“Em is special to me.” He gestured to Emmaline.
Her cheeks pinked again, and that eyebrow lifted once more. He’d never noticed her do that before, but tonight she’d done it twice in the span of moments. Noted.
He continued on, speaking to Mary. “I was wondering if you might take a picture of us?”
The woman nodded emphatically.
“I don’t mind at all.” Mary stood taller, apparently pleased to have marching orders straight from Ethan Greene himself.
She snapped the photo. Then one with her and agreed he could post it as long as she could, too.
“Thank you.” Then he said lower, “Dessert is on the house tonight.”
Her eyes lit up like a sparkler. “Oh, Mr. Greene, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” He gave Walter a wave and, thankfully, Mary marched straight back to him.
Poor Walter was in for it the rest of the night now that Mary’d had the chef’s ear. Ethan doubted she’d stop the chatter until she finally fell asleep.
“That was inspired.” Emmaline lifted the crystal water glass to her lips.
He laid his elbows on the table—a faux pas, sure—but it was the only way he could reach for her hands and hold them in his own. “Gotta make it look real, yeah?”
She gave his hands a squeeze, but did not pull them away. “How long do I have to hold your hands, again?”
“I figure just long enough for people to notice.”
She seemed to chew on something she wanted to say, but hadn’t come up with the right words.
He waited.
Finally, she said, “That was nice, the way you pulled me into the conversation like that. But how do you do it so easily? Just be all—”
“Sparkly?”
“Uh-huh.”
Of all the things she could’ve said, this was the most unexpected.
Um. “The first thing I do is moisturize regularly.”
She snort laughed.
“I mean…” She cleared her throat. Reached for her water and took a sip, rattling the silverware a touch when she replaced it on the table. “What I mean is, how do you keep the confidence? It’s like you don’t even think about it. It’s just there.”
“I guess I just decided a lot of blokes—and Mary’s—aren’t gonna like me no matter what I do.” He cleared his throat this time. “So I try not to care.”
That got him a small trace of a grin. “I wish I didn’t care what people thought about my art, but I do. I need the reassurance because…”
“Because?” he asked, gently.
“There was this time when I actually painted a whole watercolor for the living room at our old place. Spent loads of time on it. I loved it. It was gorgeous, I thought." She closed her eyes as though trying to look at the art in her memory. She opened them and continued, “I gave it to my ex for his birthday. And, he…well, he unwrapped it and he looked like he was waiting for a punchline.” Her voice cracked a bit.
“Em?”
“A punchline that didn’t come.” She swallowed, hard.
“I’m sorry,” he said, since it’s all he could say.
