He looked up. “It’s afternoon.”
She smiled. “Ah, so it is. You have me there. Good afternoon, then.”
He smiled back. “Yes, I think itisgoing to be a good afternoon.”
Her smile widened. Not even a polite ‘hello’ was simple with this man. She kind of liked the way he meant the words literally. That seriousness had always got to her. She cleared her throat, willing herself not to get distracted. “So, what can I get you?”
He looked back down at the menu. “Are the bread rolls fresh?”
“David, they’re always fresh.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll have the salad.”
“Dressing to one side? Hold the coriander?”
He nodded, and she moved to one side to allow the waitress, to whom she’d just whispered the order, to place it on the table. After the waitress left, Amber leaned in and straightened his knife and fork.
“Am I really that predictable?” he asked, looking at the salad before him—dressing to one side, and a distinct lack of coriander.
“Yes,” she said with a grin. “About your food, anyway. From what I hear, it’s about the only thing that has stayed the same.” She paused. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want everything about you to change.”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “Would you not? And what would you like to remain the same? My urbane charm?”
“You’re not the charming sort.”
His face fell. “What then?”
She moved into the seat opposite him, and reached out for his hand, slipping her fingers between his before gripping his hand. She lifted their joined fists between them. “The way your hand holds mine. Kind of possessive, but still I like it.”
He squeezed her hand, and the sensation traveled all over her body.
“What else?”
“I like your seriousness. You take time over everything you do and give it your utmost consideration. You give everything one hundred percent.”
“Of course.”
“Not everyone does, you know. But most of all, I like the way you look at me. As if you want to make me yours but don’t quite like to.”
He looked surprised. “That about sums it up.” He paused and looked at her. “And what about you? It’s been a month since I last saw you. The café looks amazing; your art looks amazing, you—”
“Fine!” she exclaimed before he could say something which would totally annihilate her. “I’m fine. Some of my pieces have even been bought by someone who isn’t you, would you believe?”
“I would. I haven’t got any more room on my walls, anyway. Your paintings are everywhere in my house.”
“Yeah, right,” said Amber, not believing him. After all, he only bought her paintings because he felt sorry for her, right? “I’d like to see that.” Her comment was meant to be sarcastic, but David took it seriously. Of course he did.
“Then come to my house. This afternoon, after work.”
“Well, I…” She was confronted with what she’d been imagining since she’d last spoken to him at the museum. Of being alone with him. She was suddenly nervous. She’d spent many happy hours imagining that he really had changed, that he really did still have feelings for her. “I’m not sure.”
His smile slipped. “Why aren’t you sure?”
She shrugged. How could she tell him that she was scared that she’d find that, although everything appeared to be changing for the best, nothing had changed underneath it all? And that she was back to square one. A vulnerable woman, being used by a sophisticated man. She shrugged a second time.
He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Amber, come to my house this afternoon and I’ll show you what I’ve been doing.”
“Okay,” she said, her mouth apparently not obeying her brain. “I’ll meet you at your house at four.”
