breasts. He tried to avoid staring at her breasts again, but it was difficult. He felt flushed.  When she put the pitcher away, Campbell was grateful for the respite.

"Goodnight, Maggie," he said as she disappeared up the stairs with her water.

"Goodnight doctor." She stopped, turned and gave him a sly grin. "I mean, Professor. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite."

He turned, put the cold glass of water up to his forehead and rolled the glass across it. Campbell locked up, switching off the lights on his way upstairs. He crawled under his comforter, thought about what had just happened,
and then reached down the front of his pajama bottoms. It had been several weeks since he had needed some release, but tonight he wouldn’t be able to sleep without it.

Chapter 2

Two Countries Separated By a                        Common Language

I don’t understand the English half the time.  Despite the fact that they have an incredible sense of humor—witty, acerbic, and usually at the expense of others—they outwardly appear to have almost no joy in their lives. They’re the most pessimistic people to walk the earth. If they aren’t grumbling about some affront, then they aren’t fulfilling their purpose in life.

And we’re led to believe that they’re polite-ha! Give me a break. Their version of polite is to call you after a party and tell you they had a “lovely time” or to send you a thank you card for the gift you gave them.  But everyday politeness? It went the same way as joy. In the States
, you hold the door for the next person behind you as you walk into a building, right? Not in England. We say “excuse me” as we make our way to the bar through a crowd.  Not in England. In the Colonies, you don’t use your grocery cart as a weapon to ford your way down the aisle. They do in England.  Politeness and joy were wanting here. I suspect they lost both when they lost the Colonies.

I arrived in England at the beginning of June and spent the first two days getting my land legs. I must have said good morning to a dozen strangers without a single response. I had doors swing in my face, bumps without apologies, and very few thank you’s for the money I spent in their stores and on their services. But still, you had to love the English.  They were so sturdy, so steely, so British.
             

They could also drink you under the table. This truth was made evident to me because the first night I was in England, I ended up prostate on Midsummer’s Common after trying to keep up with a group of Cambridge students as they drank by the pint in the
Cambridge Arms
. That’s why I was cautious when the invitation was extended to have a drink with Henry’s friends. I wasn’t sure that I could keep up with the group who were already into their fourth pint of ale. Since I don’t drink beer, I tend to drink liquor…which gets me drunk quicker!

Henry was an anomaly in Britain, the exception to prove the rule. He seemed joyful,
smiled readily, and was ornery as a devil.  He teased me all night long about being American, but in a sweet way, not the customary go-for-the-throat teasing I had experienced since I had arrived. 

Henry’s eyes are blue, not an electric blue like Professor Adair’s, but a pleasing slate blue. He laughs easily, like a child at Christmas. I had a hard time picturing him hanging out with Fiona, Peter and of course,
Professor
Adair.  But there was no denying from the repartee that they were all friends and close ones at that.

Peter was different from the rather pleasant looking threesome of Henry, Professor Adair, and Fiona. He was one of those guys who, when he gets laid, probably drops on all fours and kisses the ground.  Somewhat shy, he tended to be quiet and introspective.  He did like to talk about the American legal system, managing to ask several poignant questions. I later found out that he was a solicitor, so it made sense he would have questions.

Fiona wasn’t beautiful in the typical Hollywood way. She had a chiseled, polished beauty that you see in the English.  Her eyes are fairly large and a gray-green mixture. Her face is a perfect oval, but her nose is just a little too long for her face. Witty and chatty, she simply relished in making
Professor
Adair’s night miserable. In England, that’s what friends do best—make each other miserable.

And then there was
Professor
Adair. If I didn’t know he was a doctor, I’d say he has the posture and comportment of Queen’s Counsel, a barrister. The world is a serious place to Professor Adair.  While we were in the pub, I only saw him smile once in my direction. Although I returned it, it scared the living hell out of me. I had the feeling he was
Hannibal Lecter
taunting me with his sophistication, waiting for me to be drunk enough to make me into a lampshade. “
Just one more drink, Clarice
.”

I knew right away that he didn’t want me to come home with him.  Frankly, I didn’t want to go home with him either. It was a cool June evening, but walking next to him as we left the pub made me feel like we were in the middle of a January blizzard.  As we walked to his bike, I was conscious of the fact that a silent Professor Adair stressed me more than an angry Professor Adair.

But my God, Adair is handsome.   He had similar looks of Jeremy Northam, but slightly stronger, more angular, a mixture between Northam and a tall Collin Ferrell.  When I was sitting at the pub, I would look at him and my mind would start to daydream. I pictured me volunteering him as a model for an art class. “Professor Adair, please strip, the class is going to chisel you out of marble today.  Oh, my, Professor Adair!  Perhaps we’ll just forget the chiseling and go straight to foreplay.”

I am a warm-
blooded American female with a healthy libido. Just one look at Professor Adair--God it was hard remembering to call him that--makes you want to send him your panties and the key to your hotel room. He is good looking and intelligent, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have that winning personality that would give him the perfect male trifecta.  I wondered as we walked to get his bicycle after the pub closed, if one could live with two out of three?

“Dr. Adair, I’m not going with you.” I had made up my mind earlier in the pub, but I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends.

His mouth dropped slightly open and he tilted his head. “What? I don’t understand?”

I told him that I knew he was just volunteering to put me up so that Fiona would get off his back and, it was clear that he, and his friends, didn’t think much of Americans. I quickly left so that he wouldn’t feel the need to try and convince me to stay. He followed me at first, but I think he finally realized he was off the hook, pedaling off into the dark like a child happily running off to Disneyland.

Finding a nice dry spot, I was just falling asleep on the porch of Hobbs Pavilion when the sound of footsteps startled me. I thought for sure it was the police coming to move me along. But I looked up, and even in the soft light of a streetlamp, you couldn’t miss those wicked blue eyes.

He convinced me to go back with him to his place. Perhaps he chased me down out of guilt; maybe it was so he could prove something to his friends; or, perhaps he just wanted me to stay with him out of curiosity.  It didn’t really matter because I desperately needed a place to stay, especially since it had just started to rain.

When he took me upstairs to show me the guest room, I watched his graceful body climb the stairs two steps at a time. He was lovely to watch to watch in motion. The room was simply beautiful. They weren’t my colors, a soft green, with accents of peach, and brick red, but it was tasteful, nonetheless. I knew a woman had to have decorated it, because it was sophisticated, but feminine. As an added bonus, the bed was incredibly comfortable with a nice fluffy duvet and down pillows, a few notches up from the porch of Hobbs Pavilion.

I changed into my pajamas. They’re shorty pajamas and easy to throw in a backpack. I started to climb into bed, but realized there wasn’t any water in the room. I didn’t think Professor Adair would begrudge me one glass of water. I snuck quietly down the stairs to the basement where the kitchen was. It was modern and gleaming with a large Aga oven in the middle of the cabinetry. I had just started to look for a glass when I heard something behind me.

I felt as if I had been caught with my hand in his safe. “Oh! I was looking for a glass to get some water. I always keep a glass next to my bed. My throat gets dry at night.”

He was surprised to see me, but quickly recovered. As he retrieved a glass for the water, he tried not to stare at my nipples which,
because it was chilly in the underground kitchen, were standing at a full salute. It was rather amusing watching him go cross-eyed in his efforts not to look.

When I reached into the refrigerator I knew bending over to get the pitcher was going to be awkward.  But, I wanted the water
, and he obviously wanted the view; he made no effort to move. When I turned briefly to look, his eyes were glued right on my ass and legs. I almost laughed out loud—the poor guy looked like a deer in headlights.  He wanted to stop staring, but just couldn’t. I put him out of his misery and straightened up.

We said our goodnights and went to our respective rooms. I don’t know about him, but I had to spend some “me” time before I could sleep. Just before I fell asleep, I contemplated how odd it was that we humans are hardwired to desire sex, even if the object of our desire was someone we’d prefer not to engage in conversation.

*********************

My internal chronometer was still out of kilter. I woke that Saturday morning at 6:45 am still a little tired. I brushed my teeth and took a shower, awkwardly holding my cast beyond the
stream of water. I dressed, afterwards making my way down to the kitchen. I looked around in the cupboards and found Canadian maple syrup, bread and eggs. I looked in the freezer, pulled out some bacon and defrosted it in the microwave. Within half an hour I was ready for him to come down so that I could feed him a hearty breakfast.  As I waited, I snooped around a little in the parlor and back garden.

Around 9:30 am I heard a noise upstairs, so I quickly flipped on the kettle to heat the water for tea. I started the burner under the bacon. About ten minutes later he showed up dressed in his cricket whites, carrying a duffel bag with his cricket kit, the bat handle hanging out the end of the bag.

“I smell bacon.” He said looking around.

I poured the steeped tea.

Professor Adair held up his palm, “I drink coffee in the morning. I’ll get my usual cup across the way.” He looked around and saw the carefully prepared batter, maple syrup, butter and bread ready to make him French toast. “This looks brill, but I’m running late.” He smiled at me, as he waved his hand at the food, dismissing it, “But, you enjoy yourself, eat up.”  Then he stopped and reached out to the plate of bacon on the counter, “On second thought, I will grab some bacon.” He grabbed a couple of pieces of bacon and went out the back door, walking up the stairs to the back garden. He was carrying his cricket kit in one hand and fingering a set of car keys in the other. I deduced that he was headed to the garage in the back. He reappeared on the outside stairs, bending down so that he could see inside the window to the kitchen and yelled so I could hear. “The door locks automatically when you shut it.”

I ran and opened the back door to catch him. Looking up at him on the stairs, I smiled broadly, “Thanks so much for last night.  Shall I make the bed or do you want me to strip it and wash the bedding?”

“Oh...”  He thought briefly, “Just make it, you don’t look that dirty!”  He smiled briefly. “Well, cheerio!”

“Cheerio” always threw me.  It sounded so silly that I thought the British said it to make fun of Americans. I could see them say it and then laugh at us when they got around the corner.  But the longer I was in England, the more I heard it said. 

“Cheerio. And thank you again,” I said in return.             

I had French toast, tea and the other three strips of bacon, cleaned up and then went upstairs to make the bed.  I made sure the bedroom and bathroom looked exactly the same as when I arrived. I took the towel down to the laundry room, grabbed my backpack and left through the back door. I heard it lock as I walked up the stairs to the garden.

I hurried to the B&B where my things were and rang the bell.  The door opened and the landlady, a nice enough person, smiled at me. “Come to get your things?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you have a place to stay?”  She asked.

I didn’t want her to know that I was homeless; she’d give me a lecture again about money. “Yes.”

I went back to the small, but cozy room where my suitcase and hand luggage were being kept and realized I was an idiot to think I could carry all of it with an arm in a cast.  Nonetheless, I had promised to get it out of her house and a promise is a promise.

When I was at Professor Adair’s house, I had looked in the directory and found a hostel
for £14 a night.  Unfortunately, the hostel was close to Dr. Adair’s and that meant a two mile walk with lots of luggage. There was a bus stop up the road going downtown, letting off near Parker’s Piece. I decided to drag my luggage down and wait for it.

As I stood, waiting under a darkening sky, I drifted off into my own world, looking at the ground and thinking about the upcoming senior year of law school.  If I graduated and passed the bar on the first try, I had a position waiting for me with a law firm in San Diego, a result of having clerked in the firm for two summers.  A horn honked and I looked up.  I saw a Toyota Camry parked by the curb with the engine running and a hand sticking out of the driver’s side waving at me.  I recognized Professor Adair.

“Maggie, do you need a lift?” he yelled.

I wanted to say no, to get the man out of my life, but it meant I wouldn’t have to drag all of my luggage onto a bus and that was a relief.  “That would be nice.” I yelled back.