Right then, unseemly as it would be, Rose wished she could roll up onto the balls of her feet and kiss her dear beau. Her heart felt heavy with love for him.
“Yes, it is and yes, soon. I promise. Please, though, don’t worry about it.” She offered him a small smile that she didn’t feel. After all, there was plenty to worry about, and she would do that for both of them.
He was a good soul and didn’t pester her or ask questions. Rose thought that if she were in his shoes, she would have nagged at him until he told her.
“I won’t worry, then, if you say not to. Whatever it is, it can’t be too terrible. After all, everything has gone so smoothly, ever since I let you knock me over at the rink.”
Rose laughed, recalling that day. She’d practically set her mind and heart against him, thanks to Maeve.
William threaded her arm through his.
“I love it when you laugh,” he told her. “You become even lovelier if that were possible.”
She felt the bloom in her cheeks, like a sweet heat that he could put there with a certain look or a few words.
“Anyway,” he added, “there’s bound to be at least one fly in the ointment, after all.”
Her happiness dimmed. This was an extraordinarily large fly.
“Am I invited home with you to discuss our wedding cake with Mrs. Malloy?” William asked.
She smiled as brightly as she could. “Do you truly want to go over the details of the wedding?”
He leaned over and took a bite of the shaved ice. Close to her, he licked his lips, and she wished they were alone so he could kiss her properly. She could tell by the look on his face that he knew her inappropriate thoughts.
“Not really,” William answered, then he tilted his head. “However, afterward, I’m counting on a moment alone with you in your back garden — right behind that lilac bush of which I’m so very fond— or maybe before the cake discussion even begins.” His handsome mouth rose on one side as he offered her his most wicked grin.
“A splendid idea,” she agreed, grabbing hold of his hand and turning toward home.
***
Rose trod rapidly up the back stairs of The Restaurant Parisien, her heart beating time with her feet. This was beyond the pale now that she was older and wiser, and an engaged woman at that. The excitement coursing through her reminded her of earlier days when she would have viewed this as a jolly adventure. However, the niggling sensation of betraying William soured any amusement she had in stealing through the restaurant’s kitchen and up to Finn’s room.
Before she could change her mind, she knocked at the door, which was precisely where he’d described. Finn opened it quickly and dragged her inside. Obviously he’d been waiting and listening.
For a moment, Finn held on, towering over her, solid, close, his fingers gripping her upper arms. Very easily, she could sink against him, and she knew he would wrap his arms around her.
“Release me,” she nearly demanded. However, as the words sprang to her lips, he had already done so.
Securing the door behind them, he turned to her, and for a moment, she felt it — the old tingle low in her stomach, the frisson of warmth skating up and down her spine, the lightening and lifting of her spirit.
Her head spun. They were alone, in a small, plain room that smelled of food from the kitchen below. There was a plain dresser with a coffee mug, a washstand, and ... a bed. Everything similar to his last room, as if it were nearly four years earlier. She swallowed.
Finn was staring at her, and she couldn’t speak. If he did indeed take her in his arms, would she feel the same as when she’d been mindlessly in love with this man?
Her brain conjured William and his kisses in her garden the day before.
No, she decided, she would not feel the same way about Finn. Her heart belonged to another.
“Sit, please, Rose,” Finn said into the silence.
There was no chair, so she lowered herself gingerly onto the edge of his bed.
He leaned against the dresser, crossing one ankle over the other.
“I’m sorry I had to stop you telling Woodsom, but the less people who know I’m here, the better.”
A shiver ran through her. “Why?”
