Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(40)
I’d asked her once what made them finally decide to go ahead and set a date. We’d been sitting in the conference room, sampling cakes the baker had brought by one morning, trying to decide which one would be the wedding cake. I caught her looking down at her ring, smiling a secretive smile, and I asked her.
“I don’t know. One day I just looked at him and knew I was ready to be his wife. I’d built my business, I’d accomplished all of the goals I’d set in my twenties and a bunch I’d set in my thirties, and it just felt like the right time.” She grinned, pulling the chocolate buttercream with raspberry filling back toward her for another taste. I had a feeling this one was going to be the winner. It was. “Plus, have you seen his ass? Oh, look who I’m asking, the president of the Benjamin Fan Club,” she joked.
“I’ll have you know I won that election fair and square. It’s not my fault Mimi and Sophia didn’t know we were voting that day. Fair and square,” I explained.
Speaking of my friends, all was quiet on the Sophia and Neil front. They hadn’t seen each other since Game Night, and Mimi was planning to try again before Christmas—something I was trying to talk her out of. But when she invited them both to her Christmas party, neither one tried to get out of it. In fact, they both seemed to be looking forward to it. Who knew who they’d bring this time? They both continued to date, and often, but it rarely went beyond to a second date.
Color me surprised.
In order to jet off to Philadelphia for an entire weekend in the middle of one of my busiest seasons, I worked practically round the clock, evenings, and Saturdays to clear my schedule enough so that I could leave everything behind and just be with Simon. It was never a question of not going; there was no way on earth I was going to let him do this alone.
He was so nervous.
The night before we left he had a nightmare, and today on the plane he barely spoke. When he did speak, he was curt and quick. When the plane touched down, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to apologize right now for being a dick this weekend, in case I am. I’m not planning on it, but if it does happen, I’m sorry.”
I patted his hand, and kissed his nose. “Apology preaccepted. Now show me your hometown— I can’t wait to see your Liberty Bell.”
He half smiled, and took my hand as we left the plane.
? ? ?
Philadelphia was a city I’d never been to, and I wished I had even more time to explore. But this weekend wasn’t about indulging my reenactment of the Rocky Run up the steps of the art museum, but more about me being wherever and whatever Simon needed. Besides, apparently they moved the Rocky statue from the top of the stairs off to the side anyway. Pffft.
We picked up the rental car, threw our bags into the back, and headed to the hotel. With the trip cross country, it was already dark by the time we got to the part of town Simon grew up, but he lit up when he began to call out places he recognized. And places he didn’t.
“When did that bike shop close down? Oh man, this was the place I got my first bike without training wheels. Why is a minimall there; when did that go up?”
“When’s the last time you were here, Simon?” I asked.
“Um, a few weeks after graduation, I think,” he said distractedly, his eyes going back and forth on both sides of the street.
“You really haven’t been here since you were eighteen?” I asked, astonished.
“Why would I have been back?” he asked, making a turn and taking us right into the middle of the town square.
When Simon said he grew up in Philadelphia, that wasn’t technically true. He grew up in one of the many feeder communities, the smaller townships that made up the outlying areas. I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know he came from Moneyville, USA.
His hometown was plush. And darling in the way all northeastern towns looked to anyone who grew up in California. There was something to be said for growing up in a town that was almost three hundred years older than the one I grew up in. Most of the houses we passed could only be described as estates.
The town square was quaint, with tidy little shops framing City Hall in the center. Two story mostly, with a few turreted three stories on each corner. People were shopping as the lightest dusting of snow fell, sparkling on the wrought-iron railings and—oh my God—honest to goodness real iron horse head hitching posts! Like, where people used to tie their horses to! Like, in olden times!
“Simon, we have to walk around a little, look how cute your town is! Look at all the shops, and, oh, look at the Christmas tree in the middle!” I cried, pointing. In front of City Hall was a large tree, bedecked with red bows, gold ornaments, and white lights.
“Babe, they put up a Christmas tree in front of City Hall in San Francisco every year.”
“This is different; this is so stinking cute! Everything is so old! What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an old Gothic house with a plaque outside. Each window had a wreath; the windows upstairs even had candles too. It was so pretty, it must be of some historical significance.
“It used to be . . . Yep, it’s still a Subway.”
“Station?” I asked, confused.
“No, like the sandwich shop,” he replied, laughing at my fallen expression. “I can’t believe it’s still open; no one eats there. Not when there’s Little Luigi’s. You still want a cheesesteak?”