“I’m not.”
“This is going to be huge for you.” His eyes meet mine with amazement.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations!”
His expression is joyful and genuine, and I begin to fall helplessly into the memory of kissing him on Sunday. I relive the sensation of his mouth on mine for the first time, his hands on my hips as he drew me close, and then the walk home in the fresh night air with our dogs while they sniffed flowers in gardens and peed on patches of dewy grass. We’d stood outside the entrance to my apartment building talking about our dreams and aspirations for another half hour before he kissed me good night.
After that, I went to bed happy, and now all I want to do is put my hands on his chest and feel his lips on mine again. But I’m at work, standing in my office, with two of my employees on the other side of the door, possibly with their ears pressed up against it.
“I had a great time on the weekend,” Nate says, with a smile that makes me melt.
“So did I. I couldn’t wait for you to get here this morning.”
He stares at me, and I feel certain he’s reading my thoughts. “I’d really like to kiss you right now, but I’m worried if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and we’ll end up on your couch.”
I glance at the white leather sofa. “That could happen.”
There’s a humorous glimmer in his eyes. “You were supposed to give me a tour?”
“Yes.” Pleased to have a reason to clear my head of images of us on my leather sofa, I let out a breath, but I still feel like a pressure cooker as I turn on my heel and gesture toward my white desk. “Here, we have mission control.”
Nate checks out my sleek ergonomic chair and moves around it. “This is pretty cool. May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He takes a seat and leans back, tests out the lumbar support. Then he glances around the room at the bookcases, carefully staged with a variety of personal items and plants. He takes in the tall weeping fig tree in a gigantic blue ceramic pot, the pewter framed mirror over the sideboard where I keep my paint chips and fabric samples, and the white filing cabinet.
“This is fantastic,” he says. “You’ve really done it. Started your own company, took the bull by the horns.”
I know he’s happy for me, but at the same time, there’s a sadness in his voice, which I understand deeply. “I hope you can figure things out too,” I tell him.
The telephone rings, and I listen to Gretchen answer it out front.
“Shall we continue the tour?” I ask Nate.
“Let’s do it.” He rises from my chair and follows me out of my office.
As we make our way across reception to the design studio, I find it excruciating to resist the urge to take hold of his entire arm and rest my head on his shoulder. All I want to do is touch him.
We enter the studio, and I show him the gallery, which features some of our best recent work, and feel like I’m seventeen again, when I had no fears or reservations about falling in love and possessed the courage to jump in with both feet.
But I’m not seventeen anymore, and I don’t have that same courage. Though I’m wildly attracted to this man, a part of me is terrified to become involved because I don’t want to experience the kind of pain I felt when I lost Jacob. And I barely know Nate. Sure ... he’s handsome, and I feel an intimacy that shocks the hell out of me. For all I know, he could be my soulmate, the one I was always meant to be with.
On the other hand, he could be a reckless charmer who knows how to play this game really, really well. It would probably be wise to be cautious. Maybe sometimes, fear is good.
Chapter Eight
Nate
It’s unusual that I haven’t seen or spoken to my father in four weeks—not since the day he and Mom arrived unexpectedly at my apartment and met Sienna. The circumstances weren’t ideal, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since, wishing I hadn’t picked that day to bring up the possibility of quitting law school. I should have let them meet Sienna without any preconceived notions about her likability, according to their grand plan for my life.
But here we are, a month later, and it is what it is. Mom finally called me two days ago because she couldn’t let my twenty-fifth birthday pass without the traditional Palmer Family Birthday Brunch.
As I wait for my older brother, Arthur, and his wife, Alex, to pick me up with their kids and chauffeur us to our childhood home at the head of St. Margaret’s Bay, I wonder if my father expects me to bring Sienna. Mom said she was welcome, but I’d made a conscious decision to go alone. Not because I don’t want to be with Sienna on my birthday. It’s quite the opposite, and she’ll be driving to St. Margaret’s Bay later to pick me up. And that’s when I’ll feel better about turning twenty-five—when I see her face and hear her voice. But this morning ... let’s just say I want to keep her out of the eruption that is almost certainly going to occur.
Rain is falling hard when Arthur pulls up to the curb outside my building in his minivan. I venture outside and make a run for it, splashing through puddles until I reach the vehicle. As if by magic, the side door slides open, and I climb over the back seat to the rear. It takes a few seconds for me to get settled before I look up at my nine-year-old nephew, who’s sitting beside me, staring.
