“Thank you,” I gasp. I’m practically hopping in place now, my hands clenched around the shirt so I won’t be tempted to scratch. “You’d better go back to the table before Mrs. Bianchi comes looking for us.” I open the bathroom door and pause, a thought fluttering through my mind. He’s still standing there, a small smile gracing his lips. “Do you really think I’m exquisite?”
Confusion flits over his features, and then a smile blooms, lighting his whole face. He closes the distance between us and cups my cheeks with his hands. “Absolutely.”
“Even all red and…” I pause, sniffling. As my nose starts tingling, I remember a trick I read about in a magazine that said to push the flat of your tongue hard to the roof of your mouth to prevent a sneeze. It works.
Without waiting for the rest of my sentence, Hugh bends slightly so our faces are only inches apart. “Absolutely,” he says again, pressing his lips gently to mine. He rubs his thumbs over my cheeks before releasing me to return to our table.
I scurry into the bathroom. The door is barely closed and locked before I’m yanking off the sweater, desperate for relief. I fan myself with my hands, rubbing at my irritated neck and chest. “Gah!” The horrified sound rips out of me when I catch my reflection over the sink. ‘Red and splotchy’ was putting it delicately. I look like I’ve recently taken a dive headfirst into a patch of poison ivy.
Hanging my sweater and Hugh’s shirt on the hook meant for purses, I inspect myself in the mirror. I foolishly left my purse under the table; I don’t wear foundation, but I do carry pressed powder with me to combat my naturally shiny skin. It’s also good for covering up redness or small breakouts. It’s not going to do me any good now, though. With a sigh, I lean closer to the mirror, not that I need a better look at the rash-like redness around my mouth and nose.
I’m sure it’s my imagination, but as I peer at my reflection, some of the redness seems to fade. I’m also not as itchy as I was. Hopefully it was some bizarre contact-only allergy and the symptoms won’t linger for long. Could I be that lucky?
Turning, I take Hugh’s t-shirt from the hook. It’s still warm from his body. I can’t resist bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply. With my face buried in the material, I get lost in my own little world until I realize I’m huffing Hugh’s scent like an addict while the man himself is sitting at our table waiting for me.
I yank the shirt on, not caring that it’s way too big for me, because at least I’m not allergic to it. If I had a belt—and if it wasn’t several degrees below zero outside—I would shuck my pants and attempt to rock it as a t-shirt dress. Oh well, a fashion statement is better than wanting to turn myself inside out.
Gingerly, I pluck the sweater from the hook, whimpering slightly when I think about breaking the news to Celia. I hold it away from me as I exit the bathroom and hurry back to our table. Hugh’s head is lowered, his eyes trained on his cell phone, and a deep scowl on his face. I’ve never seen him wear such a stormy expression.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sliding back into my seat.
He startles, nearly fumbling his phone. The scowl slips into what appears to be a forced smile—something else I’ve never seen from him. The hardness around his mouth and eyes eases as he takes in my appearance. “Fine,” he says. “Just…well…” He blows out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. Instead of continuing with whatever he was going to say, he reaches for my sweater. “Let’s put that beside me, shall we? Just to be safe.” I hand it over and he folds it neatly on the empty seat beside him.
Don sweeps over to our table, followed by a server carrying a tray with multiple plates of food. The scents of garlic and tomatoes hit my nostrils, making my mouth water. The server lays out the dishes on the table while Don explains what each thing is, his obvious passion for food coming through in every word. “Buon appetito,” he finally says with a little bow, leaving our table as quickly as he appeared.
I survey the food before us—various types of pasta, fish, and meat. “There’s enough food here to feed the whole restaurant.”
“I hope you like leftovers.”
“I’ve been single and living on my own for a long time. Leftovers are a lifesaver.”
“In that case, I’ll be sure whatever’s left gets sent home with you. You’ll likely have enough to last ’til Christmas.”
Now that I’m no longer distracted by the scratchy sweater and wondering what’s wrong with me, my appetite has kicked into overdrive. We pile our plates with a bit of everything and dig in. Hugh tops up my prosecco often, telling me he’s reached his limit for the night if he wants to drive us home. We talk about easy things—the Village, our coworkers, my new job with Piper. I notice he keeps the conversation mostly on me and skillfully steers it if we veer into post-Christmas plans. I’m so content just being with him and stuffing myself with this delicious food, I don’t push or question him.
Once we’ve eaten our fill, Don personally clears our table, assuring me he’ll have all leftovers packed up for me. We’re contemplating if dessert would be too over the top when Hugh’s eyes slide past mine, and his smile slips. He leans heavily on the table, ducking his head. He’s just opened his mouth to say something when he’s interrupted by a loud female voice.
“Hugh, is that you?” A woman about my age with shampoo commercial-worthy hair steps up to our table, smiling brightly.
Hugh straightens slowly, plastering a smile on his face. His eyes flick to mine, offering what seems to be a silent apology before his attention returns to the woman. All the food I just devoured suddenly feels like lead in my stomach.
“Today must be my lucky day,” the woman says. “I haven’t seen you in ages, and I see you twice in one day.” Since she’s completely ignoring me, I take the opportunity to look her over—form-fitting black dress, sky-high red heels, that unbelievably glossy hair. She’s got an air of sophistication about her I’ve always lacked—not that I mind or dwell on it. If I’d ever given it any thought, she’s the kind of woman I’d likely picture Hugh with.
I tune back into their conversation as the woman says “—so sorry about your holiday village. I know how hard you tried to get the necessary permits, and I want you to know I was pulling for you. Maybe things will be different next year.”
Hugh gives her a tight smile. He’s studiously avoiding my gaze, which for some reason makes the brunette tune in to my presence. Her eyes widen when they land on me. Her gaze sweeps over me, pausing on Hugh’s shirt. Even if the redness from the wool allergy has faded, I can feel a blush burning my cheeks now.
“Anyway,” she says, turning back to Hugh and effectively dismissing me. “I thought I should tell you I voted in favor and I’m sorry the others are so stubborn. I hope to see you again before you go.” She lays her hand on Hugh’s arm, lingering longer than necessary, then struts away.
Hugh’s eyes finally meet mine. They’re unreadable, and his expression is tight, like it was when I returned from the bathroom.
When he doesn’t speak, I ask weakly, “Go?”
He lets out a weary sigh. “I think we should have this discussion back at your place.”
“I’d prefer to have it now,” I say, proud of how firm my voice is. “We can avoid the awkward, uncomfortable silence on the ride home and you can tell me now so I don’t go crazy wondering or coming up with scenarios that are likely ludicrous.” I’m out of breath by the time I finish speaking.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He leans in closer. “I want to start by saying I was going to tell you. I was, perhaps stupidly, looking for the right moment. When I got to your flat tonight, you looked so happy and carefree, and I didn’t have the heart to wipe that beautiful smile off your face. I wanted to enjoy a nice evening together, and then tell you when I took you home, no matter how difficult it was.” He pauses to clear his throat. My own throat is desert dry and my stomach is roiling with anxiety.
