any point, just let me know.”
She waved that off. “Lead on, Macduff.”
Obediently, he moved away from the wall, his hand lifting from her back. But their fingers were still intertwined, and he gently tugged her toward the sidewalk.
“You know that’s supposed to be ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ right?” He steered them around a family stalled in the middle of the path and bickering over who’d misplaced their room keycards. “Since I’m Swedish, maybe it should be Macduffsson instead. With an umlaut somewhere.”
So he knew his Shakespeare too. Impressive. “Language evolves. Over time, what began as an error can become its own correct idiom through common usage. Different from, but equally as valid as, the original phrasing.”
“Fair enough.” He cast her a sidelong glance, full of what appeared to be…approval? Enjoyment? She didn’t know, but it definitely wasn’t aversion to her undeniable nerdy streak.
To their left, various outbuildings gave way to gardens, then the start of a nature path that wended through a nearly-untouched expanse of the grounds. To their right, the sandy beach turned rocky, the waves churning into foam and sea spray as they smacked into the boulders. Still beautiful, but wilder. Less tourist-friendly than the rest of the island, which in turn meant fewer crowds and more privacy for their lunch.
He’d slowed his stride in deference to her shorter legs, which came as a relief. She was built for comfort, not speed.
“That reminds me,” he said. “I meant to ask you the other night, but I forgot. Before you became an assistant principal, what did you teach? English?”
All relief fled as they rounded a bend in the sidewalk and their probable destination came into view. It was still a five-minute walk away, but easily visible. Which it would be, as the only real high spot on the entire island.
She’d seen the steep, rocky hill and the panoramic overlook built atop it on the map, but hadn’t bothered visiting once she’d read the fine print on the resort guide. Accessible only by stairs, the brochure had stated, and she was avoiding those as much as possible, given the precarious state of her right knee.
Dammit, she should have been paying attention earlier, not drooling at his mere proximity. Especially since this wasn’t just a single flight of stairs. No, the wooden steps went up…and up…and up some more. Maybe three or four flights in total.
No wonder he’d asked about her knee. Very thoughtful of him.
Too bad she hadn’t been listening.
Getting up there shouldn’t be a huge issue. Given how much she walked around the school on a daily basis, her general fitness level was fine, and her knee usually didn’t bother her going upstairs. Getting back down, however…
Well, that was an entirely different matter. And the tennis lesson the other night had done her joint no favors.
“I taught psychology,” she told him absently. “I was part of the social studies department.”
His little, interested hum vibrated through her. “What sort of things did you talk about in class?”
Shit. The stairs looked even steeper up close.
At the base of the hill, she slowed as she considered her choices. All bad. All painful in one way or another.
She could climb the damn stairs and hope her knee wouldn’t protest going back down, although that seemed like a forlorn hope. But it would allow her to retain her pride. Unlike, say, her other main option.
Because she hadn’t been listening as she should, she’d already said she could go wherever he wanted for lunch. Still, she could speak up now. Tell him she’d changed her mind. Explain that her knee probably couldn’t handle that many steps and ask him to find a different location for their lunch.
Lucas would say yes, of course.
Lucas, a twenty-six-year-old athlete who hung out with twenty-year-olds, would definitely change his plans in deference to the creaky, temperamental joints of his forty-year-old date.
But nothing could epitomize the contrast between them more neatly than such a request, such an accommodation. All her pride would taste bitter on her tongue. It would choke her as she tried to swallow it.
Maybe her knee could handle the stairs. She’d take it slow on the way back down. Stop to faux-admire the view—which really did seem as if it would be spectacular—along the way. Let the handful of other tourists on the stairs pass her by as she took photos with her cell.
Or maybe somehow, magically, she and Lucas would never have to descend at all. They could stay up there forever, inviolate, illusions intact.
She, of all people,