“Pop, I was sixteen then. I’m older now.” She didn’t add ‘wiser’ because she wasn’t sure she was. She’d used to trust herself, now she rarely did.
“Well, I’ll be here if you need me.”
She nodded, trying to quash the nerves which were gathering in the pit of her stomach. “Okay.”
“He’s in the parlor.”
“The parlor?” she repeated. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d used the parlor. The nerves intensified, making her feel queasy. Had someone died?
“It seemed best,” Jim said solemnly. “Are you okay?”
“Pop, I’ll be fine.” Although she was feeling less fine by the minute. Her father’s hovering didn’t help. “Why don’t you put the kettle on? Make a pot of tea?”
She watched him walk away and only after she’d heard the rush of water into the kettle did she walk to the parlor door. She paused outside the closed door and bit her lip. This was ridiculous. It was her and her father working each other up. The rest of her family always teased them about being over-dramatic. She took a deep breath and reached out for the brass handle, dented with age, and gripped it, her grip faltering as she heard a sound behind her. Her father stood at the end of the hallway, kettle in hand, watching her. She felt strangely comforted.
She opened the door and the silhouette of a man, outlined by the bright winter sunlight, stood before the window. He was smartly dressed in a sharp suit which even Amber could see must have cost more than her monthly salary, probably her annual salary for all she knew. Then he turned and moved out of the stream of sunlight and her mouth dropped open. Those green eyes, she’d know them anywhere, even when they came along with a suit so sharp it could cut something.
“Oh, it’s you!” she said, a blush blooming on her cheeks.
“Miss Connelly.”
She felt as if she’d walked into a costume drama. She’d have laughed at his response if she hadn’t been surprised that he knew her surname. She only ever signed her paintings with her first name, and her staff badge only had “Amber” printed on it.
Jim stood behind her, and she could sense his confusion. “Is everything all right here?” he asked protectively.
“Of course, Pop. This is a…” She couldn’t say ‘friend’ because he was a friend only in her imagination, and she couldn’t introduce him because she didn’t know his name. “This is someone I met at the café.”
“David Tremayne, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I wasn’t sure how else to contact your daughter.”
“Oh,” said Jim, looking from one to the other, his confusion intensifying. And Amber could hardly question it—she was as confused as he was. Besides, she couldn’t help repeating his name in her head.David Tremayne.It was a beautiful name, just like him. She glanced up into those green eyes, which were looking as assured as ever. They alighted on her and she took a sharp intake of breath, feeling the tingle of his gaze from her scalp to her toes.
“You weren’t at the café,” he said. His voice was gentler now his eyes were on her. She swallowed.
“I took a few days leave from the café to be at Belendroit while Dad recovered from an operation.” There was a silence. He obviously wasn’t the chatty sort. “And I’ve been doing some painting.” Again another silence which even the usually loquacious Jim didn’t fill. “Hm…” She shrugged. “And stuff like that.” She frowned. Wasn’t anyone else going to say anything? “So… you wanted to see me about something?”
David looked startled, as if waking up from a dream. “Yes! Sorry, I, um, wanted to apologize. For the other day.”
“What for?”
“You asked me to dinner and I declined. I was wrong.”
Amber ignored her father’s gasp and mutterings as he stomped back into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him.
“You were wrong?” she repeated. “You seemed pretty certain.”
“I was. I didn’t want to have dinner at your place. I’m very particular about where I eat. But Iwouldlike totakeyou to dinner.”
“Oh.” She screwed up her face a moment, while she digested the fact that he had suggested that her house wasn’t sanitary enough to eat in, but that he still wanted to be with her. She met those green eyes again and tried not to weaken. “Well, that’s a little odd.”
It was his turn to frown. “In what way?”
“In the way that you’ve just insulted me by saying that either my cooking, or my home, isn’t good enough for you to eat in.”
“It’s not. I lead a very regimented life, Miss Connelly. I exercise hard, I eat carefully, and I work.”
She tried not to laugh. But one glance at those stern green eyes and the laughter died. This dude wasn’t joking. “Sounds very… serious.”
His frown lowered, darkening those eyes. It was his turn to shrug. The movement didn’t look right on him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
