Page 11 of Wooing Winter

“I won’t just stand by and be your acquaintance, Winnie. Not anymore,” Orson insists, his voice low but fierce.

Although I’m somewhat aroused, I’m also stunned by his audacity. “Don’t be ridiculous, and stop calling me that.” I try to pull away, but he holds firm. “You’re making a scene. Let go of me,” I say harshly, aware of every whisper and sidelong glance directed our way.

Orson's grip tightens slightly around my waist, his eyes a storm of emotions I can't quite navigate. "Winter, don't do this. Don't shut me out."

"I'm not shutting you out." My voice trembles despite my best efforts. "I’m protecting myself. Can’t you see that?"

Orson’s jaw clenches, and beneath the dim lights, I see that old familiar pain flicker across his face—the one he wore the day we said goodbye three summers ago. "Protecting yourself? Or running away from what scares you?"

The question stings, sharper than I expected. We spin slowly, the dance continuing around us as if we're caught in a snow globe—mesmerized by a moment neither of us can escape.

"Things between us were never simple," I say, struggling to keep my composure. Maybe part of me wants to reach out and smooth away the lines of tension framing his mouth, but I hold back. Just like I've learned to do since the day I left him standing alone by the fountain at Lincoln Center.

"They weren’t simple because we didn’t want simple," Orson counters quickly, his voice low. "We wanted things to be real—messy and terrifying and real."

It’s tempting to let myself fall back into the rhythm we once had, but I have too many scars reminding me of wounds that took years to heal.

As the song begins to wind down, Orson leans in closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "I’ll fight for you," he murmurs. "I'll fight for us until you tell me to stop."

And there it is—the promise of a battle I’m not sure either of us can endure again. I step back slightly, breaking contact but not completely letting go—a paradox in motion.

"Orson," I start, unsure how to frame words around a heart so conflicted, "I need time. There are too many things left unsaid over the years to dredge up now."

He finally releases my hands, but his eyes never leave mine. “Then talk to me. Really talk to me. Not here, not now—somewhere private.”

The tension builds around us as if the entire room holds its breath for my response.

I glance around at the sea of faces, some familiar, some not. My heart races between the desire to flee and the need to confront what has been left unsaid for too long.

“Fine,” I say finally, my voice barely audible over the soft music that seems inappropriate given the situation. “Tomorrow. That old cafe on Fifth Street. Noon.”

Orson nods once, sharply, and steps back. The space he leaves feels cold and empty despite the warm bodies surrounding us.

As I turn away from him, trying to regain my composure, I can't help but question my own feelings. The pain in his voice was as real as the ache in my own heart. I've tried so hard tosuppress my emotions since we parted ways. Do I really want to reopen old wounds?

Chapter 11

Winter

The Following Day

I stir my coffee slowly,watching the swirl of cream blend into the dark liquid, a perfect distraction from Orson's piercing gaze. The Fifth Street Cafe buzzes around us with the muted clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversations from other tables, helping make this meeting feel less intense.

Orson takes a sip from his cup, his eyes never leaving mine. "So," Orson starts, a small smile playing on his lips, "how are your parents? Did they ever forgive you for driving cross-country to see me in California?"

I laugh, a light, airy sound that I hope masks my discomfort. "You mean when I thought it was a good idea to surprise you with concert tickets for your twentieth birthday? My dad still brings it up whenever he thinks I’m making a bad decision."

Orson chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "That was incredibly dangerous, but it’s still one of the best concerts of my life.”

“It was definitely memorable," I agree, shifting the topic away from the past's more emotional traps. "And how's work been for you? Do you have any movies coming out next year?"

Orson nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, one is in spring, and a second is due to release just before next Christmas. I’ve justfinished filming a third, and plan to take a break from filming until summer. I don’t know why I thought being an actor would be glamorous. I spend most of my time bored in meetings or exhausted on sets. But I’m grateful nonetheless." His eyes twinkle with passion when he talks about his work—this is safe ground.

"I’m thrilled with your success," I say genuinely, feeling an old fondness tug inside me before I quickly push it aside. "I’m typically so busy that I rarely get a chance to go to the movies, but I have caught a few of yours. I’ll admit it’s strange seeing you on the big screen—a good strange though."

"How's the music world treating you? Your success amazes me. I can’t believe how many number ones came out of your last album. Actually, I do believe it. You deserve every accolade." Orson tries to keep the discussion light but throws in words of praise that make me uncomfortable. He was always heavy with compliments.

I don’t think I was prepared for how few we get under normal circumstances. The few men I’ve dated fawned over superficial things that had nothing to do with me as a person. After eight years, I’ve forgotten what genuine admiration feels like.

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