A Winter Wedding(72)
“You will?”
“Sure. I’m feeling bitter at the moment, too, but I’m fairly certain I can do better than ‘Good luck.’”
Since he’d tried several times to come up with something profound and had nothing to show for those efforts, he felt a great measure of relief. He’d been mentally ticking off the days, watching the wedding march closer without feeling any more prepared. “Hallelujah! I consider myself saved.”
“I’m not sure I’d say you’re saved,” she told him. “But there should be some overlap between writing songs and writing a few lines on love and commitment for a wedding. So we’ll see what I can come up with. Or we can write it together.”
When she looked up, he was reminded of another moment that had crackled with the same sort of energy. Last night, they’d turned off the TV and were saying good-night. But as they’d walked toward the hall, neither of them had seemed very eager to go to bed, despite how late it was. So they’d lingered outside her door, talking some more, and then she’d stood on tiptoe to give him a brief hug and thank him for letting her stay. Only it wasn’t the natural kind of embrace he received so often from his other friends. As soon as she came up against him, he’d felt the strong desire to slide his hands down her back. And he got the impression she’d felt something she hadn’t expected, too, because she quickly backed away.
After that, they couldn’t escape into their rooms fast enough.
It’d been awkward. But it wasn’t the awkwardness that had kept him awake most of the night. He’d been too aware of the fact that she was just down the hall. He’d stared at his ceiling for hours, listening for any sound of her movements while trying to keep the fantasy of removing her clothes out of his head.
Under the pretext of focusing on the menu, he pulled his gaze away. “I’ll contribute what I can.”
She studied her menu. “So what are you hungry for?”
He was hungry for her. Being with Lourdes like this—out, as though they were on some sort of date—seemed to be messing with his mind. And there was something else that occurred to him. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that he could only get over Olivia after Lourdes had entered his life...
“Damn it.”
“What’d you say?” she asked in confusion.
He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Disregard that. I’m having the cowboy steak.” He looked up. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. But feel free to have a drink or two yourself. I could drive, if necessary.”
“I don’t need any alcohol tonight.” He figured he shouldn’t drink for the next three months—until Lourdes was gone and he was no longer face-to-face with the temptation to wreck his life just when he was regaining control of it.
*
Lourdes had salmon with capers and dill sauce, which was delicious. So was the chocolate soufflé they shared for dessert.
When the bill arrived, she grabbed her purse. She felt she should pay, since Kyle had been covering the cost of groceries. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He picked up the tab, took that picture he’d promised the manager, even lifted her into his truck so her feet wouldn’t get wet.
As they drove back, the wind whipped at the truck and the nearby trees, causing icy crystals of snow to click against the windshield almost like hail. Lourdes enjoyed watching the flakes fly at them or tumble to the ground in the beam of their headlights. She wasn’t dressed for bad weather, but she was plenty warm inside the cab.
By the time they reached Whiskey Creek, it was only ten, but on a weekday that was late enough that they could go through the center of town without feeling conspicuous. Kyle braked here and there to point out his friend’s photography studio, his other friend’s auto shop, his favorite restaurant—a diner called Just Like Mom’s. Little Mary’s, the bed-and-breakfast he’d recommended to her, could’ve been the subject of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Evergreen garland adorned the porch and the black wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. A battery-powered candle flickered in every window, and a giant, ornate wreath hung on the door. Even the cemetery next door looked festive, thanks to the lacy branches of the leafless trees and the church beyond the sentry-like grave markers.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave this place,” she commented as they rounded the park at the far end of town so he could show her the giant Christmas tree. “It’s something special.”
“It’s home,” he said simply.
She pointed at a vinyl sign flapping from the stoplight. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. “I’d forgotten that Whiskey Creek is one of the towns that host Victorian Days. Look, it starts this weekend.”
“We can go, if you want.”
“Be seen in public?”
“Why not? It’ll shore up what you told the Gold Country Gazette. Show Derrick that you’re really not sitting in some farmhouse alone and feeling hurt by what he’s done.”
“I’ve told him as much. I finally texted him back, fired him and requested that he leave me alone. I haven’t put out any feelers for a new manager yet, but I’m not ready for that. I’ll do it in January, when I’m further along with the songs I’m writing. Then maybe I can send a few samples and get someone based on the quality of my work, despite the downward spiral of my career.”