He laughed. “She had her career, I had mine.”
“Do you think about it? Settling down, getting married?”
“If I could have what my grandparents had, yes. But the world is a different place.” He took a final bite of his slice, washed it down with root beer, and turned the tables. “What about you? Is there a handsome guy beside the successful property developer?”
“No. But if I could have what my parents had when I was young, yes. Not what they turned into when they grew apart. He worked. They fought. She left him to paint at the inn. She said it was her quiet place.”
“Granddaddy used to say, ‘Marriage is simple. All you have to do is serve the other and not be selfish.’”
She laughed. “Oh, is that all?”
“Okay, Cami, come on. I’m sitting across from you.” Ben tossed his napkin on the table and leaned toward her. “I know what I see. Don’t tell me you don’t have guys giving you their number or asking for yours.”
“Not really. The last guy I dated was three years ago, and we only went out a handful of times.”
“You’re intimidating, Cami. Beautiful. Smart. Successful. Confident.”
“Do I intimidate you?”
“Right down to my boots.”
“You are so full of it, Ben Carter.” The candlelight haloed her high cheeks and made her eyes bright. “And I’m not confident. I’m just terrified to fail.”
“We all fail. You get back up and try again.”
“Not if you’re the daughter of Brant Jackson. If you fail, it costs a life.”
“Costs a life? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m just yakking.”
The waitress arrived to refill their drinks, and the moment was lost. Had Cami had a failure that’d nearly cost a life? Surely, she wasn’t talking about her mother. Or anyone.
He was about to pay the bill when a string quartet took their place in the corner. When they started playing, the romantic atmosphere increased.
The maître d’ rushed about the dining room, urging couples to dance. “You, signore, dance with the bella signora.” He stepped aside and motioned to the dance floor, where one other couple did a slow sway. “Per favore.”
Ben gave Cami a nod toward the floor, and she slipped out of the booth. With her soft hand holding his, nothing else in the world seemed to matter. It was like they were the only two people on the dance floor. The only two people in the world. The melody of the strings guided each step and sway. Cami inched closer as his arm tightened around her back.
She smelled like the flowers in the inn’s gardens, and he remembered a long-ago night on the dock of the pond with fireflies their only light. They’d been thirteen or fourteen, sitting with a good six feet between them, talking about school and friends, about his parents’ call to the mission field, about her love of painting.
He’d been more comfortable with her than anyone other than his grandparents. And he was just as comfortable with her now.
The song ended, but they continued to dance. Cami was warm and enticing.
“I think I could do this all afternoon,” he whispered.
“Then we should. The real world will come for us tomorrow.”
He laughed and leaned to see her face. If he kissed her, he’d sink into something he felt sure he’d never escape from. So he cleared the emotion from his throat and tried to think of something to say.
“So, if you bought the inn, what’s your vision? Really. How will you manage it? What will you do with it?”
“I’ll have to think, come up with a plan. Last I heard, you turned me down.”
“Okay, I’ll give you forty-eight hours.” He channeled Marlon Brando again with a deep, gravelly voice.
She laughed and gently patted his chest. “Don’t remind me of how stupid I sounded.” She moved easily with him as the dance continued and the quartet began a new song. “In my mind, the inn has always been a special place. I see artists like Mom set up on the grounds, painting, finding their muse. The place was always more like a refuge, a way to escape the cares of the world.”
