“I wanted to.” He quietly scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned on the white linen with his forearm. Even in this atmosphere, he was still relaxed. “I wanted you to see this beach.”
Jake had said himself that things like champagne and flowers didn’t occur to him. Yet this did? What was happening between the two of them? Something had changed in Jake.
“Do you come here often?” she asked carefully.
“When I want to get away. It’s my favorite place to relax.” He was leaned back slightly in his chair now, his arm still on the table, but his shoulders politely squared. “It gets too cold in North Carolina in the winters, and I board up my cottage during hurricane season. I’ve been lucky not to have too much damage each time.”
“And you come here?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just live here? It’s so beautiful.”
The waiter brought glasses of water for both of them, the ice cubes clinking together as he set them down. Jake gave him a polite thank you as he left them alone.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I like the Outer Banks. I can keep busy there more easily. There are people I know who’ve been there my whole life, and there’s so much to do. I can fill my days with cottage work and boat building.”
“But this is amazing,” she said, pressing him, her gaze landing on a sailboat in the distance, the sail looking stark against the turquoise water—a very different view from the ones she’d seen at the Outer Banks. She considered his answer, and thought how it spoke to what she loved about the Outer Banks. He didn’t say he loved the resort that he was building. He said he loved working on the cottages and boats.
“That’s not to say that I don’t love this view. I just don’t need it all the time.” He looked out at the water. “If I see it too much, I worry that it will lose its effect on me. Things are good when they’re still new.”
Had he meant something else by that comment? Was he worried that she wouldn’t affect him the same way once they were settled into a routine?
They ordered lunch, and Faith found that even though she had quite a few questions, conversation was always easy. He had a way about him that made both the times they were chatting and the quiet lulls between comfortable. She didn’t have to think about it; the conversation just flowed. When their food came—on fancy white plates with perfect zigzags of drizzle—they settled in and let the conversation slow. The weather was different here, the heat noticeable, the wind gentler up by the restaurant. Even the smell of the air was different. Faith liked it, but she understood what Jake had meant when he said he liked North Carolina too. She did feel after seeing this place that flashy could be fun sometimes, but like Jake, she just wanted to sit somewhere nice and read a book. She thought about how great it would be to do that with him.
After lunch, they walked along the pier that led out over the water. There was so much sea in front of her that it made her feel small. “Thank you,” she said, turning toward him. She looked up into his eyes, hoping for that look he’d given her earlier.
He offered a crooked grin. “You’re welcome,” he said. He grabbed her hand and held it in his. With a smile, he studied their fingers as they moved against each other’s, and she felt how perfectly they fit. The jitters were gone. She moved her hand in his, feeling the roughness of his palm under her fingertips and his fingers moved in response. Then he closed his hand around hers.
“Feel like walking around? We could go to Mallory Square and see the street performers or go shopping.”
“Whatever you think,” she said.
Jake took charge, grabbing a taxi to Mallory Square. It was located along a street with a wide sidewalk that stretched along the coast, palm trees and buildings on one side and ocean on the other. Several cruise ships had come in to dock, and she’d never seen ships as huge as these. The walkway was busy. Jake reached out and grabbed her hand again so they could stay together. It was different this time. His grasp was protective yet light, a perfect physical representation of the way he was in general. She held on to him, glad for all the people so that she’d have reason not to let go. They finally came to a stop at Mallory Square where a tightrope walker was balancing while juggling fire. She watched as the flames flickered against the water behind him.
“Worst case, he can jump in,” Jake teased, his mouth near her ear so she could hear him over the crowd. It sent a tickle down her arm. She laughed at his comment and looked up at him, but his eyes were on the juggler. She followed his gaze, still watching him in her peripheral vision. He seemed so relaxed—he hadn’t checked his phone once. He was completely in the moment with her, and he seemed to be enjoying himself.
After the performance, they caught another taxi, and when they pulled up to a house, she wondered where he’d brought her. In front of her was a gorgeous white southern building with a wrought-iron porch going around the second story. The only color against the white and black was the gold of the shutters on either side of the rounded windows and the green of the nearby palm trees. Neatly cut hedges worked their way around the house, and the grass was like a carpet of green.
He looked down at her, affection oozing from his face. “Know where we are?”
“Where?”
“Hemingway’s house.”
“This is where he lived?” She took in the house again with new eyes.
“Yep.” He took her hand again—it was becoming quite a regular thing. She could get used to it. “Wanna go inside?”
“Yes.” In that moment, she was so glad that she hadn’t been to Key West before because she’d been right: She enjoyed seeing it with Jake.
The rustic interior was very masculine with tiled floors and soft, monotone colors on walls that had the heads of mounted wild game and other relics that looked as though they could have been from Hemingway’s travels. They walked from room to room and she marveled at the simplicity of the book-filled shelves and modest wooden furniture. But when they arrived in one, particular room, it was as if she could almost feel Hemingway’s presence. Sitting in the middle of the room was a small, round table with one chair and an antique typewriter. It looked so solitary to her, but it made her think about the man who’d written those words. That man didn’t know when he’d written them that there would be a boy in North Carolina who would read them over and over. She was willing to bet that the boy who caught lightning bugs and read Hemingway was still there in the man standing beside her now.
Back outside, he asked, “Can you guess where we’re going next?”
“The Robert Frost cottage?”
“How did you know?” He looked down at her. “I couldn’t come to the home of my favorite author without visiting the home of yours.”
