"THIS IS SUCH A LOVELY neighbourhood. When did you move in here?" Olivia asks, looking at her reflection in the lift mirror. "Oh my, look at these Halloween eyes! I'm as good as ready to go trick-or-treating..."

"Little over a year ago." When the whole bloody nightmare happened. "And you look splendid, trust me." I force the bad memories away and move my hand in long, gentle strokes up and down her back.

"You're a terrible liar. But I'll pretend to believe you." She elbows me playfully.

We're standing side by side, my hand still resting on the small of her back. I'm fighting the urge to grab her in a less subtle way and finally pull her so she's facing me.

My eyes, wild with a need I can hardly control, meet hers in the mirror. I wonder if she's noticing the state I'm in.

Probably she isn't.

Hopefully, she isn't.

She nudges me with her elbow again, smiling. "Hey, neighbour, may I borrow some salt?"

I take a moment to process the question. "What?"

Like a valve relieving its pressure, she blows some air out of her mouth, and a couple of strands fly up. "Twenty-six bones, thirty-three joints and nineteen muscles need urgent help!"

My reflected image looks down at hers confused, my frown demanding clarification.

"My feet. Just trying to prevent a not-so-splendid high-heel hangover. So, if you don't mind, we'll have that drink in your bathroom."

I grin inwardly, first picturing all the different things I could do with her in that room. But then it dawns on me that the easy-going, down-to-earth girl I've known my entire life is still here, acting as if there's never been a gap in our lives.

"Hmm... a drink in my tub. That would be an excellent idea! Why didn't I think of that before?"

She notes the sly innuendo and fakes her best scolding look. "Brian Anderson, shame on you!"

Unable to disguise the mischievous smile on my face, I give her ribs a quick tickle, teasing her. "Red, white or beer, sweetie?"

"You've got some port?"

Third floor. The lift finally announces the arrival with a signal and a soft bump.

*

"Ooh, this just feels soo good!" she breathes out in a sort of orgasmic moan and I almost lose my balance.

After having set some background music, I enter the bathroom, two glasses in one hand, a bottle of vintage port in the other.

Olivia is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, the skirt of her dress pulled up to the knees revealing her slender legs, both feet dipped into eight inches of salty water.

I can't help but snicker to myself. Not quite what I had in mind, but entertaining, nonetheless.

After pouring the wine, I clink my glass with hers. "Cheers!"

Smiling, she raises her glass and takes a slow sip.

I take off my tie and roll up my sleeves before I sit on the ceramic floor.

"Living alone here?" she asks with eyes closed while continuing to lengthen her back and perform some feet stretching and twisting movements with her feet.

I hum in confirmation.

"Girlfriend?"

"Nope." I swirl my glass before taking a sip from the dark, full-bodied liquid.

She throws me an inquisitive look. "You sure?"

"See anyone else here? And why would I lie to you?"

With a naughty smile playing on her lips, she tilts her head towards the quartz countertop. "You have a thing for women's make-up now, huh?"

My throat clenches when I see it, Jo's lipstick lying forgotten on the dark stone surface.

A howl of laughter bursts out of her mouth. "Oh my God, you're hiding a terrible secret, aren't you? The handsome Brian Anderson is into cross-dressing!" She drinks half of her glass and then sizes me up, clicking her tongue in a feigned expression of disappointment. "What a waste, you look amazing in a suit."

Half nervous, half embarrassed, I get up and throw the damn thing into a drawer. "It's not what you're thinking..."

She lets her eyelids drift closed, enjoying the warm, soothing sensation. "It never is. In fact, I'm quite familiar with that line, if you want to know."

I would, actually.

She's still nervous, I can tell. In a quick movement, she takes a band from around her wrist and ties her hair up in a bun and then empties her glass.

I pour some more wine, which I'm planning to drink slowly, in hopes that out of politeness she'll stay at least until I finish.

Without really expecting her to open up, I ask, "When did it all happen?"

Surprisingly, Olivia extends her arm, asking for her glass to be refilled. She has long, graceful hands, not very long nails, painted in deep red, which gives her a sexy yet sophisticated touch.

I like it.

"Almost six months ago. I called the whole thing off, you know, but I really regret it now."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I should have left him standing at the altar, that would have been the proper thing to do!" she says dryly, smothering a snort.

Then the little grin fades into a more serious, introspective expression. "He's not a one-woman man, and deep down I always knew it. But I guess I kept thinking he would change. Or that I would change him." She takes a sip. "I don't know, but it should make us wonder: why do women always think they can fix men? Why do we fall for the same emotionally unstable guys, the ones with the most flaws, the most completely screwed up, lost cases?"

I shrug. No idea.

Olivia, however, seems to have an explanation. "So we can treat you as some sort of fixable project? I guess sometimes we don't look at a guy for what he is, rather at his potential. As if he were a chunk of soft clay we could mould. We look at them and secretly wonder 'Well, well, what can I make out of you?' And then we call it love..." she concludes, clearly frustrated, as she lifts her legs, looking around for a towel.

I throw her the one I pull from the hanger above my head.

"Love is such a complex thing, isn't it?" I ask, rhetorically, last year's events circling through my head.

"You could say that. It always makes you behave like an idiot while it lasts and feel hopeless pain when it ends.

I let that sink in for a beat. "You've got a point there. Maybe we're all a little weird..."

Olivia sends me a playful yet tender smile and adds, "We're all a little weird. And life's a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness – and call it love."

"Wow. Didn't know you were a poet!"

I tap on the floor to invite her to sit closer.

She crinkles her nose, confused.

"Come." I beckon with a wave of my hand. "Methinks you're going to love this foot rub!"

Her eyes light up.

Supporting her body weight on both arms, she slides towards me. I cup my hands around one foot and begin to rub it.

"Me, a poet? No, just quoting Robert Fulghum." She seems more relaxed now, playing with her glass, watching the dark red swirl against the light.

"Never heard of him. Then again, reading isn't really my thing."

"That's because you've never found the right book." With eyes closed, she bends her head back, a trace of a smile gracing her face.

As I rotate her ankles, I find myself studying her again, the elegant contours of her face, her neck, her shoulders – a moment that is only interrupted when she lets out a shy moan, one that sends a warm tingling sensation down my spine.

I rotate and pull each toe gently. Another moan and stronger vibrations rush further down.

I stretch my arm and manage to get some lotion out of the cabinet, which I use to walk my thumbs back and forth over the sole of her foot and then to push deep.

This time a hoarse groan escapes her throat, "Oh God, yes!"

I have to blow a short breath. She's writhing with pleasure and with each passing second, it's getting more and more difficult to keep my rush of yearning under control.

I keep rubbing her heel, then move to her ankle, finally gliding my thumb all the way up her shin. My hands are tempted to move further up to her thighs and dance across the soft skin, but the thought is interrupted by an indistinct, breathless whisper.

"What?"

"Harder!" she breathes out, this time even louder.

Another shudder travels through my body.

Help me, God.

Another sharp intake of breath and I force myself to cool off.

She starts humming the music that comes from the living room. U2's 'One'. One of my all-time favourites.

"Brian?" Her eyes are still closed. "You know why you find love so complex?"

"Tell me."

"Because you never found the right woman." She finally holds her head straight and gives me a reassuring smile. "But one day you will. And love will be easy."

I thank her with a smile and watch her close her eyes again, immersing herself in the music. Reflecting upon her words, I acknowledge, once again, how beautiful she is and has always been, to me.

Olivia momentarily opens one eye and catches me checking her out. Her lips quirk into a mischievous smile before she closes it again and begins to sing the chorus lines.

"Hey!" A few seconds later, she gives me a scolding stare.

"What?"

"Eyes up, boy!"

"Huh?"

"You know the way a man's gaze roams over a woman's body tells you how into sex he is?"

I almost choke on my wine.

I clear my throat, one, two, three times. Not because I really need to, but because I'm trying to gain time to find an excuse.

"I think you're tipsy," I tell her.

"Oh, shut up! You know when they say your eyes are the window to your soul? That isn't mere poetry, sweetie! Your pupils are dilated because you're looking at my..." She makes circular movements over her chest with her hand.

She's right, I've been staring at her boobs. Last time I checked they looked different and... well, I'm impressed. I can't deny that.

"And you're right. I'm probably a bit drunk too." She giggles and finishes her glass. "No more wine for me tonight! But do enlighten me, why are men so crazy about breasts?"

"I'm sure there's some natural explanation. Because men are hardwired to search for potential mates? Some fertility-slash-childbearing thing?"

"Cut the crap and tell the truth: what's the very first thing you look at in a woman?"

"Huh... her eyes?"

"You're such a terrible liar, Brian Anderson!" Her eyes take on a mischievous glint. "Boobs, waist and hips. But mostly boobs. The question is, do you want to procreate with every woman whose boobs you look at?"

Course not.

"Surely you don't! There must be something else. And besides, no other mammal cares about boobs, these play absolutely no role in foreplay and intercourse! So, please, do me a favour, and explain it to me!"

I shake my head, amused. I don't know. I like them. A lot. I like them so much, even this scientific chit-chat about them is turning me on.

She gets up and extends her hand to me. "Come on. Take me to a softer place. My bum's freezing."

***

Thank you so much for sticking around. Hope you're enjoying reading about how these two will find their way back into each other.

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Have a wonderful day!  The next update is coming tomorrow :-)  

xo, Ana