“You didn’t.”
“Kind of I did.” She passed the corkscrew to him to let him open the Chianti, then pulled down some glasses from an overhead cabinet. “My brother calls it Type B Bossiness because I tend to wear people down quietly.”
He slid the cork free and poured two glasses, his head a hairbreadth from the pans that hung over the countertop. “I can see that. You don’t have the traditional entrepreneur’s mind-set.”
“I work as hard as anyone else.” She tipped her chin, defying him to say otherwise.
“That’s easy to see.” He leaned back on the counter and folded his arms, an amused smile on his lips. “But most of the shop owners I meet for this show are idea people. They have a big vision, but not always the day-to-day organization to make the dream work. You have both. Or at least, you have the follow-through.”
“I can’t afford to fail.” She pointed at the glasses. “If you carry those outside, I’ll start the steaks.”
They moved to the back deck, where the sun was already casting a purple glow. In the distance, she could see the converted barn where Mack and Nina had an apartment, but the lights were off and Erin guessed Nina must be staying at her grandmother’s for the weekend.
“Everyone fails sometimes,” Remy pointed out, his eye roaming the “pasha’s palace” furnishings. “Want me to light the lamps?”
He picked up the igniter she kept near the hurricane lamp on one end table.
“Sure.” She turned up the grill’s heat to sear the meat, keeping half an eye on Remy as he moved to each of the purple glass shades to burn a candle inside the hanging fixtures.
The fading sun caught a mix of gold and brown in the scruff of hair around his jaw as he concentrated on his task. She hadn’t lit the candles earlier, fearing the atmosphere would look too romantic—as if she was expecting more from the night than just dinner. Seeing the space lit up now seemed to turn up the heat on the night. Or was that just on her part?
He turned just in time to catch her staring. More warmth rushed to her cheeks.
“I need to time these,” she blurted. “Do you have a watch?”
“Yours not working?” He set the igniter down and strode closer.
Of course she was wearing a watch herself. She was just way too nervous.
“You wouldn’t need to ask that if you saw what happened to the potatoes.” She pointed to the two sad packets of foil charred to a crisp that she’d left on an upper shelf of the grill. “Can you tell me when two minutes are up?”
“Done.” He kept her company while she waited for the sear to finish. “Until then, how about a toast?” He passed her one glass of wine and picked up the other.
“To Type B Bossiness.” His gaze locked on hers and her heart rate cranked up speed. Thankfully, he turned away before she made an idiot of herself and swooned on him. “And springtime in Heartache.”
Seizing the chance to focus on something besides him, she lifted her glass and admired the flowering dogwood trees and rogue honeysuckle patches that climbed up the potting shed in the backyard.
“Hope springs eternal. Cheers.”
When she faced him and clinked her glass to his, she noticed his expression had changed. His face was totally blank. Skin pale. Eyes focused somewhere else entirely.
She put a hand on his arm. “Remy? You okay?”
He set his glass down unsteadily, a little Chianti splashing over the rim, but he didn’t notice.
“Sorry.” His voice was hoarse as he lowered himself to a seat. “It’s been two years. Two. Years. And stuff still grabs me by the throat sometimes and takes me right back there…”
He shook his head. Shoved a weary hand through his hair.
“People grieve at their own pace.” She switched off the grill and sat next to him. “It takes time.”
She hated to spout lame platitudes, which he had probably heard too often, but she didn’t know what more to do. She’d caught hints of the old pain in his eyes when she had first met him—before she’d known about his wife. And now, understanding where it came from, she felt even more helpless to do anything about it.
It was foolish for thinking anything could happen between them tonight. Remy wasn’t anywhere near ready for a rebound fling. It sure put what she’d gone through with Patrick into perspective.
“You want to talk about it?” She debated the wisdom of taking his hand for about a nanosecond. Then, acting on basic human kindness, she took it and squeezed. “I don’t claim to have any answers, but Type Bs make really great listeners.”
He stared at the open fields beyond the lawn. “You remember, when we made the toast, you said ‘hope springs eternal’? Liv had the words stenciled in her studio above the windows that looked out on her gardens. I helped paint it. In fact, it was one of the few things she didn’t paint by hand in there.” He shrugged. “She was a talented artist. But even I can handle filling in a stencil.”
