Page 30 of Make Me Yours

I wasn’t encouraged tofeelas a child, either. I certainly wasn’t encouraged to give in to surges of emotion or dive deep into the mysteries of the human heart. The Tripps are old school New England, a stoic, solid, cynical lot who value the material over all else. I was taught that the material is all a man can count on.

In many ways, I still agree with that tenant of my childhood—it’s a cruel world and acquiring wealth is one of the few paths to safety—but I don’t want to imagine my life without what I found at the museums. Without awe, reverence, and that ache that hits in the center of my chest when I see clear evidence that an artist working hundreds of years before I was born felt the weight of the world the same way I do…

It’s a kind of connection I never imagined I could experience, let alone crave.

I also never imagined a woman like Gertrude Sullivan would send that same ache winding around my ribs. I’m still not sure why she has this effect on me, why she softens my sharp edges and brings a genuine smile to my face in a way few people can, but I know it’s about more than her beauty.

Or about more than the beauty that’s skin deep, perhaps…

“You’re staring at me again,” she murmurs, her eyes still on her menu. “Am I taking too long to decide if I’m monstrous enough to eat a rabbit?”

“Not at all,” I say, smiling again. It’s a problem, how much this girl makes me smile. “I’m sure the rabbit is delicious. The restaurant has impeccable reviews.”

She glances toward the inside of the bistro, filled with older couples on vacation and a few businessmen scrolling throughtheir phones. “I bet.” She turns back to me, leaning closer as she whispers, “This place is fancy as fuck.”

Again, with the smiling. “So, order the rabbit. If you’ve never had it, a fancy as fuck establishment is the way to go for your first time.”

She makes a soft considering sound, glancing up at me through her long, sandy blond lashes as she murmurs, “I’ve heard that about first times. That fancy as fuck is best.”

I hold her gaze, imagining all the things I’d like to do to her beautiful body if we have a second time. “Thank you. I’m flattered…I think.”

“You should be,” she says, her tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, making the swelling behind my fly more pronounced. “But here’s the problem, Mr. Fancy, I don’t actually want to eat a rabbit. It’s just the only thing on the menu that isn’t stuffed with spinach or comes with some kind of cheese sauce I can’t pronounce.”

“The mussels sound good. Just a white wine sauce, no cheese in sight.”

“But I’ve eaten muscles my entire life,” she says. “I want to try something authentically French, expand my horizons and all that, but…” She glances back to her menu before casting a pleading look my way. “But there’s no porn for eating French food.”

I sputter and nearly choke on my sip of water. When I’ve regained control, I ask in a rough voice, “Excuse me?”

“That’s how I had an idea what to do in the bedroom,” she says, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. But she also looks pleased with herself for throwing me off-kilter. “Porn. The good stuff, though, not the angry, mean-to-women stuff.” She waves the menu back and forth. “But they don’t have that for French food.”

“I’m pretty sure they do. It was called The French Chef and ran for ten years out of a public television studio in Boston in the sixties and early seventies.”

“Before my time, old man,” she teases.

My lips twist. “Before mine, too, young wench.”

She laughs and the ache in my chest squeezes a little tighter. “Touché.”

“Look at you, using French words like a natural,” I say, wishing I could reach across the table, curl my fingers around the back of her neck, and pull her in for a kiss. Instead, I say, “Why don’t you let me order for you? We can get a few things to share. Anything you don’t like I can take care of. I didn’t eat breakfast before the funeral and the luncheon was repulsive.”

Her smile fades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask how it was.”

“It’s all right. It was sad, but not in the way it should have been.”

Her brow furrows as she mulls that over. “Yeah, I can see that. Better to mourn the loss of a great person than mourn the loss of who that person could have been if they’d had more time.”

My jaw tightens. “Exactly. Though I don’t think Rodger would have become anything better than he was. Most people don’t improve with age.”

“But some do,” she says, her robin’s egg blue eyes studying me with an intensity that makes my empty stomach even more unsettled. “I already like you more than I did the first time we met. You should let your smiley side out more often. It’s nice.”

She’s astute, perceptive, and deserves a taste of everything on this damned menu…even if I have no intention of embracing my “smiley” side.

She laughs, adding, “You should see your face. You look like you swallowed a shot of apple cider vinegar.”

“Let me order for you?” I ask as I spot our waiter on his way through the mostly empty tables on the outdoor patio.

She nods, a secret smile on her lips. “Sure. But I can’t do wine at lunch. If you were thinking about that. I don’t drink before I get behind the wheel. Not even a little bit.”

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