Page 91 of Just Come Over
He realized, finally, that he should say something. “Sounds like something you’d do in flowers.” There, that was neutral.
“Mm. You could. Vanilla’s a kind of orchid, actually. That would be gorgeous, if you could get hold of it. White berries, though, not coffee. Good for a wedding bouquet.”
“A bit like pearls.” He reached a hand behind her, edged his fingers under the hem of her cropped sweater, and touched the necklace that lay against her spine. When he drew his hand down, he felt her shift under his touch.
“Yeh,” she said, on a breath. “You said that about pearls. That they could look like your grandmother, or not.”
His thumb was rubbing up and down her spine, his knuckles brushing against her skin. Not enough that the driver would be able to tell, but enough that Zora would. “In your case,” he said, “not.”
After that, she didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t think of what to say, either. Why had he picked a place all the way in Herne Bay? Twenty-five minutes was about twenty-four too long. And at the end of it, he’d have to sit in a restaurant with her for at least an hour. Probably two.
Never mind. It was what he’d told Isaiah: A chance for Zora to dress up and be pretty, to remind herself that she was desirable, and that she was beautiful. A chance, too, to let that bombshell drop. He hadn’t heard any rumblings after their earlier outing, but the restaurant had seated them discreetly, which he’d been grateful for at the time. At Jervois Steak House, though, on Friday night before a Blues game? Bound to be somebody there from the rugby world. Somebody who’d talk, he hoped.
The journey ended at last, as journeys always did, and he got to hold the door, take Zora’s hand, and watch her slide out of the car. Black suede heel, slim ankle, pretty calf made even more shapely by the height of that heel, and a knee that you could hold while you kissed your way higher. Her dress rode up a little, and she laughed in a flustered way, tugged it down, and let him help balance her once she stood. He smelled that flowers-and-vanilla scent again, looked down at the most gorgeous cloud of bedhead you could ever hope to see, told the driver, “Thanks,” and held the restaurant door. Her shoulder brushed against his chest as she walked past, and she turned, a step inside, and gave him a look over her shoulder.
Mussed hair, pink lips, secret smile, black heels.
It was going to be a long night.
All they’d done was ride in the car. She’d barely even talked to him, he’d barely even touched her, and even so, her new black lace thong was already not up to its work. She considered telling him so. Delicately. Once she’d had a glass of wine, maybe. She’d lean across the table and whisper it, and watch him try to keep his composure.
He was a black-lace man all the way. Nothing subtle about Rhys. He was pure fire.
He still hadn’t said anything, and he still hadn’t smiled, either. He stopped at the host stand, his hand barely touching the small of her back, practically burning through the fabric, and said, “Evening. It’s Fletcher.”
“Evening,” the young fella said. “We have a table for you upstairs. More private.”
Zora thought,I should want to be down here. Get it over with.Pity that all she wanted was some more slow, sweet flirtation at a dimly lit corner table, while she wondered what was coming next and exactly how good it might be. And to touch his trouser leg with her toe, maybe. Almost accidentally.
She hadn’t even kissed him since Sunday night, and it was Friday. They’d made dinner together all week at her place, and then Rhys and Casey had headed home. Better, they’d thought, not to spring too much physical intimacy on the kids. She hadn’t imagined how hard that would be. A brush of hands, a long look, the touch of his hand on her waist as he stepped around her in the tiny kitchen, and that was all.
If he was feeling anything close to what she was, they wouldn’t even make it out of his foyer, except that they would. He’d have planned for it. There were benefits, she thought hazily, following the server up the stairs and knowing that Rhys was watching her hips sway in high heels and enjoying the view, of being with a prepared man.
Unfortunately, when she got to the top of the central staircase around which the tables were placed for maximum viewing potential, she didn’t just see exposed brickwork, low lighting, and one unoccupied table set with white linen. She also saw her parents.
The host led them to a spot along the wall and held the chair facing the windows for Zora, and she thought, for one wild minute,Maybe they won’t see us.Despite the fact that her mother was diagonally across from her, at a table for four. Zora didn’t know who the other couple was. She wasn’t looking.
Rhys said, “What?”
“Nothing. Well, something. My parents are here. They live about ten minutes’ walk away. It’s their local.”
“Oh.” He appeared to consider that while he put his serviette in his lap, then returned his hand to the table, and she looked at the diagonal scar on his forehead, the thickness of his broken nose, the black scruff on his jaw, and the dimple in his chin, and wondered how absolutely masculine it was possible for a man to be. He made the blood leave her head.
“You’re worrying,” he said, and took her hand across the table. His hand was big, hard, and scarred, too, and she had a discombobulating double thought. First, that just the sight of her hand in his was making her go a little more liquid inside, and second, that when she’d thought tonight could be a showdown, she hadn’t planned for it to be this much of one. “Maybe you could remember that whatever happens, I’m here with you for it.”
“I hope so, because my dad’s coming over.”
Rhys turned, and there was nothing in his expression as he rose but calm. He put out a hand. “Dr. Allen.”
“Oh, please,” her dad said, shaking it, “call me Craig. We’ve known each other too long for anything else. What’s it been, ten years since we met you at Zora and Dylan’s engagement dinner? This is a surprise. Come join us.”
“No room,” Zora said. “And you’ve already started on your dinner, surely. Always awkward.” She laughed, wishing it sounded less tentative. More adult, you could say.You’re a grown woman with her own house, her own business, and her own child,she reminded herself.You’re a widow, and your parents have nothing to say about anybody you date.Anybodyyou date.This was the very good thing, she realized, about them not paying for her roof, her mortgage, or anything else. They didn’t get a say.
“Oh,” her dad said, “I’m sure the waiter will switch you out with the couple next to us. They’ve only just arrived, and your table’s better than theirs.” He raised a hand for the server, then beckoned him over in a way Rhys would never have done in a hundred years. All Blacks were required to be unassuming blokes, even if they actually weren’t. Part of the job. Surgeons, not so much.
Rhys said, “Pleasure,” but when they eventually got over to the other table, he asked Zora, “Can I help you off with your sweater?” Which is how she ended up surrendering it to him, then turning to sit and feeling the cool touch of the pearls on her back like they were tattooed there.
“Mum,” she said, calling on every bit of poise she possessed, which had never been all that much, “you remember Rhys Fletcher. My mum, Tania. And this is Nils Larsen and his wife, Candy, Rhys. Dr. Larsen does neurosurgery. Rhys is coaching at the Blues now.” She’d had a moment of blankness when she hadn’t remembered their names. Good thing they’d come to her, or she’d be even more off-balance right now.
