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You exhale sharply as you slam the truck door and jump down into damp, frost-tipped grass on an early autumn morning. The cold air takes your breath away, sharp with the frost but also filled with sweet hay and musty autumn leaves and -- coffee?
"G'morning!" Paul is trundling down the hill from his barn, bundled up against the cold, with two steaming mugs of coffee in his mittened hands. You don't want to admit how ridiculously adorable he looks in his earmuffs, stress on ridiculously, but there it is.
"Morning," you say back, your voice gone embarrassingly soft. He doesn't seem to notice, handing you your coffee with the same warm, eager smile that you’ve come to know so well over these past six months. And, like always, you hope he doesn't see the blush that rushes to your cheeks.
"I'm sorry to get you out of bed so early," he says apologetically, "But I'm really worried about Georgia."
You allow yourself the luxury of sipping your coffee -- cream no sugar, just how you like it -- and let the warmth bloom deliciously in your chest before answering. "I wouldn't be too worried, Mr. McCartney. The first calf usually takes a while."
"I really wish you would call me Paul."
You take another drink to hide your face, because the warmth you feel has nothing to do with coffee.
"Though, to be fair" -- Paul's smile quirked to the side like it always did when he was being cheeky -- "If it took six months to negotiate you down from 'Sir Paul McCartney' it'll take at least another six to get you to Paul." You blush, looking down into your cup.
You really had called him 'Sir Paul McCartney' the first time you met, but only because you were so nervous. As a large animal veterinarian your typical client is a gruff old farmer, not a famous pop star. You’re nervous enough around humans as it is and jumping out of your truck to see the adorable, boyish face you only knew from TV and magazines was almost enough to make you jump back in and leave. You far, far prefer animals to people.
Well, maybe just most people. Maybe just all but one.
You huff and puff as you and Paul climb the hill to the barn, getting just a little sweaty despite the cold morning still nipping at your nose. Georgia is in more trouble than you expected. You'll need to help the calf along, and you give Miss Georgia a sympathetic pat before turning to Paul. "All my equipment is in the truck," you explain, "And, um...." This part is tricky. You really don't want to ask a Beatle, and the most handsome and charming man you've ever met, to stick his arm into a cow's vagina. But you need his help.
"What?" Paul's hazel eyes have gone a little anxious.
"I might need you to glove up, too." you admit. "Rubber gloves, I mean, not normal gloves. I can see you’re wearing mittens. But you have to take the mittens off. But don't worry about your hands getting cold, it's really warm in -- er, I mean, they're not going to be out in the air--"
Paul is a good man, and he proves it by cutting you off before you can embarrass yourself any further. "You need me to help deliver. Of course I can."
It's only because you've gotten to know him so well that you can tell how nervous he really is.
***
Paul did much better than you expected. Over the past six months he’d told you again and again that he was really just a kid from Liverpool, a normal person with no celebrity pretensions, but you'd still sort of expected him to be prissy and squeamish. And he wasn't. Or at least, he wasn't especially. Maybe a little more than you. Okay, maybe a lot.
But even when his face turned green and his eyes bugged out of his head he'd still done everything you asked exactly as you asked him to. And he was surprised, you could tell, that you were so direct and bossy. That was the nice thing about your shyness. When an animal needed you it all but disappeared.
And, thank god, the calf was born perfectly healthy and Mama Georgia was licking her clean in a nest of fresh straw. The expression on Paul's face when the calf was finally taking her first breath and opening her enormous brown eyes and really, really looking at this strange new world she had been deposited into -- it was a look like he was being born, too. And you knew how he felt. New life happens every day, but today you’d been allowed to witness it.
Now the two of you were sitting on the floor with your backs against the rough barn wall, coats and scarves discarded, your shirts damp from exertion. No more calls had come in for you yet, giving you a rare moment of peace. You couldn't help occasionally glancing from Georgia and her baby to look at Paul, whose pale face was still flushed pink and whose round eyes were still full of that kind of awe and pride and gratitude that came from helping a living thing.
‘He’s beautiful,’ you realized, somehow surprised. The whole world couldn’t stop talking about how Paul McCartney was the pretty boy, the best-looking Beatle, the cutie and the airhead and the flirt. But he wasn’t pretty at all, you realized now. He was beautiful.
“What?”
You jumped. Paul was looking at you quizzically, an amused smile on his face.
“You’re staring at me,” he said softly. “Do I have something on my face?”
“N-no, Mister—”
“Please don’t call me Mr. McCartney. After what I just went through I can’t handle it.”
You blush and look down, your hair partially hiding your face. “Sorry,” you say sheepishly.
“Hey, I—” Paul bites his lip, frowning. “I’m only joking. I mean, I do wish you’d call me Paul. But I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. You’re…..” He seems to be searching for the right words. “You’re a lot less shy when you’re working, you know?”
It was more statement than question. Still looking at the straw floor, you explain. “When I’m working there’s no time to be shy. An animal needs me.”
Paul nods slowly, his face unreadable. He gazes up at the rafters for a long while. “What if,” he says carefully, “this animal – me -- needed you to calm down a little bit and just be yourself with me?”
You’re taken aback, and for a second you don’t know what to say. It’s so unexpected, for Paul McCartney to ask to get to know you better. “You— I-- You’re not an animal,” you finally blurt out.
“Humans are animals,” Paul insists.
“Only technically,” you argue. “Animals are actually nice.”
“You don’t think I’m nice?” He asks it so innocently, his round eyes wide, but you know him well enough by now to know when he’s teasing.
“I think you’re ridiculous.”
Paul actually laughs at that, and the sound makes you warm in a way you don’t want to think too much about. “I won’t argue,” he concedes.
You rest your head against the wall, smiling, allowing yourself to stare at him just a little bit more. His soft profile looks unusually sharp the way he's half-lit by the sun. Sunlight seems to pool in his right eye, turning it to gold, while his left eye is in shadow and almost black. You've always been mesmerized by those eyes. Sometimes you worry you'll start staring at them and never stop. But he doesn't seem to mind.
It’s silly, but the way he’s smiling back at you puts a flutter of hope in your chest that's never been there before.
“I really like coming here,” you admit, and immediately bite your tongue. You don’t know why you said that.
“I like it when you come here,” Paul says softly, his hazel eyes still fixed on you. “For a while there I couldn’t tell if you were shy or if you just didn’t like me. I thought bringing you coffee might get me on your good side.”
“That was a ploy?" you say, raising your eyebrows. "Well, you can stop now. I like you plenty.” Your face immediately grows hot. You meant it as a joke, but it came out like you were telling him you had a crush on him. But Paul doesn’t laugh at you, only tilts his head a little. It might be your imagination, but you think you see a slight blush in his cheeks as well.
“I don't want to stop,” he says. “When I bring you coffee you get this look on your face like it’s the best thing in the entire world. You look… Well, you look like you’re happy to see me.”
“I am,” you say, surprised. "I'm always happy to see you."
“I mean you look like you’re not scared.”
“Oh.” You don’t know why that stings, but it does. Someone like him couldn’t possibly understand what it feels like to be nervous, to be shy. He’s the type of person who owns every conversation and charms everyone he meets. You’re the type of person whose knees start shaking when you have to talk to someone new.
Paul seems to realize you're a bit hurt. “I don’t mean that in a bad way," he says. "I just mean that usually when you’re around me you have your guard up, but for a second there I get a good look at the person underneath, and… I like her.
You look at him sharply. But he’s not making fun of you. His face is completely serious, his eyes almost pleading with you to understand him. You think maybe you do understand him. No, it's not that. It's so much more than that. You think Paul might have taken the time to understand you.
All your life you’ve been a background character. Too shy and too closed off, and most people didn’t know or care that there was a person hidden behind those walls. But Paul knew. And, though you couldn't really believe it, he acted like he wanted to know more.
You’re not the impulsive type. But, before you let yourself overthink it, you lean forward and press your lips gently against his.
For a moment Paul is frozen, utterly still, and then his hand is in your hair and he’s deepening the kiss, taking control but moving slowly, gently, giving you a chance to pull away if you change your mind. When his other hand finds your waist and pulls you into him, pressing you against the warmth of his chest, you make an embarrassing, needy little sound in the back of your throat, and he pulls back.
“Are you okay?” he asks breathlessly. You almost laugh. Kissing Paul is much, much more than okay.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. Paul loosens his hand on your waist, the both of you relaxing into a more comfortable position. You're still face to face, you still can't take eyes off him. It makes your heart beat faster to know the flush in his cheeks is because of you. “I think we should do that again sometime," you say.
Paul chuckles. “I think we should do that all the time.”
His cups your cheek with his hand, and for a moment you think he's going to kiss you again, but then he puts an arm around you and you scoot towards him to cuddle into his chest. You pulls you in impossibly close, wrapping you in his arms like a child, his cheek resting on top of your head. His heartbeat is still a little fast, which makes you smile, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is as soothing as the rhythm of waves falling against the shore. It might not be the most romantic thing in the world, kissing on the barn floor surrounded by cows and pigs. But you can’t imagine anything better than this moment.
“I could stay like this forever,” you admit quietly.
“Then let’s," Paul replies, and he kisses the top of your head.