“This way, please,” the host says, leading us into the private room I reserved. One can never be too careful, even in a small town like Juniper Grove. Smells of warm bread and butter and stews and herbs infiltrate my senses as we walk through the small restaurant.
The circular table for two is elegant—a white table cloth with a candle centerpiece surrounded with rose petals. Two wine glasses,a bottle of Cotes du Rhone, and half a baguette with a ramekin of butter are immediately set onto the table before I have the chance to pull Lucy’s chair out for her.
Her hand rests on the back of her chair as if she’s about to get it herself, so I place mine over hers to make my intentions known, my long fingers swallowing her petite, clear-coated fingernails. I observe her reaction, gauging how she receives this minimal contact. Her hazel eyes widen as she stares at our hands, then she yanks hers out from under mine. The motion sends the solid, wooden chair rocking onto its back legs, the thick backrest slamming into my…
“Agh!” I groan, doubling over and instinctively sticking my hands between my legs, my stomach threatening to allow lunch to make a reappearance. My vision blurs for a brief moment as dizziness sweeps over me, and I grab the offending object to steady myself.
“Finley?Finley!Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” Lucy places a hand on my shoulder, but then the warmth of her touch disappears as quickly as it came.
I nod once and focus on taking deep breaths, trying to collect my composure as pain radiates through my nerves and my stomach rolls. After a minute or so, I’m able to stand straight, the pain still present but slowly dulling. Lucy stands off to the side, clutching her black purse with a death grip, her face contorted with concern as if she feels my pain. I release a long, slow, stabilizing breath and smile reassuringly at her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, but she remains as still as the King Erik statue of my great-great-great grandfather in the entryway of Stjarna Palace. “Are you okay?”
I nod curtly. “Yep. I’m okay. That was…”
“Painful?” She tilts her head, the grip on her purse relaxing.
“Yes. And embarrassing.” I manage a snuffed laugh as the pain and nausea continuously subside.
Lucy, however, doesn’t laugh. She takes two cautious steps in my direction, evaluating me through narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, and says, “It’s a normal male reaction to that sort of incident. Are you sure you’re okay?” The compassion and understanding in her voice surprise me. I’ve seen women laugh at men in similar situations before. I dare to believe it’s a coping mechanism, but I’m glad to see Lucy doesn’t respond that way. She genuinely cares about my well-being, not the awkwardness of the situation.
“Thank you for your concern, Lucy. Yes, I’m in pain, but it’s easing up and I will be okay in a few minutes. Why don’t we take our seats?”
She reaches for the back of her chair once more, but I take hold of her wrist, freezing her mid-movement. I stare into her wide, hazel eyes. “Please, allow me to be a gentleman and get your seat for you tonight.”
“O-okay,” she stutters. I release her wrist and slide her chair out. After gawking at the chair for a few seconds, she finally sits down.
I’m left wondering if Lucy has never experienced chivalry before. What is with these American men?
I take my seat opposite Lucy. “Would you like wine?”
She nods, and I pour her glass then mine.
“Cheers,” she says, holding out her stemmed glass. I smile at the sound ofher deeper but innately feminine voice, and we clink our glasses. “Did you know that in medieval times, people clinkedtheir glasses together to ward off bad spirits? And we say cheers as a whispered prayer for gladness. It’s funny how we willingly consume a product known for inebriation, which in turn breeds bad behavior, yet we feel the need to toast and clink first. It’s like we know, deep down, that we probably shouldn’t drink it.”
The rim rests against my lips as I process her words. The longer I wait to speak, the pinker her cheeks grow, and it tempts me to stay silent forever to keep that butterfly blush painted across her cheeks and nose.
“Interesting.” I sip the wine, trying to remember this informative side of Lucy from the wedding. We flitted through various conversations that afternoon while we danced and ate, but it was mostly Lucy agreeing with what I said, not adding in her own thoughts.
“I’m sorry.” She covers her mouth with her hand for a moment before moving it to speak again. “I tend to ramble when I’m in an uncomfortable situation that I can’t escape from.”
I choke on the liquid and feel a dribble down my chin. I set the glass down gently and dab the wetness on my face with a black cloth. “You, uh, want to escape from me? You’re uncomfortable?” I’ve been accused of many things, but never of making a woman uncomfortable.
“No, no, no,” she protests. Her shoulders rise with a deep breath and fall as she slowly releases it. She leans across the table and lowers her voice like she’s going to let me in on a secret. “I just mean that this is my first date ever, and I don’t know—”
“This is your first date ever?” I stare agape. How could Lucy Spence go twenty-five years without dating a man? This womanis—a weird American term, but I’m going to use it—a bombshell. At Hadley’s wedding, I couldn’t get enough of her flirty banter, slight touches, and focused attention. She seemed experienced to say the least. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. That truly took me by surprise. You’re,” I gesture to her with an open palm, “absolutely gorgeous.”
She frowns. “There’s more to a woman than her looks, you know.”
Way to go, Fins. Stick that big foot of yours in your mouth, why don’t you?
“I do know, Lucy. And you are correct. Yes, you’re gorgeous, but I can already tell you’re intelligent, and I anticipate discovering so much more. Which begs the question: how has no man taken you out before?”
She cocks her head to the side as if contemplating the validity of my words, then her eyes widen as if she remembered something important. She lightly shakes her head, sitting back in her chair with a slump before whispering to herself, though not quietly enough that I can’t hear it.
“You are not doing this wrong, Lucy. It’s your first date. That’s okay. It means I shoulder the responsibility of making sure it is the best date the world has ever seen.”
She laughs forcefully and a little too loudly. Then she straightens in her chair and begins twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, except instead of looking cute like I think she intends, it looks awkward. Especially when the strands get tangled in the simple silver ring on her index finger and she tugs it hard enoughthat her hand knocks into the table after it breaks free from the now-frizzed strand.
