Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

sliding down the slope of memory. “The entire family, great aunts, uncles had come home from India, every possible relation there to witness my inauspicious debut.”
    He pushed the empty cup away and shook his head. “Greensleeves,” he continued with a soft laugh. “Of all the songs. I think my mother was more nervous than I was. I can see her face. She used to wear her hair up in a loose sort of bun,” he said, his voice temporarily trailing off at the sharpness of a memory nearly forgotten. “When my father announced the time had come, I felt like I’d suddenly sprouted ten thumbs. But there was no turning back. I started playing. Terribly. I wanted to run away, and then... I’d nearly forgotten this. Mother started to sing. She just smiled at me and stepped forward. She was doing it to cover for me, to drown out the shambles I was making of the song. Slowly, others joined in. Even my father.”
    He’d completely blocked out that memory, more than willing to put darker ones in its place. Odd that he’d remember it now.
    “That’s so sweet,” Dix said, pulling him abruptly back to the present.
    Simon cleared his throat uncomfortably. What had possessed him to tell that story? He didn’t know, until he felt Elizabeth’s hand slip on top of his. She squeezed it reassuringly and smiled. And for once, he didn’t pull away.

Chapter Twelve
    S unday, Elizabeth thought lazily as she started to wake. Her eyelids were heavy with sleep, and she forced them half-way open. The late morning sun filtered through the thin curtains as they fluttered in a warm breeze. Even with the city outside bustling with weekend foot traffic, the room was quiet and peaceful. Reluctantly, she began to push herself upright, but the bed beneath her hand didn’t feel right. Too firm, too warm, too Simon.
    Instantly awake now, she dared to open her eyes. Well, this is embarrassing, she thought. Sometime during the night, she’d practically crawled on top of him. One arm lay across his chest, one leg draped over his thigh. And a nice thigh it was. She felt the long, taut muscles beneath her. She could almost picture the sculpted strength of them. The way they might tighten and relax if he were... She quickly glanced up to see if he’d heard her thinking and sighed softly. He was still asleep.
    She started to pull her hand away from his chest, but the broad planes of muscle felt solid and comforting under her fingers. She felt his heart beating. Quickly. Too quickly for sleep.
    She looked at his face again and noticed things she’d missed before. His jaw wasn’t slack, but slightly clenched. His lips weren’t as full as usual, and lay in a flat line. The corners of his eyes crinkled with the effort to keep them tightly shut. The big faker. The big, adorable faker. She nearly laughed out loud. It wouldn’t do to embarrass him and, after all, she was the one who’d climbed on top of him. Not that he’d resisted apparently. His arm curled under her shoulder, the long fingers of his hand barely brushing against her.
    Maybe she could pretend with him, for just a few more minutes? She laid her head back down on his shoulder and closed her eyes, letting herself drift into a fantasy. This was how Sundays always were. Waking up early in his arms—safe and content. Maybe they had breakfast in bed? Or made love?
    As her mind floated along in the pleasant current of her daydream, his hand slid down her arm and tightened ever so slightly. Was he caught in the same current? With a contented smile, she sighed and fell back asleep.
    When she woke up again, Simon was out of bed and fully dressed. “What time is it?” she asked with a yawn.
    “Nearly one in the afternoon,” he said and turned the page of the paper with a snap. “Did you sleep well?”
    Elizabeth felt the blush steal over her face. “Very.”
    Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she could see him smile behind the paper. She grabbed her dress and slipped into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged washed, dressed and ready to meet the day. After last night, who knew what it might bring.
    “So,” she said and took the chair opposite Simon by the window. “What should we do today? We’ve got all day. Or what’s left of it anyway.”
    “I’m not sure,” he said, putting down the paper and picking up the watch from the table. “It seems our time is our own. For six weeks at least.”
    “At least?” She didn’t like the way he said that.
    “My