Mended (Connections, #3)(52)

She shakes her head and manages to say, “They’re happy tears, not sad ones.”

I’m not the kind of guy who cries. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever cried, not even at my dad’s funeral. I may have shed a tear or two for my grandparents, but I swear I have to rely on all the self-control I can muster not to let one slip past me now. The joy I see in her eyes is enough to bring me to my knees. I take her face in my hands and kiss away each and every tear.

“I don’t want you to cry, gorgeous. I brought you here so we could experience something we both enjoyed together once.” Leaning back, I lift her chin so I can look in her eyes. “Talk to me, Ivy.”

She gets up on her toes and touches her lips to my ear. “This is the single best surprise I’ve ever received in my life.”

“I’m glad,” I tell her, and then I kiss her hard and hold her tight. We stand like that for a long time.

The smell of food wafts over to us from the nearby restaurants, and after the intimate silence I clear my throat and ask, “You hungry?”

“Very.”

“Me too. Come on, let’s find someplace to eat.”

Walking down the busy sidewalk, we reach the crossing. The light is red, so we wait with a bunch of other people. Cars screech to a halt behind the white lines that etch the road, and out of nowhere a driver slams on his brakes, obviously thinking twice about running the light. He comes to a standstill in the middle of the crosswalk, and I instinctively step in front of Ivy, who was closer to the car. I pause for a minute to look over at her, and it hits me. After all this time it’s not that I couldn’t love someone, that I wasn’t capable—it’s that the one I needed wasn’t there for me to love.

As we start walking again, I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I can’t wait to get you alone. To get your clothes off and do everything I didn’t get to finish last night.”

She looks up at me and a rosy blush covers her cheeks. Then out of nowhere someone screams, “You’re Ivy Taylor. Oh my God,” and snaps a picture before either of us can turn away. I move to go after the woman, but Ivy pulls me back. “Ignore it. It’s fine,” she says. So we keep walking and I reach for her hand as we look in the windows of all the tourist-trap shops that line the street. When we walk past a cheesy diner with a pink flashing sign that says ROSIE’S, we smile at each other. Diners were always our thing. In high school we searched them out for the best breakfasts, milk shakes, and burgers. Just as we walk into the restaurant, her phone rings and she retrieves it from her purse and holds it in her palm.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I ask.

“No,” she says quietly.

My eyes narrow on her. “Who’s calling that you don’t want to talk to?”

“Xander, it’s nothing.” But she’s still stopped on the sidewalk, gazing down at her phone.

I take it from her. Ten missed calls from Damon Wolf. “Why is he calling you nonstop?”

“He wants to discuss our contract termination. My attorney says to let him take care of it.”

“I’ll take care of it when we get back.” I can feel that I’m glowering, but I can’t help it.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s best to let my attorney do it.”

I nod. Like hell I will. “Sure, gorgeous. Come on, let’s eat.” I lace my hand with hers and lead her to the diner I spotted.

We walk in and it’s like a scene out of Happy Days. The front counter is lined with classic candies—Sugar Daddys, Bit-O-Honeys, Sixlets, Oh Henry! bars, candy necklaces, Sky Bars, and Cherry Mashes. Betty Boop memorabilia is everywhere. The waiter waves us to take our own seat, and we find a booth in the very back. The restaurant looks like it hasn’t been remodeled since it opened in the 1950s. The booths are ripped and the table is sticky, but I could care less because we both look up at each other and grin. There’s a shiny chrome Seeburg Wall-O-Matic jukebox sitting at the end of our table. Jackpot!

I ask the waitress for some change and when she brings it to the table, I push it all over to Ivy. “Your choice, baby.”

We both order pancakes with bacon and then she selects a number of songs. We listen to the singles spinning round and round somewhere we can’t see, while we wait for our food. Once we’ve eaten, she uses the restroom and I snag a candy necklace for her, pay the bill, and stuff the little sugar beads in my pocket before she comes back.

We spend an hour or so walking around Niagara Falls and really talking. Telling each other the things we have done in our lives—what we feel we’ve accomplished, what we haven’t, and what we want out of life. As strange as it is, I think we both want the same things. It’s too early to talk about a future, but I see mine with her in it.

Back at the small private cottage I rented on the lake, she pushes me flat on my back on the bed as soon as we walk in. I give her a knowing look as she peels off her top and then removes her bra. The tears are long since gone and an entirely different emotion has taken over. I raise my head to suck on one of her nipples, but she pushes me back down. I try not to laugh and decide just to roll with it. She runs her hands down my arms and I try to grab her fingers, but instead she lifts my shirt up slightly. Again I let her. She traces the letters inked along my side. Another moment passes and she drops her lips to my skin to kiss each and every letter of my tattoo. A raw ache from her touch emanates from every nerve in my body. When she sits up, her hair rests on her shoulders and she takes it and swirls it around as if knotting it.