Dangerous Affair With A Stranger

I thought the first time he squeezed my breast was a mistake, one he apologized for immediately. When his hand touched me there a second time, I knew it was intentional. What happened afterward was a decision I would spend the rest of my life trying to understand, because the man I betrayed that afternoon was the same man who had never given me a reason to betray him.

Andrew, my husband had been overseas for nearly four months, and although he called almost every day, a voice coming through a phone could not fill the empty chair at dinner or help me settle two restless children at bedtime.

But, I had no reason to complain about my life. Andrew provided generously for us, made sure Divan and Michelle attended a good school.

Whenever I admitted that I missed him, he reminded me that his work was temporary and that everything he did was for our family.

I believed him. I also wished he were home.

After dropping the children at school, I returned to a quiet house and spent the morning doing laundry, and preparing lunch. I had grown accustomed to organising my days around everyone else's needs. I knew which groceries the children preferred, which bills were due, and when Andrew would probably have time to call. What I sometimes missed was having someone beside me who could notice when I was tired without needing me to explain it.

Andrew tried to make the distance easier. He asked about my day, remembered the children's school activities, and listened when his schedule allowed. Yet our conversations often ended just as I was beginning to relax into them. I understood his responsibilities and never wanted him to feel that his sacrifices were unappreciated. Still, there were evenings when I wished I could share a thought without checking the time difference or wondering whether his next meeting was about to begin.

By early afternoon, the summer heat had settled over the neighbourhood. The air conditioner rattled as it struggled against the temperature.

I was watching a romantic movie when the unit suddenly stopped.

"Oh, not today," I muttered.

I checked the circuit breaker, but nothing had tripped. I called a local repair company. A woman named Andrea answered and promised to send a technician as soon as one became available. She took my address and telephone number, then assured me that someone would arrive within the hour.

While I waited, I returned to the movie. The heroine was arguing with a man who had been trying to convince her that her unhappy marriage did not mean she had stopped deserving affection. I rolled my eyes at the screen. It was easy for fictional people to make reckless decisions when the consequences could be resolved before the credits.

I had changed into a lightweight blouse and a short skirt because the heat had become unbearable. I was comfortable, and since I expected to spend the afternoon alone, I saw no reason to change again. When the doorbell rang, I paused the movie and hurried to answer it.

The man standing outside carried a toolbox in one hand and a work bag over his shoulder. He was tall, with broad shoulders, neatly trimmed hair, and a calm expression that made him seem older than his early thirties.

"Mrs. Elliott?"

"Yes."

"I'm Harry. Andrea sent me to look at your air conditioner."

"Please tell me you can fix it. This house is turning into an oven."

He smiled. "I'll do my best. Where's the unit?"

I led him into the living room and showed him the controls. After examining the system, he switched off the power and removed the front panel.

"These old units can be stubborn," he said. "They usually wait until the hottest day of the year to make their complaints."

"Then mine has excellent timing."

He gave a quiet laugh. "I see you understand its personality already."

His humour was understated, and he returned to his work without trying to prolong the exchange. I appreciated that. He checked the wiring, examined a component, and explained what he was testing when I asked. He seemed to take pride in understanding a problem before replacing anything.

Harry occasionally asked me to switch a control or confirm when the unit had stopped functioning. When he finally asked me to turn on the wall switch, I rose and moved around the coffee table.

My skirt caught against its corner. I stumbled, grabbed the table to steady myself, and knocked Harry's open toolbox onto the floor.

Tools scattered beneath the sofa and across the rug.

"Oh, no! I'm sorry."

"Are you hurt?" Harry asked.

"No, but I think I've just made your job more difficult."

"It's nothing I can't handle."

We crouched to collect the tools. I reached for a screwdriver at the same time he did, and our fingers brushed. I withdrew my hand with an embarrassed laugh, then leaned forward to retrieve a small metal fitting that had rolled beneath the sofa.

Harry reached past me for another tool. His hand slipped against my blouse, pressing briefly against my breast. He immediately pulled away.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was reaching."

"It's all right," I replied, though the words came out more quietly than I intended.

The touch startled me, but I told myself there was no reason to make an ordinary accident uncomfortable. Harry resumed collecting the tools, and I helped him finish. As he worked, he mentioned that he had been repairing air-conditioning systems for several years and had learned that rushing through a job usually meant returning to fix it.

"My supervisor says I spend too much time checking things," he added. "I tell him I'd rather be slow once than apologise twice."

"That sounds sensible."

"It is, although it doesn't make me popular when the schedule is tight."

I smiled. There was something reassuring about his matter-of-fact way of speaking. He did not seem interested in impressing me, and I found myself listening more closely than I had intended.

Within fifteen minutes, he had identified a damaged component, replaced it, and restored the air conditioner. Cool air began flowing through the room, bringing immediate relief.

"That feels wonderful," I said.

"I'm glad I could help."

I thanked him and went to fetch my purse. When I returned, he was packing his tools beside the sofa. The movie had continued while we worked, and the couple onscreen had finally stopped arguing. The man was telling the woman that he wanted her, and she was looking at him with the same uncertainty I had noticed earlier.

Harry turned toward me. Our eyes met, and neither of us looked away. I became aware that the thin fabric of my blouse was doing little to conceal the effect of the afternoon's heat and my body's response to the unexpected contact. My nipples had hardened beneath the material, their outlines visible enough for Harry to notice.

His gaze dropped. For several seconds, he seemed unable to look anywhere else. I should have turned away or covered myself, but I remained where I was, watching him as the silence lengthened. Something shifted in his expression, and I recognized a change in myself too: an awareness I had no intention of encouraging, yet could no longer honestly deny.

Harry's eyes remained fixed on my nipples, and I stood watching him, waiting for him to look up.