Free The List by Anne Calhoun

the chaise like a child hidden in a tree fort, rereading letters. Today the antique brown leather card files sat on the carpet by the chaise, as if she’d been reviewing paperwork, refreshing her memory, perhaps even celebrating successful matches. She wore jeans and a gray cashmere sweater, and her curls spilled away from her face against the throw pillow. Rain plunked steadily against the windows, the kind of steady drizzle that made the fallen orange and yellow leaves gleam on the Perry Street sidewalk.
    “You’ve got to stop leaving the door unlocked. It’s not safe,” Daniel said.
    She turned her head and smiled but said nothing, just went back to looking out the window. He stretched out beside her on the chaise, slotting himself between her body and the back then wrapping his arms around her to pull her close. Her exposed arms and bare feet were chilly against his skin. He sucked in air, then said, “You’re cold.”
    “I thought it would be warmer,” she said distantly.
    “The cold front came through sooner than they said it would,” he replied, and reached for the silver-gray throw behind him.
    “What are you working on?”
    “Just rereading the letters. These two,” she said, tapping two folded note cards lying on the floor by the chaise, “have been on my list the longest.”
    “What do they want?” he asked. After she ascertained that he didn’t want to be put on the list, they didn’t discuss it, but Daniel could tell how much it meant to her. She took the list seriously, puzzled over the notes, in a way that told him that connecting people wasn’t just a sideline. It was a compulsion.
    “They want what everyone wants, deep down,” she said. “A soul mate.”
    “That’s a lot to ask of Lady Matilda. Of you,” he said.
    “Ask and ye shall receive,” she said, but her tone lifted a little at the end, making the statement a question, or at least indicating a hint of doubt. “You have to ask. If you don’t ask, you don’t stand a chance of getting what you want.”
    “You don’t believe in fate, or serendipity, do you?”
    “Not really,” she said.
    “Do you ever review successful matches?” he asked, looking at the second card file, with its smaller assortment of cards.
    “No,” she said. She shifted restlessly. “I hate this weather.”
    He smiled and kissed the back of her head. He’d never heard her express that much emotion about anything. “Why?”
    “This is England for about eight months of the year. Dreary, rainy, cold. One’s feet are always wet unless one wears ridiculous ugly boots.”
    Daniel felt his smile broaden. She must be tired. She got a little more English when she was tired, as if she filtered herself to sound more American when she was awake and alert. “What have you been up to today, besides working on the list?”
    “Thinking about a business proposal, and working on a letter to Nan. You?”
    “I ran in the rain.”
    “Do you run in all weather?”
    “Anything short of a blizzard or a thunderstorm,” he said. “I’ve slipped a couple of times on the ice, but never broken anything. Marathon training won’t happen if you don’t run.”
    Her feet were still blocks of ice against his, the cold seeping through his socks to his skin. They’d been lovers for a couple of months now, the newness of it still shocking and visceral. He thought of himself as the man who kept her warm, who brought the blood to the surface of her skin, turning it pale pink, a darker red at her lips, cheeks, nipples, throat, sex. The image bloomed in his mind and sent blood pumping south, hardening his cock. He did nothing as gauche as grind it against her bottom, but it was impossible to miss. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile, and she said, “I’ve a million things to do.”
    “A million,” Daniel said, and cupped her throat with his hand, thumb by the bolt of her jaw, tips of his fingers brushing her ear on the other side of her head.
    “Perhaps half a