Page 46 of Eternally Yours


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“The Cotswolds. A little vineyard in the Luberon. Dubai. Italy.”

“Does your family live in those places?”

He was quiet for a moment. “It’s just me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fiddled with his knife. “Oh, you know.” One shoulder lifted in a tired shrug. “You get used to it.”

She hadn’t expected to feel sorry for him. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, this good-looking man with bright blue eyes and an apparently endless stack of fresh hundred–dollar bills.

“I like growing things,” he said. “I have some apple orchards. I raise sheep. Some cattle. I have chickens, too, but they’re just for me. Who doesn’t want fresh eggs every morning, right?”

“Is it a dairy farm?”

“Meat.” He caught her expression. “Are you a vegetarian?”

She shifted from one foot to another. “No.”

“Meat has to come from somewhere.” Quickly, he said, “I raise flowers, too.”

“You have a garden?”

“No, they’re a crop. Flower fields. The farm is surrounded by blankets of color. They should see you.” She blinked at the odd phrasing, but hadn’t he mentioned foreign countries? He had no accent, but English might not be his first language. “I mean”—he dropped his gaze to his napkin—“you should see it. I’d like to show it to you.”

The one other customer in the diner raised his hand. “Excuse me, miss?”

Kacey slipped the notepad into her apron and went to the other table. Her heart was leaping in her chest. It seemed as if the beautiful man’s order, written in her careful hand, burned through the apron pocket, warming her thigh as she walked away from him.

That night, at closing, she tucked his order into her back jean pocket, inside the fold of the hundred-dollar bill.

The next time he came, the diner was entirely empty, save for Rosanna, who was in the back. He gave Kacey a little wave and sat in his usual booth, pulling out theNew York Timescrossword puzzle, which he perused, not as if he was ignoring her, but as if to show that he didn’t mind if she ignored him, that he had all the time in the world. He could wait for her.

Kacey felt suddenly, inexorably hungry. Why couldn’t she let herself want things? What was so wrong in wanting a house, a rose, a dessert?

A romance?

Defiantly, Kacey cut two pieces of strawberry-pretzel pie and placed each on a plate. She carried them to him, a plate balanced on each hand, and slid into the booth across from him. The sunset made his blue eyes luminous as he looked up from the paper. His smile of welcome was relieved and so happy that she didn’t understand why she had ever been wary of him.

“You first.” He gestured at her plate. “Is it good?”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes, chewing.

“What has six letters, third letterS? The clue is:You bat these.”

She took another bite. “Lashes.”

“Smart as well as lovely.” Quietly, he said, “You are a fairy tale.”

Her mouth was full of sweetness.

“Want to know a secret?” he said.

Yes. She wanted all of his secrets—including the mystery of why she had been so lucky to catch his eye. Who was she that he wanted her?

He said what had been no secret to anyone. “I never came here for the pie.”

He drove her to the city, the top of the convertible down the whole way, wind roaring in her ears. He asked if she wanted to see a Broadway show, and she saidWicked, because she couldn’t think of the names of any others. He took her to seeWicked. He took her to La Grenouille, explaining that this meant “The Frog,” a funny name for an elegant restaurant stuffed with so many flowers that it smelled like a garden after the rain. He spoke in French with the waiter. He recommended the Dover sole but didn’t order it for himself. His plate came decorated with grains and greens, and when Kacey asked if he was a vegetarian, he said no, not exactly, but that he could tolerate one kind of meat only, and it was very rare. She asked what kind, but he waved a dismissive hand and said she would have never heard of it, which was probably true. He ordered a white wine called Montrachet that the sommelier—who knew that there was a word for someone whose sole job it was to taste wine and describe it?—said was reminiscent of peaches and honeysuckle and had a buttery, satin finish. When the sommelier left, shehaltingly explained to her date what she thought he had already known: she wasn’t old enough to drink. He ignored her blush. “Cardyouin a place like this? Withme? Never.”