The Story Of Us - Teri Wilson Page 0,52
kitchen. “Um, I gotta go.”
Lucy arched a brow. “Make some risotto?”
Sawyer almost choked on his Bordeaux.
Rick gritted his teeth. “Pour some wine.”
Then he retreated back toward Sawyer’s table while Lucy poured Quentin—who was indeed dressed in another sweater—a glass of the aforementioned unoaked Chardonnay. Oh, the irony.
“Maybe you shouldn’t arrange any more Valentine’s gatherings,” Sawyer muttered once Rick reached his side.
“No. Not at all,” Rick said tersely, then he smoothed down his tie and stalked toward a table in the corner where Lucy and Quentin were settling in. Rick helped them get seated but stole the romantic flower arrangement right off the center of their table as he left.
Another Valentine’s Day event, another disaster. It was becoming a thing.
Sawyer shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the bar while trying to get a read on the Lucy/Quentin situation. Was she really into him? Did she want to someday be Mrs. Sweater Guy?
Sawyer couldn’t see it. He was contemplating what Rick’s next move should be when Jamie slid in next to him. The little furrow in her forehead told him she was thinking about the very same thing.
“What if we sent Lucy a Valentine from Rick? Telling her how he feels?” he murmured, still focusing on the distinct lack of chemistry going on at the Sweater table.
Jamie gasped. “Invade his privacy?”
She had a point. This was real life, not a rom-com. “Fine, fine, fine. No scheming. We’ll just let him continue to pine for her while gently encouraging him to reveal his feelings.”
Because that was going so well.
Jamie shrugged, but looked about as convinced as Sawyer felt. “Well, it’s the mature course of action.”
They both laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and then Jamie pulled a pink cashmere scarf from her pocket and wound it around her neck. Sawyer had been so caught up in the Rick drama that he hadn’t noticed she’d slipped into a wraparound coat—winter white, like the lacy trim on a Valentine.
He felt himself frown. “Heading home?”
“The Fire and Ice Festival starts tomorrow so this hometown girl’s gotta get ready.” She winked at him.
“So does this hometown boy.” It was true. Mostly. “Mind a little company on the walk?”
“Not at all,” she said, as if the past fifteen years had never happened and it was perfectly normal for Sawyer to walk her home.
He placed his hand on the small of her back and escorted her to the door. Outside, the air swirled with gentle raindrops, and the wet pavement shimmered like a watercolor painting. It felt like they were stepping into a misty memory, a dream. And when Jamie pulled an umbrella from her bag, Sawyer opened it for her and they huddled beneath it together, a shelter from the storm.
If she was willing to pretend, then so was he.
Jamie’s plan to remind Sawyer of everything he liked best about Waterford without accidentally falling for him wasn’t going quite as well as she’d planned.
Especially the second part.
She’d tucked herself away inside True Love Books all day as a penance for the mushy, inconvenient feelings that had come over her during their chat in the courtyard the night before. They’d just spent an entire afternoon doing all the things they’d loved to do together back when they were in love, and watching him read the letters Mary and Harrison had written to each other during the war had been the icing on the cake—the very naughty, very bad-for-her cake that she had no business whatsoever eating.
But she’d dug right in anyway. Because who didn’t love cake—especially when said cake was a metaphor for the first boy she’d ever kissed?
Hello?! She took a cleansing breath of rain-soaked air. Newsflash: best not to think about kissing Sawyer while sharing an umbrella with the man.
Too late. She was definitely thinking about it, which is precisely what she’d spent the better part of the past twelve hours doing, in spite of herself. She’d tried her best to forget about the moment when Sawyer had finished the last letter and then looked at her beloved bookshop and its glittering courtyard with the old oak tree rooting True Love so firmly in the past. It had felt like he’d finally seen the bookstore through her eyes. At last, he’d understood just what it meant to her—and while she was glad she’d been able to show that to him, the realization still left her feeling acutely vulnerable.
How did the old saying go? Be careful what you wish for. She’d wished she could