I sat in the window seat watching the rain as it lashed against the pane. The glass felt cool against my forehead. Cool and numb, just like the rest of me.

"Damn! You're good."

I raised my head and turned to look at Shane. He had the last of his stuff shoved in his gym bag. I had no idea what he was talking about. "What?"

"You. Miss Bitch. You've got that down to an art." I could hear the anger in his voice now. "You're sitting there as if you haven't got a care in the world. I wish I could be as emotionless as you."

"Just leave, Shane. Just ... leave."

As the door slammed behind him, I leaned my head back against the window. The rain was coming down harder now and I could make out the shape of the old elm out front, its boughs bending under the relentless wind.

Try as I might, I couldn't get Shane's words out of my head. "Damn, you're good!" It had been almost a year since anyone had said that to me. God! Had it really been that long? Sometimes it seemed like it had been a lifetime ago, yet the memory was as clear as if it'd just been yesterday.

"Damn, you're good!"

The voice, coming from directly behind me, startled me and I let out a small scream. I almost fell off the ladder I'd been standing on. Strong hands gripped me around the waist and steadied me. I looked cautiously over my shoulder.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

The voice held a hint of a southern drawl, and was attached to a man who looked vaguely familiar. "It's okay," I replied, still trying to figure out where I knew him from. I hated it when I couldn't remember.

He moved back, and I climbed down the ladder until I was back on terra firma. I realized then how tall he was. I shaded my eyes from the late afternoon sun as I looked up into a pair of light blue eyes. They were guarded and somewhat cautious, as if he might take flight at any moment. The dark blonde hair, rumpled by the autumn breeze, begged for my fingers to run through it.

I shook myself. Where in the hell had that thought come from? "I'm Charlene. But my friends call me Charly."

"I know." He must have noticed my puzzled look because he continued, "We met at Francis' party last month. I'm Jack." He stuck his hand out and I took it.

His hands were slightly callused. Working man's hands. "I remember now," I replied. "I'm sorry. I'm just bad with names at times."

"It's okay." He just stood there, looking lost and a little out of place.

"Um, may I ask why you said I was good?"

"Oh. That." He gestured to the small sign I'd been hanging above the shop door. "Charlene Delaney: Freelance Writer" it said. "I read your article in the Tribune last Sunday. Very articulate and informative. You're obviously good at what you do."

"Thank you." I felt my face turning red. Compliments tended to fluster me.

"Well, I have to be going now." He stuck out his hand and I shook it again. "I'll be seeing you around I hope."

"Sure." I watched him walk away and then turned my attention back to the sign.

The next time I saw him, I was leaving the grocery store as he was coming in. I said "hi" and he asked how I'd been. Even though I was in a hurry, I took the time to watch him walk away, noticing the shape of his butt in the crisp jeans. It would fill my hands nicely.

"Arghhhhh!"

Several people turned to look at me but I ignored them. What had gotten into me? First his hair and then his butt? I put his nice ass, and him, out of my mind and hurried to my car.

Over the next three months, we'd run into each other occasionally in town, and stop to talk. I learned he was a house painter, around my age and single. He learned that I loved to read, had a weakness for cheesecake and was owned by a brown tabby cat.

If I happened to pass by wherever he was painting, he'd take a break and we'd talk about the weather, music, literature; whatever subject came up. Likewise, he would stop in my tiny office at least once a week, just to talk to me about an article I had written.

One day, he leaned a hip against my desk and casually asked, "Would you like to go out to dinner one night?"

"Sure," I replied quickly. Too quickly? I guess not, because he just smiled. His teeth were straight and his smile the best thing I'd seen all day. I could just see myself licking the deep creases that appeared at the corners of his mouth every time he smiled. I closed my eyes and mentally chided myself. 'You've got to stop noticing things about him, Charly.'

He asked about some weekend a few weeks away; he said he'd be through with his current job by then. I agreed and he left with a wave and another smile. I pushed all thoughts of Jack aside, and concentrated on my work.

Two weeks later, and still two weeks before the scheduled date, he called me at home. I'd been painting my toenails and watching reruns of "Whose Line is it Anyway?" and had to duck-walk to the phone to answer it before the machine.

He told me he'd found my business card in the pocket of his overalls, with my home number on the back, and decided to give me a call. I flopped back on the couch with my legs stretched out in front of me, staring at my half-painted toes while we talked.

It started raining while we were still on the phone, and the thunder and lightning soon followed. We said our good-byes and I hung up. My unpainted toes were forgotten, the television droned on, forgotten; I curled up in the corner of the couch and stared at the falling rain. The flashes of lightning gradually slowed and stopped, as did the thunder, and the rain lessened. I fell asleep with the sound of the rain pit-pattering on the roof, and the sound of Jack's voice echoing in my head.

Something changed that night. I don't know what; it wasn't something tangible I could put my finger on. I found myself thinking about him more and more, looking forward to our occasional talks with an anxious anticipation that left my palms sweaty and my heart pounding.

I shivered when I thought about the sexy way he said my name - low and breathy and full of mysterious promises. I daydreamed about us going skinny dipping late at night in Johnson's creek, nothing on my skin except the water, the moonlight and the heat of his silvery blue eyes. I would wake up in the middle of the night and turn my head, picturing how he'd look lying next to me, his arms cradling me gently and his long legs tangled with mine. I couldn't believe I was having these kinds of fantasies and I hadn't even kissed the man!

I tried to see if he'd been affected by that innocuous phone call like I had. I couldn't tell. I was terrible at "reading" people, though, and couldn't work up the courage to ask. I looked forward to our upcoming night out with an excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time.

We had dinner at a small Italian restaurant down the street from my apartment. We laughed and talked over antipasto and tortellini Alfredo. He held my hand across the table. He had strong hands. His fingers were long and lean and no strangers to manual labor, but gentle as the silky lick from one of his old paintbrushes. I could imagine him taking the brush and sliding it up and over the inside of my wrist, along my arm and towards my breast ... I took a drink of my wine and concentrated on the conversation.

After dinner, he walked me to my door and hugged me. He started to leave but I pulled on his hand. He swung back around and before I could think about it, I leaned up and kissed him. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me. Surprise quickly turned to pleasure as he kissed me back. His kisses were hesitant, his lips soft and supple. There was a fluttering down in the pit of my stomach and I felt lightheaded. It was as close to swooning as I'd ever come. When he let me go, I had to lean against the doorframe to keep from falling over. He smiled and kissed my forehead, then walked to his car. Neither one of us had said anything about a second date but I knew it would happen.

We did go out on a second date. And a third, and a fourth, until we both grinningly acknowledged to our friends that we were "officially an item now." We'd go out to the movies, to dinner, or go dancing. Sometimes we'd just stay either at my place or his, watching tv and talking, stealing kisses and slow, lingering caresses during the commercials.

One such night, we were playfully arguing over what to watch. He wanted to watch an old Italian film and I wanted to see "Romancing the Stone" for the fiftieth time. I took the remote and hid it in the cushions behind me and refused to move. Instead of giving in gracefully, he started tickling me. I had no choice but to defend myself and tickle back.

Before long we were rolling on the floor, all thoughts of the television forgotten. I'm not sure who made the first move; all I knew was that he was kissing me with a fierce hunger that he'd never shown before. It was like I was standing on the edge of a cliff and this great wave came roiling up and crashed over me. I was drowning with no desire to be saved. I matched him kiss for kiss, hunger for hunger.

Clothes were hastily removed. He rolled me underneath him, flesh to flesh, and used his hands and mouth to touch, squeeze, lick, suck and bite me to a mindless frenzy. I didn't care that it was our first time and we should take it slow and build the passion; make it something to remember for a lifetime.

I pushed on his shoulders and he rolled over so I was the one on top now. I raked my nails down his chest, an action that elicited a shocked gasp from him. "Too hard?" I questioned.