He would have liked to hold her forever, but too soon, Lois slipped out of his embrace and turned away.
"Lois?" Clark took a step closer.
"Why do I always get it so wrong?" she cried, spinning around. "I'm an independent, successful woman of the nineties, but I always choose jerks who pretend to be one thing and turn out to be something completely different."
"Being able to see the best in people is an admirable quality," Clark said.
"But I don't!" she fired back. "I see things that aren't there, and I miss the obvious. Like Claude!" She pointed at the door. "How could I miss that he hits on anything in a skirt? How could I have been willing to overlook that he's rude and inconsiderate? How could I have thought …"
With a sob, she slumped into the sofa.
Clark crouched at her knee. He waited while she stared ahead, her fingers knotting in her lap. He watched her fight for control, understanding both her need for release and her aversion to breaking down in front of someone who was little more than a stranger.
Through sheer willpower, she won the battle, and looked directly at him, her eyes glazed with the shield of detachment.
"Thank you for coming and cooking with me," she said in a cool voice. "I think it would be best if you left now."
Part 6
Clark hadn't moved. He was still perched at her knee, his hand on the sofa cushion.
Embarrassment flooded her like a swollen river contaminated with slicks of self-disgust. For Clark to know she had been stood up was humiliating enough. For him to witness Claude's appalling behaviour and disrespectful attitudes was infinitely worse.
Lois couldn't look at Clark. If she did, she knew she would see his sympathy and her churning emotions would crash through her tenuous grip on control.
As soon as he left, she would bolt to her bedroom and surrender to the storm of her tears, but for now …
Clark still hadn't moved. "Please," Lois said, despising the quiver in her voice. "Please go now."
"I would like to stay," he said.
Five minutes ago, she had been imploring him to do just that.
How could she have been so impulsive after everything that had happened?
Hadn't she learned anything? Tomorrow always came, and it always brought disillusionment and heartache. The more wonderful a man seemed, the greater her hope, and the more devastating her disappointment.
Clark Kent … well, that would hurt more than anything had before, and Lois wasn't going to risk that. "I can't do this," she mumbled, addressing the tense air around them. "Not anymore."
"Do what?"
"Dating. The whole relationship thing. I'm so inept at choosing someone to be with that it's a certain disaster from the beginning. And when it happens …" She gulped, trying to smother a sob.
"Then don't choose," Clark said.
"Excuse me?"
"Don't choose."
"Don't choose what?"
"Don't choose a guy."
"So you agree?" she said coldly. "I should stay single for the rest of my life?"
"You should let me choose."
"I should let you choose a man for me to date?" she demanded dubiously.
Clark's smile flickered. "Actually, I was thinking you should let me choose the woman for me to date."
His meaning billowed like a summer breeze, eroding the sodden heaviness from around her heart. "Do you have someone in mind?" she asked.
He gathered her hand between his. "You."
Tiny tremors capered across her heart. "You want to choose me as your …"
"Yes."
His affirmation came with soft certainty. His touch on her hand made her skin tingle. "Your what?"
"Let's start with this evening," Clark said. "Let's eat the meal we cooked and enjoy each other's company."
One evening would be worse than having never met him. She would always be tormented by what might have been. "You're backing away," she said, rekindling her embarrassment and using it to harden her tone.
"No. No, I'm not."
"It sounds like you are."
"Lois …" He released a gush of air. "I don't want to scare you away by being too intense."
She stared at where her hand disappeared into the folds of his fingers. "Do you think this … us … you and me … might have a future?"
"I'm sure of it."
His quiet confidence snuggled into her heart as if it had belonged there all along, expelling her doubts as contemptible trespassers.
Clark straightened, gently tugging her to her feet. "Let's eat, shall we?" he said. "The food is ready."
Apparently, he was staying.
It was Valentine's Day.
And Lois was sharing it with a man who was an enthralling package of gentle sincerity, patience, and good humour, all neatly bundled in a flaming hot body and topped with a six-star smile.
"Would you mind if I spent a few moments tidying up?" Lois said. "I'm sure my mascara must be smudged."
"It's not," he said. "But you go and check. I'll serve up the food."
"Thanks," she said, hoping he would discern that her gratitude covered so much more than a chance to gather her composure and fix her makeup. "I won't be long."
Clark let her hand slide slowly from his grasp. "I'll be waiting for you," he said.
--~--
Lois peered into the mirror. Her eyes were a little red, but her makeup was undamaged. She drew back from the mirror for a full-length perusal.
The dress suited her, emphasising all the right places.
But she'd worn it - twice - for Claude, and that tainted it. She turned away from the mirror and advanced on her closet, hoping something would jump out at her.
Surprisingly, it did.
It was the outfit she'd bought for her cousin's wedding last fall. Worn once, deep burgundy in colour, and with a neckline that suggested, rather than flaunted, her bust - it was exactly right for a date with Clark Kent.
She quickly changed her dress and shoes, re-assessed her image, smiled, and then frowned.
Was she going to be able to banish all remnants of Claude's memory from whatever might be possible with Clark? Or would it always be wedged between them - the knowledge that they had met because she'd been so desperate to impress a man unworthy of her efforts?
She had behaved like a schoolgirl - a naïve, immature schoolgirl, reduced to mush by the superficial charm of a man whose character had less substance than fog.
There was no valid excuse for her blindness, but she needed to try to explain.
With a final glance in the mirror to boost her confidence, Lois opened the bedroom door and stepped forward.
Clark was standing next to the table. He turned. His mouth fell open. He dragged it shut and swallowed. "Lois," he said, awe weaving through his voice. He shook his head as he glided towards her. "Wow."
She smiled. "I didn't want to wear the dress I'd worn for Claude."
"You looked great in the black dress," he said. "Now …" His pause sizzled with appreciation.
"I want to forget Claude," Lois said. "I want to forget everything that happened while he was here."
"It's forgotten. He's not important."
"Are you concerned he will follow up on his threats? I don't want him to hurt you."
"He won't," Clark said. "There's nothing to worry about."
He seemed sure. Lois gave herself a moment to skim over his broad shoulders and remember how easily he had ejected Claude from her apartment. "If you have any questions, would you mind asking them now so we can move on?"
"How did you know about his neck?"
"My sister called. He hit on her at High Spirits and then assaulted another woman, who swung at him and scratched his neck."
"Did Lucy know it was Claude?"
"Not definitely. She knew his name and nationality and put the pieces together." Lois groaned. "I didn't believe her."
"His accent is French."
"That's because he was born and raised in Paris."
"You said he is Italian."
"No, I said -" Lois stopped and covered her mouth. "I did, didn't I?"
"Yes."
Her mistake provided some release, and Lois burst out laughing. "I told Claude a sexy Italian chef had taught me how to cook." She'd gotten that two-thirds right. "I must have been concentrating on the butter chicken."
"It's not important now," Clark said. He gestured towards the table. "We should eat before it gets cold."
Lois grasped his arm. "Claude and me … it was three weeks, a whirlwind of parties with glamorous people, a lot of hours spent listening to him preen, and very little else. I don't think he ever saw me as more than a bit of fun on the side." That sounded as if she had … "I … I didn't sleep with Claude."
A muscle twitched in Clark's cheek. "That's … that's not my business."
"I thought … hoped … I wanted to believe." She still wanted to believe. But not about Claude. "I wanted him to be the right one," Lois said. "I wanted it so much that I ignored my gut and acted like a fool."
"Was there something about him specifically?"
Lois shook her head as she searched for truth in the layers of emotion buried deep inside. "I wanted to believe there is a man for me," she admitted.
"There is a man for you," Clark said gravely.
Her eyes shot into his. His gaze didn't waver. Her heart rollicked around her chest as hope and disbelief jousted for supremacy.
"Let's eat, shall we?" Clark said.
"OK."
As Lois moved forward, Clark placed a gentle hand on her back, radiating the warmth of his presence through her body. The few yards they travelled across the room seemed representative of so much more … a new beginning, a sparkling dawn to a day that stretched before them with glorious promise.
They arrived at the table, and he pulled out her chair.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome." He waited until she was settled before sitting down himself. He opened the bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. "What are we drinking to?"
She pondered for a moment. "Cooking classes?"
He nodded in smiling agreement, lifting his glass towards hers. "To cooking classes."
Their glasses clinked. Their eyes locked. Time faded away, subordinate to the compelling lure of possibility.
Then, as if remembering that cooking led to dining, Clark broke away and passed her the bowl of rice.
"Ready?" he asked when their plates were laden with food.
"Yes." Lois speared a piece of chicken, swept it through the sauce, and lifted it to her mouth.
The taste pulsed across her tongue, setting off tiny explosions.
She chewed slowly, attempting to differentiate each individual facet of the whole. "Wow," she said. "This is good."
"Food always tastes better when you cook it yourself," Clark said.
Perhaps he was right, Lois mused as she took another mouthful of the rice and chicken. Cooking had been fun. She'd enjoyed the laughter and camaraderie that had accompanied the skills and techniques.
The jovial atmosphere of cooking had been lost when she'd gone into her bedroom to prepare for Claude's arrival.
She wanted it back. She took another mouthful, chewed and swallowed, and then paused, pretending to consider. "I'm still not sure about this recipe being romantic, though," she said.
Clark's quick grin was exactly the response she'd sought. "Really?" he said. "The soft, creamy texture combining with the fiery heat of the spices - I think that's very romantic."
Lois wondered if Clark realised he could have been describing them - he was the soft and creamy, she was the fiery heat. "Food isn't romantic," she said. "Unless it's chocolate."
His smile turned secretive, probably in reference to the little chocolate mounds he had stashed away in the fridge. "What do you think is romantic, Ms Lane?" he asked.
She sipped from the wine, taking time to consider her reply. "I think rescuing a lady from vindictive garlic is very romantic."
His grin exploded, warming her in its aura. "Anything else?"
"A culinary instructor hanging around for half an hour after he was supposed to leave."
Clark grimaced. "Sorry. I wasn't stalking you."
"What were you doing?"
His eyes dived to the table, and he poked at a piece of tomato with his fork. "I wanted to see Claude."
"Why? Would you have said anything to him?"
"No," Clark said, looking up. "I just … I just wanted to see him. I didn't want to leave until …"
"What?"
"I wanted to see for myself … Evidence …"
"Of what?"
"That he realised he was the luckiest man on the planet."
Lois tried to contain the smile that wanted to scurry all over her face. "I don't think Claude would consider himself the luckiest man on the planet now," she said.
"He's not anymore," Clark said cheerfully.
"Who is now?"
He laughed at her question. "Can't you work it out?"
"I'd like you to tell me."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because it's Valentine's Day and I'm with Lois Lane."
Lois searched his soft brown eyes for flippancy or glibness, but found only candid transparency. She pointed her fork at him. "That was romantic," she said. "The chicken - no."
He shrugged with good-natured acquiescence.
"What about the dessert you made?" Lois asked. "Do you think they're romantic?"
"Did you see them?"
"Yes. And smelled them. They're chocolate, right?"
"Yes."
"What are they called?"
Clark hesitated for a moment. Then, with a bashful smile that liquefied a significant portion of her muscle mass, he said, "They're chocolate kisses."
"Kisses?" Lois squeaked.
He nodded, colouring slightly. "Before I came, I thought they would be appropriate for Valentine's Day. But then I met you, and …"
She waited.
"… and they didn't seem such a good idea, anymore."
"As things turned out, they're perfect."
"You like chocolate?" he asked.
"It's my favourite food."
His smile came with soft satisfaction. "That's good."
Unable to resist, Lois asked, "You're not going to ask if I like kisses?"
Clark cleared his throat. "No," he said. "I'm not going to ask that."
"Pity," she said.
"Would I like the answer?"
"Depends on whether you like kisses or not."
He spread his hand across his chin as amusement glistened in his eyes and his mouth toyed with a smile.
And Lois decided that Clark wasn't leaving her apartment before she'd had the chance to discover if his mouth could kiss as alluringly as it could smile.
Clark picked up his fork again and resumed eating. "How's the heat level?" he asked. "Not too hot?"
"The chicken? Or the kisses?"
His moment of surprise gave way to a wide grin. "The chicken."
She looked down at her plate, taking a moment to acknowledge the results of their efforts. "It's incredible, Clark," she said. "Better than anything I've had in a restaurant."
"Good."
If she was going to kiss him - and she was - this was going to get serious, and if it got serious, there were things she wanted to know.
"Would you mind if I asked you some questions?" Lois asked.
"Go ahead," he said easily.
"How many girlfriends have you had?"
"Two."
"At different times?"
"Yes. One in high school. One in college."
"Did you ever cheat on them?"
"No."
"Did you ever kiss another woman while you were dating them?"
"On the lips? No. On the cheek? Yes. My mom."
Lois smiled because - inexplicably - she believed him.
He was delicious on the outside, but charm and good looks often camouflaged an arrogant and devious personality. In Clark Kent, she'd seen no trace of guile. He'd told her he'd given up his job because it conflicted with his principles. He could be lying, of course, but it would be easy to check the facts.
She wanted to know more about him, but - unusually for her - she was driven by interest, not the chance to uncover dirt. "Tell me about your parents," she said. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"
"No. I'm an only child," he said. "And my parents are wonderful people."
If there had been a twinge of sadness in the first statement, it had dissolved in the love and affection of the second.
"I would like to meet them," Lois said.
"They would love that."
"Do they live in Kansas?"
"Yes. Smallville."
Lois chuckled. "Smallville? Is that a comment on its size?"
"No. Its founder."
"Do you miss your folks? Your hometown?"
"I go back regularly and visit." He topped up her wine glass. "Is Lucy your only sibling?"
"Yes." Deciding to answer before he asked, she continued with, "My parents are divorced. It's difficult."
"I'm sorry," he said with more understanding than she would have expected from a man raised in an idyllic family.
"Tell me about some of the places you've travelled," she said.
Clark accepted the shift away from her family and told her stories of far-away countries. He was never the focus of his tales; instead, they were filled with his fascination for, and appreciation of, other cultures and people.
They moved from his travels to hers, and from there, to favourite movies and books.
When Lois next checked the time, she was surprised to discover it was almost ten o'clock. "Would you like coffee?"
"Yes, I would," Clark said. "But it's getting late. You probably have an early start tomorrow."
"I'd like coffee," Lois said. "And I still haven't tried your kisses."
This time, he didn't baulk. "You will."
His words sizzled across the table like shaken soda. "Is that a promise, Mr Kent?"
"Yep."
"I'll hold you to that."
The moment expanded, holding them captive in the strength of its implication. Clark picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth. "We should get the coffee."
"I'll make it," Lois said, glad that her reliance on regular doses of caffeine as she worked on stories in the evenings had made those skills a necessity.
"I'll see to this," he said, rising from the table and beginning to clear the plates from the table.
Lois went to the coffee machine. It didn't require much of her attention, leaving her free to watch Clark as he moved between the table and the kitchen.
He looked as if he belonged here.
Perhaps he did.
He took the plate of chocolate kisses from the fridge and removed the plastic wrap.
Lois inhaled deeply, embracing the sweet scent of chocolate as one welcomes an old friend.
But this time, it wasn't enough.
Oh, she wanted kisses all right. But not chocolate ones.
