Eighteen Minutes

Someone was knocking at the door. Heather groaned, struggling to secure the last hot roller in her hair and answer the door at the same time. She swung the door open and frowned at the man on the porch.

"You're early," she said in a mock-accusatory tone. "Again."

"You know how much I like to watch you get ready," Ian told her and, with a wink, he added, "Raisin cake." She gave him a scathing look and he laughed, following her back into her bedroom.

Heather had once mentioned how she loathed the use of pastries as pet names and Ian took it as a personal challenge to think up as many baked goods as possible and use them one at a time.

"You know," Heather said, fogging up the mirror as she applied a coat of mascara, "you remind me of Peter when you sit there like that - minus the action figures." Peter was her rambunctious five-year-old. She had been sickened almost to the point of suicide when she first learned of the pregnancy, but after three agonizing trips to the clinic entrance and three failed attempts to go inside, Heather moved to a new city instead. Once Peter was born, she dedicated her life to raising her child and forgetting her past

Ian smiled broadly at this comparison. "Heather, who is Peter's father?" he asked.

Heather swung around more abruptly than she intended and a roller went flying. Ian was sitting on the edge of her bed in a light blue, button up shirt and dark pants. It was almost unfair how good-looking he was: sun-bleached blond hair and little freckles across his nose. She was struck again by how much those freckles conjured up visions of her young son. "He didn't stick around very long." Her hand shook a little as she picked up the roller and put it in its container. Peter's father had stayed about 18 minutes, in fact.

Heather removed the last of her rollers and shook out the long, auburn curls, letting the waves settle past her shoulders and down her back. Ian stood up and smelled the top of her head and then grabbed the bottle of shampoo.

"You can never switch shampoos. I'm addicted to this stuff now." Ian inhaled the scent directly from the bottle.

Heather laughed, relieved at the change of subject.

"It a fair question. Can't you tell me anything about him?" Heather's relief faded in response to the question. Heather had made an art of forgetting: the suffocating feel of the pillowcase pulled over her head, the bastard's hand in her hair as he pulled her head back, the hot breath on her neck as he breathed, You know... I could just eat you up.

Heather forced back a dry heave and quickly picked up two dresses. "Okay, cute and black or creamy and backless?" she asked, holding each one up to herself.

"All right, all right... I'll drop it," he said, his hands held up in defeat. "Creamy and backless, why even ask?"

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then put a hand to his chest and held him at arm's length. "Out of my bathroom so I can change." Ian snapped his fingers in disappointment but backed out with a smile. Heather laughed and smacked him lightly on the shoulder before closing the door and slipping the dress over her head. She took one last look at herself in the mirror.

She took a big breath. It had taken Heather years before she could allow a man to look at her without resting a hand on the revolver in her purse. It had taken even longer before she could accept an invitation for coffee. But Ian had been persistent. And now, three months later, she was grateful for that persistence.

With a fake flourish, Heather opened the door and grinned at Ian who immediately stepped forward and beamed back.

"Get over here, Creampuff," he said, swinging her toward him. She gave him an indignant jab for the pastry reference, but then laughed and returned the embrace. He held her there for a moment while she inhaled the scent of his freshly laundered shirt.

Ian bent to place a kiss right below her ear. "You know," he said quietly, "I could just eat you up."