Samina found trashy romance novels as delicious as every female equivalent of Tom, Dick and Harry did. Well, almost as delicious. Each time she found herself drowning in a "sea of passion," a little glitch in her brain would send her bobbing back up to the surface. The problem was her academic background. It wasn't just that she was a Ph.D. candidate and had to be careful about who knew she was reading such stuff. It was that she read novels like she did science textbooks: carefully, analytically and, yes ... literally.
The hero would step towards her—actually towards the heroine, but you know. She'd feel his warm breath wafting through her hair—okay, maybe he wouldn't come quite so close right away. She'd be waiting oh, so nervously for him to kiss her. When he didn't—she preferred sensitive heroes who made sure she was on board before they crossed physical boundaries—she'd gaze up at him—shyly, of course. At that moment, according to the author, she'd find herself "drowning in his eyes." At that point, the river of passion would also evaporate, never making it to the sea, and she'd be left standing on a dry bed of dirt. How the heck could you drown in an eyeball? It was only an inch across.
And yet, as Samina gazed into Wolverine's eyes, she had a feeling not of drowning, but of being trapped, like a ray of light that's entered a perfectly cut gem, in his case a deep yellow topaz, and keeps ricocheting inside, unable to escape.
A rumble jarred her free from the spell of his eyes: Wolverine's voice, deep and resonant. "Mind if I join you?"
Her jaw slid open. She didn't think "her heart had leapt into her throat" because she could feel it working overtime in her chest, but something had because she was trying to speak, but no sound was coming out.
A quizzical frown now accompanied Wolverine's smile. He straightened up. "It's fine if you don't want me to."
Samina didn't know what she wanted. If the searing sun said to the tepid earth one day that it wanted to hang out, would the earth agree? She couldn't imagine a more fascinating ... or a more frightening offer.
The polite Indian took over. Samina nodded wordlessly.
"You do?"
She nodded again.
Wolverine's smile became sunny. He pulled out the chair he'd been leaning on and sat down. "Hi. My name's Tom," he said, extending his hand across the table.
Samina didn't accept the hand immediately. Instead, she studied it as if it were a small and possibly dangerous predator—a baby velociraptor perhaps. Tanned. Prominent veins. Large, but not beefy like Wolverine the Elder's. The nails practically manicured—no messy cuticles or trapped dirt from fieldwork. Perfect half-moons in the nail beds of the thumb and index finger—she couldn't see the rest. If the moons really did indicate health, like she'd read somewhere, his was perfect.
No openings for adamantium claws along the knuckles, though. Yeah, because he was Tom, not Wolverine, although she'd probably never be completely convinced. Besides, the claws sliced their way through Wolverine's skin each time they emerged. A smattering of hair between the first and second knuckles. Could that mean ...? Samina's chest slowly began to heave.
She lifted a hand that was now made of lead while her eyes travelled up to Wolverine's—uh, Tom's—crazy, handsome, face. They made a pit stop at his collar. Even close-up, the results were inconclusive. Darn.
"Samina," she managed in a hoarse whisper.
"What?" he said, leaning towards her and cocking his ear while his hand, warm and slightly rough, enveloped hers in a firm grip.
She cleared her throat, swallowed whatever had made its way there earlier and tried again. "Samina," she said, her voice thin but audible.
"Samina? Hmm, that's a nice name," he said, releasing her hand. "Are you from the reserve?"
"What?"
"I haven't seen you around here before. Are you from the reserve?"
"You think I'm native?" She put a hand to her cheek. Did she look native? "No. I was born in India."
"India? That's neat."
"But I live in Toronto."
"Toronto?" There it was, the same disparaging tone with which just about every local said that name.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
She took a sip of beer to moisten her dry mouth. "I'm studying your rocks."
Tom eyed her for a moment. "You know, I think that's the most forward thing a woman's ever said to me! But I like it!" he declared, sitting back with a huge, Cheshire cat-like grin on his face.
Samina took one look at him and burst out laughing. She hadn't fully swallowed her beer, and some of it sprayed out.
"No, no," she choked out between fits of giggling, "I mean ... real rocks ... as in geology!"
"Oh." He joined in laughing, looking sheepish. "Sorry!"
He regained his composure, while she still tried to suppress some remnant giggles. "So you're a geologist?"
"Yeah. I'm doing my Ph.D. in geology."
"Ph.D.? Wow. What are you studying ... specifically?"
She hesitated, wondering if she should give him the short version, or the long version. Better stick to the short version. Wolverine wasn't exactly known for his braininess.
"A melting event that occurred about 2.7 billion years ago, the biggest one we know about."
"Billion?" he exclaimed.
"Yeah. You have some really old rocks here, though not the oldest."
"That sounds interesting."
"Does it?" she said, unable to keep the skepticism out of her voice.
"Yeah. So what exactly are you trying to figure out about this ... melting event?"
Her eyes narrowed. Was it possible that a good brain was paired with that stunning face?
She looked down at her beer, running her fingers along the sides of the bottle, dewy from condensation. "I'll be measuring dykes, sheets of molten rock that intrude existing rock, and trying to see what they can tell me about the extension of the crust during the event."
He nodded. "And how do you know that the rocks are that old, what did you say, ... 2.7 billion years?"
Her brow furrowed. No way—it wasn't possible! Not only had his eyes not glazed over, as most non-geologists' did by this point, he was asking good, basic, science questions, the kind she knew her profs wanted to hear from undergrads, but rarely did.
She was about to answer when the waitress came by to take his order.
"Hey, Tom!"
"Agnes!"
"What can I getcha?"
He leaned towards Samina. "What would you like?"
"Oh. Nothing, thanks. I'm fine with this," she replied, lifting her beer bottle slightly.
He took the bright green bottle from her and checked the bottom. "Not much left."
She smiled and shrugged.
"Do you like lager and lime?"
"I don't know ... what that is," she said, embarrassed at her ignorance.
The waitress stepped in. "You add lime juice to beer, but here we add lime cordial instead. It tastes better."
She was about to refuse but decided that under the circumstances, she could use some more beer. "Alright."
Turning to the waitress, he said, "A pitcher of lager and lime, please, Agnes. Maybe make it with Upper Canada Lager?"
"A pitcher?" Samina exclaimed, her brows rising, as the waitress nodded, and turned to leave. "That's way too—"
"Don't worry. I'm having some, too," he said, cutting her off with a grin.
His interest in geology had seemed genuine, but she had a nagging suspicion that he might be faking it to get in with her. But why even bother with her? Why not stay with Red, who was so much prettier? Or approach one of the other attractive women in the bar? Maybe her interest in him, which he'd clearly picked up on, was the attraction. There was a simple test. Would he remember the question he'd asked before they were interrupted by the waitress?
"So, you've never had a lager and lime before?"
Aha, just as she suspected! He wasn't all that interested in the answer.
"No. I'm not much of a drinker."
"That's probably a good thing. We see a lot of accidents around here involving drunk drivers."
"Yeah. In Toronto, too. But my drinking habits have changed a lot since I got here," she said with a wry smile. "It's hard to get respect from male geologists if you don't drink your fair share of beer at the end of a field day. And all the ones I'm working with are male."
He laughed. "Really? I didn't know that. But I can see it."
They were silent. Then he piped up, "You were going to tell me how they can tell that the rocks around here are 2.7 billion years old."
She couldn't keep a smile off her face as she explained how geochronologists used radioactive elements in rocks and minerals to tell their age.
"Wow, that's amazing!" he said.
She nodded. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"
The waitress returned with their beer. Samina offered to split the cost, but he said that this wasn't Toronto, neatly conveying his view of Toronto and his rejection of her offer at the same time.
She wondered what he did for a living, and was about to ask when he glanced over his shoulder at the dance floor.
"Wanna dance?" he said with a smile, turning back to her.
She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No, thanks," she mumbled.
She took a peek at him to gauge his reaction. He looked disappointed. Concerned that he might think it was him she didn't want to dance with, she explained, "I'm a terrible dancer."
"Really? You probably think about it too much."
The song that was playing ended. He cocked his head to one side and listened for the next one. It was a slow song.
"Come on," he said, standing up and extending his hand. "You don't have to do anything except hang on to me for this one."
She looked up at him, doubtful. The polite Indian nudged her. "Alright."
She placed her hand in his, and let him lead her to the dance floor. When they reached it, he turned and faced her. The significant difference in their heights was now apparent—she was staring at a point just below his collarbone. She slipped her purse over her head and positioned it to the back so that it was hanging off one shoulder. Then she looked up at him, feeling very, very nervous. There it was again, that little smile that conveyed that he knew just what she was feeling.
His hands went to her waist, then slid onto her back. One came to rest around her shoulder blades, the other in the hollow between her back and her backside. Her hands reached tentatively for his shoulders. There was air between them, which was good she decided, as her heart rate had now accelerated to alarming proportions. He held her lightly, but she could still feel the pressure of his fingertips on her back. Like Wolverine, he exuded strength, his size, and also the feel of his muscled arms and shoulders under his shirt.
As the song wore on, he gradually drew her in closer and closer, until she was pressed right in against him. His body felt firm, even plank-like, against hers. And warm. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The freshly washed smell of his shirt was mingled with another. More complex. Earthy. And under the circumstances ... intoxicating.
Her hands seemed to migrate up on their own and clasp behind his neck. Not wanting to poke him in the chest with her chin, she turned her head. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump went the powerful beat of his heart.
He bent his head and rested his cheek against her hair. She found it both dreamy and nerve-wracking to be dancing like this, plastered against him. Although it was now physically impossible for them to get any closer, his grip on her continued to tighten like a vise, until finally, she couldn't help but squirm. After all, she had to breathe!
He loosened his hold, and said, chuckling, "Am I holding you too tightly?"
"Yeah, a bit," she replied, with a nervous giggle.
"Sorry."
The song ended, and they parted. He reached out and took a light hold of her hand. She looked up at him. He smiled at her. The hint of amusement his smile had held earlier was gone. She smiled back shyly. The next song started. Darn, it wasn't a slow one.
"I don't dance to fast songs," she mumbled and turned to leave.
His grip on her hand tightened, and he stopped her. "Come on. We'll just pretend it's a slow one," he said, and led her to the back of the dance floor.
She frowned and shook her head, but couldn't help a smile at the same time. They came together, close together. Lacking any sense of rhythm herself, she found it impressive that he'd find an underlying slow beat in the fast songs that followed, which still let them dance in time to the music. Meanwhile, his hands became more adventurous, roaming all over her back, while continuing to press her in firmly against him. Each time they'd approach the invisible barrier at the top of her backside, she'd tense, but they'd only risk crossing it slightly or migrate back up. At the same time, he'd begun to lightly nuzzle her hair.
They must have spent close to three-quarters of an hour on the dance floor, when he whispered in her ear, "Wanna go outside?"
She stiffened. Her experience with men was appallingly limited, but she had an idea what this meant. Tom wanted to neck with her. Part of her was too nervous to agree. Was that double, or triple time, her heart was now keeping? But another part, the one under the sway of the novel and powerful feelings he'd aroused in her, leapt at the idea.
"Alright," she whispered, giving him an anxious look.
He took a firm grip of her hand and led her towards the door. She noticed several men at his table turn and look at them as they passed by. Most were sporting amused looks. Her eyes fell on Red, who was sitting in the background. She peered at them through narrowed eyes. It seemed that the humour in their situation that was apparent to his buddies had eluded her.
Once outside, he led her quickly and silently down the steps and to the side of the building. A couple was making out there. He hurriedly led her to the other side. The same result.
"Damn!" he muttered.
The Bear Paw and its parking lot were housed in a more or less circular clearing that was ringed by a line of trees. "Let's go into the woods," he suggested.
A shudder ran through her.
"Cold?" he said. "We can go in and get your jacket."
Just scared, she wanted to confide. "No, it's alright."
"The good thing about the temperature is that we don't have to worry about mosquitoes." He grinned.
The polite Indian forced her to smile back.
He must have sensed her discomfort, because he said softly, "You can trust me," although the roguish smile that immediately followed wasn't exactly reassuring.
She knew that there was no way that she should be heading into the bush with a relative stranger, but as she searched his eyes, she decided that she did trust him.
"Alright," she whispered.
"Good. Come on!" he said, beaming. Giving her hand a squeeze, he led her briskly towards the dark wall of trees that stood directly ahead of them.
Her stomach was doing all kinds of gymnastics. Why did she have this feeling that she'd agreed to jump off a cliff just to see what it felt like on the way down?