Plaid or French Blue – The Australian: Chapter 5

Ian held the door to his room open for me and waited as I walked inside. I scanned the spartan space taking in the expected sights of a mid-rate all-suite hotel. Light beige Formica covered the counters of the corner kitchenette, medium beige carpet covered the floors and dark beige wallpaper covered the walls. A navy sofa and chair were paired with a yellow oak coffee table and faced a television.

“Would you like something ta’ drink?” Ian asked in his rolling Australian accent.

“I’m good. Thanks though.” I replied as I sank onto the sofa.

“I’ll be right out,” he said.

“I’ll be right here,” I said smiling.

He walked into the bedroom and shut the door. I lay back on the sofa, closed my eyes and listened to him turn on the shower. Like images flickering across the silver screen, memories of the day played across the inside of my eyelids. Why was I so comfortable with him so quickly? What were the chances of our paths crossing? Why did every move he made and every word he spoke seem so right, so familiar? The few times he had touched me had sent currents of electricity surging through my body. I let myself imagine kissing him. My mind dipped and dove through the fantasy of our lips meeting causing my heart rate to go from a steady thrum to a rapid flutter. But the ding of an incoming text message shook me from my trance. A quick glance at the screen let me know it was from my good girlfriend from home.

Her: Whatcha doing today?
Me: Ummm. Picked up a smoken’ hot Aussie man at this plantation tour. We hit it off… Both traveling alone so he drove me back to downtown. We have been touring together ever since. I’m in his hotel room now while he showers and changes to have dinner with me. No. We haven’t kissed or anything.
Her: Wow wow wow!!!
Me: He has to be 6’5″. Was a rugby player. A complete gentleman.
Her: :-) pic?
Me: I will get one. :)

The running water had stopped. The muffled sounds of the opening and closing of drawers flowed into hushed whispers of cotton being whisked onto long, muscular legs. I worked to steady my breathing and heart rate while I remained in my relaxed looking state of repose on the sofa. The bedroom door swung open suddenly and Ian filled the frame.

He was wearing a casual plaid button front shirt and pressed, flat front khaki pants. In his left hand he held a French blue linen shirt. As he looked down at me a surprised grin burst across his freshly shaven face.

“You look comfy,” he chuckled.

“I am,” I said, smiling as I arched and stretched.

“Well, which one?” he asked, holding up the blue shirt while gesturing to the plaid one.

“The one you aren’t wearing. It’s a fairly dressy place.”

“All right. Be right back.”

And the door shut. When he opened it a second time he stood looking resplendent in the deep sapphire hue, which pulled the sky tones from his merry eyes. I stood and crossed the room to stand in front of him.

“Is my tie straight?” he asked.

“Almost.”

I reached up and gently tugged the wayward blue and brown paisley silk into place, allowing my hands to rest on his strong chest for a second longer than necessary. I slipped them into the front pockets of my jeans, afraid I would not be able to stop touching him if I didn’t have them tucked away. He stood motionless, looking down at me. In those moments of stillness, while we were just inches apart, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, something shifted. I knew. I knew like birds instinctively know to migrate south for the winter that there was something more than simple lust between us. I just didn’t yet realize what it was.

4 thoughts on “Plaid or French Blue – The Australian: Chapter 5

  1. The asking you for style advice and to fix his tie must have felt especially surreal. You might have been a couple long-married. I don’t suppose that was remarked on.

Talk to me. Please.

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