other than some uncomfortable chairs I keep handy in case I have too many guests at once, but I can push them off on one of the staff members. I remember Karen liked them quite a bit when I had them brought in.
There’s a music shop here in town, owned by Daniel’s rock-star fiancée. I’ll ask him if he could help me acquire a grand piano for her. I’ll have it delivered to the house while we’re at work—that way, when we come home, she’ll be surprised. I’ll even find someone to give her lessons. This has been my best idea yet.
Poppy and I sit on the boat deck, having a few drinks and watching the world we pass by. Around 7 p.m., dinner is served and we both go inside to have a seat at the table. The table is small—meant to be romantic by keeping us together. I’ve been so close to her today that I could smell her, and that only teased my senses in ways I wish it hadn’t. I feel tightly-wound, on edge, and ready to pull her against me and kiss her at any moment. I don’t know how I’ve managed to hold it back this long; I just pray for the strength I need to keep my distance. I’ve only just gotten her back, and I don’t want to go chasing her off yet again.
The longer I’m near her, the more I want her. And it kills me that I could’ve had her and I turned her down. But I keep telling myself that it was for the best. Instead of looking at her and finding everything I consider attractive about her, I focus all my energy on reminding myself why I hated her for so long. She usually talks too much. She doesn’t listen—I mean, how can she when she does all that talking? She’s lazy at work—well, at least she was before this whole arrangement started. We fight over every single thing. We come from different worlds. Everything that seems right to me is wrong to her, and everything that seems right to her is ludicrous to me. It’s like her brain is the opposite of mine. I can never tell when she’s being serious or when she’s joking. Oftentimes, I think she’s joking and she’s being completely serious. When I think she’s being serious, she’s joking. This woman keeps me on my toes and I feel like I’m always off guard, waiting to catch the next curve ball she throws my way. As I was growing up, I learned to always be prepared, so this is more frustrating to me than anything else.
And even though I know all these things—that we couldn’t possibly work out, that she has no feelings for me, and that reaching out and taking her would only end in disaster—none if it calms the longing that’s swimming through my veins.
That plan clearly didn’t work, so I direct my attention to the table and the food before us. There’s a white tablecloth on the small, square table, and a candle in the center, the flame flickering and dancing. We each have a glass of wine and a plate filled with steak, salad, and a dinner roll. The steak is tender—slightly pink inside—and the salad is fresh and crisp. It’s easy to keep my focus on the food when she’s across from me trying just as hard to keep her attention off of me.
“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?” she asks, cutting through the silence like a sharp knife.
My head pops up and my eyes find hers. “No. Got something in mind?”
She smiles but tries holding it back. “Well, I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but I thought that since you brought me here to show me a small part of your childhood, that I could take you to a piece of mine. What do you think?”
I let out a nervous laugh, wondering what in the world she could have in store. “Am I going to die?”
She laughs. “No, it’s not dangerous at all . . . well, unless you’re extremely uncoordinated. But I think you’ll do fine.”
“Okay,” I agree, more than happy to spend more time with her—and this time, in her element. That might just be the key to getting her to view me differently. Here I am, trying to force her into my world. I never considered visiting hers. “What time will we be leaving?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Around noon, I guess.”
“And