It's still dark outside, I notice, as I open my eyes. The clock on my bedside table reads 4:32 AM, and I am so warm, so comfortable, I can imagine staying here, in bed, forever. I turn over and snuggle closer to the man sleeping soundly next to me. I wrap my right arm around his chest and listen to him breathe. I watch his stomach rise and fall. I trace circles on his bare chest with my index finger - more of a figure eight really - around the nipples, then down the chest a little, stopping now and then to twirl my fingers in the hair.
Four months ago, who'd have guessed I'd be here now? I was sitting in my apartment, watching Marth Stewart's Living. She was having a special on weddings, and since I was planning my own, I thought this was a good way to spend my day off. Yes, I was the sort of person who, in high school, asked for extra homework to do over the weekend. See, planning the wedding was part of my job. It had been since my fiance, Sam, and I agreed to let the newspaper I worked for pay for the entire ceremony and reception in exchange for the rights to cover the event, starting with the beginning planning stages, and ending with us going off for our honeymoon. At least, I hoped that was where it was to stop. Bringing along photographers and editors, etc on the honeymoon wasn't exactly an appealing idea. As part of my duties, I was updating readers in a weekly column. Mr. Rigfort assured me daily that readership was up, and that people couldn't get enough of the socially inept former copy editor who found true love with a high school english teacher, while doing an undercover feature. I suppose it was a blessing. There was no way Sam and I could afford any wedding larger than a civil ceremony on our budgets. Okay, so we didn't plan to go as big as Rigfort encouraged us to go, but hey - you only do this once, right? Martha and one of her guests were looking at beautiful, handmade wedding dresses when my doorbell rang. I got up off of the couch and padded over, barefoot, to the door. I opened it without asking who was there. On my porch was an absolutely stunning man. He was taller than I, around 6'3", with brown hair cut so that it is short all around except in front, where it hangs on the forehead a bit, and brown eyes, wide, and very expressive, that instantly reminded me of a deer's. He also, I noted, had a small indentation in his chin, much like Sam. The man before me smiled, which lit up his entire face, and showed off dimples to go with the indented chin. "Hullo," he said. He had an accent. I couldn't tell right off if it was English or Australian. "Hi," I said. An intelligent reply, no? "Can I help you?" "You're Josie Geller," he said, making it sound more like a statement than a question. He continued, "I'm Darrin Vendu. Rigfort sent me. I'm the photographer." Of course! I thought. Rigfort told me about Darrin the day before. "Geller," he'd said, "we just lured this photographer away from not only the Trib, but three papers in Los Angeles and two in New York. He's hot, and he's going to do the pictures for your story." "Mr. Rigfort, we already hired a photographer." "Get rid of him. This kid, Darrin Vendu, is what you need. He's going to document the planning process as well as the actual ceremony and reception." And that had been that. Well, I thought, looking at Darrin and thinking about what Rigfort had said, Rigfort was right about one thing. This guy was hot. Before I had time to admonish or remind myself of Sam, Darrin asked if he could come in, or would I rather he stayed on the porch? I stepped aside and let him in. "I didn't know you were coming by," I said. "Yes, sorry about that. If I'm inconviencing you in any way, I'll return another time." "Don't be silly," I said. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?" He smiled again. "That would be great. What do you have?" I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "Orange juice, milk, orange juice, Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke and orange juice," I called. "You're really pushing the orange juice," he said, his breath hot on my neck. I jumped and nearly hit my head on the freezer. He'd snuck up behind me. Of course, that hadn't been his intention, but he startled me nonetheless. "I just got over the flu," I explained. "Ah. Orange juice would be fine, thank you." I poured him a glass. He thanked me again and drank half of the juice in one swallow. Standing there in the kitchen, trying not to be obvious in sizing up this man, I instantly realised what I must look like to him. After all, I was barefooted in gray sweatpants and a rumpled, stained, overlarge white shirt with TEXAS spelled out across the front in bright orange block letters. My hair was unwashed and knotted in a bun on the top of my head. I was wearing no makeup, and no bra. In other words, my typical day-off clothes. "I'm going to go get dressed," I said, trying to escape without giving him the chance to look at my ensemble, in case he hadn't already. "Don't on my account," Darrin said, but I was already halfway down the hall. I peeled the shirt off and hastily grabbed a bra from my top drawer. I hustled to my closet and pulled out a black sweater I think must have been Sam's. Oh well; mine now. Then I exchanged my sweatpants for jeans and dashed into the bathroom. There, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and scowled at the dark roots I noticed. When I had first become a blonde, I wasn't comfortable, but now I couldn't think of being anything but blonde. I added "make hair stylist appointment" to my mental To Do List. Then, not wanting to keep Darrin waiting any longer, I quickly applied some mascara and powder and returned to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, empty OJ glass resting on his knee. He was watching Martha Stewart make place cards. I wasn't sure he'd noticed my return until he said, "Is there anything this woman cannot do?" Pee standing up, I thought, then wondered where on earth that had come from. What was wrong with me all of a sudden? To Darrin, I said, "I don't think so; she's pretty talented." I sat on the opposite end of the couch. He turned to face me, but said nothing. Finally, I said, "I hear you are, too." He raised an eyebrow. "Talented," I said. Darrin laughed. "Who's been lying to you?" "I don't know. Rigfort said he lured you away from a dozen other newspapers." "There's no accounting for taste," he said, and winked at me. I grinned. "If you aren't any good, I don't think I want you photographing my wedding." Darrin smiled at me again. I smiled back, but couldn't help but ask myself why I felt so... lightheaded around him. Next Installment