kitchen, it felt like I was finally able to exhale. I tried to get hold of myself, focusing on the simple act of pouring the wine as a means of slowing things down. I somehow made it to the back porch holding the two glasses, trying desperately to hide my inner turmoil.
I handed her the wine. “We can eat whenever you’re ready. I still have to sear your tuna, but that won’t take long.”
“Do you need help?”
“There are a few things in the refrigerator and the oven, but let me start your tuna first, okay?”
At the grill, I unwrapped the tuna, alert to Natalie’s approach. She stood close, enveloping me in the smell of her perfume.
“How do you like your tuna?” I asked robotically. “Rare or medium rare?”
“Rare,” she said.
“I mixed up some soy sauce and wasabi for you.”
“Aren’t you something?” she asked in a husky drawl, nudging me slightly, the feeling making me light-headed.
I really, truly have to get hold of myself.
After checking the heat, I put the tuna on the grill. Natalie took that as her cue, returning to the kitchen to bring the other dishes to the table.
I looked over my shoulder. “Could you bring me your plate? For your tuna?”
“Of course,” she said, sauntering toward me.
I plated the tuna and we walked to the table. As she took her seat, she nodded toward the food.
“You made enough for four people,” she observed. Then, leaning forward, she added, “I had a really nice time on the boat today. I’m glad you asked me to come.”
“A perfect day,” I agreed.
We served up, passing various sides back and forth with easy familiarity. The conversation roamed from the alligators and the eagles and life in Florida, to the places we wanted to visit one day. Her eyes sparkled with hidden fire, making me feel intensely alive. How had I fallen in love with her so quickly, without even being aware of it?
Afterward, she helped me bring the dishes to the kitchen and put the leftovers away. When we finished, we returned to the porch railing and stared toward the creek, my shoulder nearly touching hers. The music was still playing, a melancholy Fleetwood Mac ballad. Though I wanted to slip my arm around her, I didn’t. She cleared her throat before finally raising her eyes to meet mine.
“There’s something I should probably tell you,” she said. Her tone was soft but serious, and I felt my stomach contract. I already knew what she was going to say.
“You’re seeing someone else,” I said.
She was absolutely still. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But I suspected.” I stared at her. “Does it really matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Is it serious?” I asked, hating that I wanted to know.
“Yes,” she said. She turned away, unable to meet my eyes. “But it’s not what you probably think.”
“How long have you been together?”
“A few years,” she answered.
“Do you love him?”
She seemed to struggle with her answer. “I know I loved him at one time. And until a couple of weeks ago, I thought I still did, but then…” She ran her hands through her hair before turning to face me. “I met you. Even on that first night when we talked right here, I knew that I was attracted to you. Honestly, it terrified me. But as scared as I was, and as wrong as I knew it was, there was part of me that wanted to spend time with you. I tried to pretend the feeling wasn’t there; I told myself to ignore it and forget about you. As small a town as New Bern is, I hardly ever go out, so it was unlikely I’d ever see you again. But then…you were at the farmers’ market. And I knew exactly why you were there. And all those feelings bubbled up again.”
She closed her eyes, something weary in the slump of her shoulders.
“I saw you walking,” she said. “After you bought a coffee. I just happened to be leaving the market, and there you were. I told myself to let it go. Let you go. But the next thing I knew, I was walking in the same direction and I saw you go into the park.”
“You followed me?”
“It felt like I didn’t have a choice. It was like something else—or someone else—was propelling me forward. I…I wanted to get to know you even better.”
Despite the seriousness of her words, I smiled. “Why did you accuse me of following you?”
“Panic,” she admitted. “Confusion. Shame. Take your pick.”
“You’re