“A museum-café I guarantee your daughter will love.”
His breath was warm against my face. My inner skater slipped and fell—flat on her back, breath knocked out of her. The Russian judge was not amused.
“But will I like it?” I tried really hard not to look at his mouth. Really I did. Really.
“The food?”
Uh . . . “Yeah, the food.”
“How ’bout we drive over there and find out?”
Or maybe we could just stay like this for a decade or so—staring at the tree or something—and let whatever was uncoiling in my chest finish what it was doing.
But Shayla had other concerns. She slid off Scott’s lap to the floor and looked up at us with a frown. “Are you mushy?” she asked.
Scott laughed.
I tried to cough around the cider that had gone down the wrong pipe.
And Shayla giggled.
15
THE PUPPENMUSEUM IN RIEDLINGEN was a little girl’s dream. A local lady had turned a big old farmhouse into a toy museum where dolls and teddy bears covered shelves and chairs and miniature dollhouses. There were only six tables in the café, spread out over three rooms. The lighting was dim and the ambience so cozy that it felt a little like being in someone’s home.
Shayla, still excited from the Christmas tree shopping, immediately took herself on a tour of the toys with firm instructions not to touch a thing. Scott seized the opportunity to lean across the table and ask, “Is this okay?”
“Scott, it’s perfect. Shayla’s going to want to eat here every day.”
“Not the restaurant,” he said, and he was wearing the same expression as earlier, in the car.
“Oh.”
“Is it okay if I . . . ?” He reached across the table and linked his fingers with mine. “Is this okay?” He was as earnest as I’d ever seen him, and I realized his question had a lot more to do with our relationship than with our hands.
“Scott . . .”
“I just need to know, Shell. If this makes you uncomfortable . . . or if it’s too soon. I don’t want to rush anything or . . . you know.” His eyes met mine with an intensity of sincerity and hope that frightened me.
I knew this was a pivotal moment and I knew his vulnerability required my utmost care, yet I couldn’t help myself. It was sheer panic that made me do a terrible Scarlett O’Hara impression and say, “Why, Rhett, I do believe you’re blushing!”
He didn’t move, but something steel-gray came down over his gaze as he slowly disconnected his fingers from mine. He had risked rejection and I’d given him worse than that—I’d given him ridicule. There was nothing I could think of that would allow me a do-over.
“I’m sorry, Scott. I . . .” My mind felt sluggish, hampered by remorse. There was something crippled in the silence between us.
Shayla came bounding in with a giant teddy bear clutched in her arms, and I saw muscles clench in Scott’s jaw just before he shifted and tried to assume a casual position.
I was an idiot.
But this idiot had a daughter who’d swiped an animal off of a display shelf, and I had some explaining to do. The restaurateur was friendly, thank goodness. She just requested that I accompany Shayla on any future tours. She asked Shayla if she understood, and my fast-becoming-bilingual daughter responded in German that she would not touch any stuffed animals again. I think. I pried Shayla’s fingers from the bear’s thick fur and returned the animal to its owner under Scott’s somewhat-brooding gaze.
We made polite conversation over our Flammen Kuchen, and I was grateful for Shayla’s oblivious cheer. Then Scott drove us home and waited patiently while I put Shayla to bed.
“She’d like to say good night,” I told him after Shayla had whined about it for a while. “I tried to convince her that you’d already said your good-nights, but . . . you know.”
We walked into Shayla’s room, where she was busy making shadow animals on the wall with her hands. It was a trick I’d taught her several weeks ago, and it hadn’t yet lost its appeal.
“Okay, little girl,” I said, “say good night to Scott.”
“But we haven’t said pwayohs,” she said, temporarily distracted from the mean dog on her wall.
“Say good night first; then we’ll say prayers.” I was trying to remain patient, but nervousness about what would happen next had me a little on edge.