Perfectly Pink - An It's Always Been You Romance (Complete)

Chapter 19

The way Simon looked at her, Mary thought he might lean in for a kiss. And she wanted him to.

This had to be the longest they'd ever been alone together without making out. Her original purpose of this place was the privacy it offered, the opportunity to lure him into what she'd desired yet denied for days now. The idea had come to her as she tried to figure out a way to keep the date but not actually be seen in town with Simon. Small town gossip could be worse than Washington rumour mills, and unlike the big city, the stories never died. There simply wasn't enough going on in this backwater town to keep the busy bodies... busy.

A picnic seemed the ideal solution, her favourite hidden meadow the perfect spot. It had been years since she'd been here, not since they lost the lake house. After his failed run for governor, the debts her father owed overwhelmed the family and there was simply no way they could afford to keep the place. When they closed the red front door for the last time, Mary felt like she lost another piece of herself, her connection to her mother. Finn's purchase of the lake house back for his fiancée was more than a romantic gesture to her. It meant the world.

"You got this from the café?" Simon retreated and Mary had to resist following him, close the gap and get a taste of the lips taunting her. There was something different about him today. He'd made a little more effort in his attire, the jeans replaced by soft grey pants, white button-down shirt, and a tad too much gel in his hair. Still, when he stepped out of the truck, a bouquet of pink flowers in hand, blue eyes boring into her, that spot deep down inside her core stirred. But it was more than that. There was an edge, perhaps a nervousness she'd never seen in Simon before. Those blue eyes, which moments ago had been soft and hooded, narrowed. "Was Hope there?"

"Who?"

"Hope. She owns the place."

"Nope. Only a boy with bad acne." Mary envisioned a grandmotherly type in a frilly apron pulling cookies from an oven. "I'll ask for her when I go back. Want to see if she'll bake some pink velvet cupcakes for Emily." Despite the tea and her protests, Emily remained unwell yesterday, barely eating anything at dinner.

"I can do it. Ask Hope, I mean." Simon studied his hands. "She... bakes desserts for the Waterfront. I'm sure it'd be no problem."

"I'd appreciate it." Mary put a hand on his arm, firm muscles flexed beneath her touch. Simon glanced at her hand, met her eyes, and then pulled away. This was frustrating. Why wouldn't he kiss her? Part of the deal with this date surely included kissing.

"Think the wine's ready?" Maybe she could loosen him up with some alcohol. She picked up the two tumblers, held them out. He tipped the bottle, filling first one, then the other. With anticipation, she watched him sniff the wine before taking a tentative sip.

"Mmm. Is that raspberry I taste?"

Another surprise. He picked out one of the subtle flavours of the wine. It had taken Mary multiple glasses to be able to identify the flavour.

"These are nice." He held up his glass to study the opaque design now highlighted by the deep red liquid. "Is that the Wainwright crest?"

She got a little thrill at Simon admiring her handiwork. "Yes. I didn't know what to get Finn for his birthday, so I made these."

"Made them?"

"Not the glasses themselves. Those I bought. But the design is mine. I etched the crest on."

"You still draw?"

Still? Another thrill ran through her. He remembered she drew. "I dabble a little."

"You were always so good at it. I was surprised you didn't make a career of it."

That broke her bubble of bliss. Drawing came to her naturally, she loved it, but it wasn't practical, not an easy pursuit and no guarantees one would make money. "Wasn't in the cards. The gallery lets me help those with genuine talent get noticed."

"Well, I always thought you were talented." Her cheeks heated, not because of the sun but his compliment. "What's it like working at a gallery?"

"It can be rewarding." The commission was at least. Watching people drop thousands of dollars on items they think they should own because of a name they heard instead of because they actually liked the art frustrated her. "I meet all manner of people. And the hours are flexible." A little too flexible when the owner decided to shut down for weeks at a time leaving her without a paycheque. The rich didn't have to worry about mundane things like rent.

They ate, drank, and swapped work stories over the next half-hour. Much to her disappointment, she drank most of the wine, Simon stopped after only one glass, using having to drive as his excuse. It was a good one, so she couldn't complain. After clearing away the mostly eaten lunch, Mary pulled out the pink box she'd reserved.

"I saw these and couldn't resist." She lifted the lid to reveal two small tarts. Blue irises lit up when she took one out, offering it to him.

"Are these...?"

"Yup. Raspberry tarts. I remember Mom used to bring them into the restaurant for you. I guessed you like them."

Simon's Adam's apple bob, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Had she made a mistake? Disappointment at her folly pooled in her stomach.

"My mother used to make these for us." His voice was low and soft, barely a whisper. "They were my dad's guilty pleasure. He couldn't have just one. I told your mom once, and the next day she brought me two tarts. Hers were almost as good." He rotated the little pastry in his hands. "I haven't had one since she..."

"Died." Mary finished his sentence, saying the word no one ever wanted to. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." She reached out to take the baked good back. He jerked his hand away, meeting her gaze, slowly raising the tart to his mouth, and taking a bite. Never breaking the trance, his tongue darted out, licking a morsel of red goo sticking to his lip. Mary's throat went dry. With slow intent, he took another bite.

Envy rolled through Mary as little flakes of pastry trickled down his shirt. Without thinking, she reached out and brushed them off the material, stroking his warm, hard-muscled chest. Her hand froze, his heart thudding beneath her fingertips.

The moment in the library on Emily's wedding day came back to her. Lying on the floor, attempting to undo the buttons of his shirt, itching to get her fingers on his skin, his heart beating in time with hers under her touch. Him chasing the cold away, filling her body and soul with heat and passion. Moving together, breathing together, erupting together. The way he made her feel safe. Complete. Loved.

His words "I love this" echoing through time.

And the panic flooded in. She couldn't do this. Couldn't separate her want from her desire. There were so many amazing things about the man before her, yet the gulf between them too vast. He was small town; she big city. Simon's world revolved around managing a bar, she wanted the world at her fingertips. She drank wine; he drank beer. Except he also drank wine. The wine was making her sentimental. Yes, that was it. She was confusing lust with... something else.

"Mary..."

She pulled back her hand and made a pretense of closing up the box, leaving the other tart untouched. "Got some crumbs on you there."

"Don't you want any?"

I want it all. The words screamed inside her mind. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep them from spilling out, shaking her head instead. His eyes searched hers and she had to look away. Trying to diffuse the situation, she eked out, "It's getting late."

"Sorry?"

"I need to get back before Emily get's home."