Resonating Souls (Bermuda Nights #1)(20)

His voice was warm. “I hope you like peanut butter and jelly.”

I laughed. “Sure. I suppose it’s one of those comfort food things I never grew out of.”

He pulled out a pair of small bottles of Champagne, and with a quick twist both of them were open. Then he laid out a pair of small white plastic plates, and onto each he placed a wheat-bread sandwich, neatly cut at the diagonal.

He raised his bottle to me, and I took mine up. He clinked the edge of the glass against mine. “To patience.”

I smiled, nodding. “To patience.”

The bubbly was lovely – cool, fresh, with a hint of peach flavor. I smiled and took a bite of my sandwich.

Wow.

I looked up at him in surprise. “This is amazing!”

He grinned, taking a bite of his own. “A local woman makes them. She picks the blueberries fresh from her own back yard, all organic. She grinds her own peanut butter. She even bakes her own bread.”

I savored the flavors in my mouth. “This is better than some of the dishes at my parents’ favorite restaurant!”

The shine in his eyes dimmed, and he looked down at his bottle for a moment. His voice became low. “Amanda, I know things are all confused right now. I can’t treat you the way you deserve. If you can just wait for me, until I get through this tour and am back in Boston –”

I leant forward, putting my hand on his. “God, Evan, I don’t care about any of that. I’ve heard you play. You’re a talented musician. I’m sure once you get back on your feet, and come home, that something will work out.”

His eyes seemed shadowed. “I know it looks bad for me. But I swear, this will all make sense when I come home to you. I’m not one of those wastrels who will crash on your couch and dig through your fridge. I’ll be able to treat you right.”

I squeezed his hand. “You already do, Evan. I’ve seen your work ethic with the band, with how you give every gig your full attention and effort. You don’t cut out on gigs early, and you’d play encores all night if they wanted it. You help the waiters clear tables. It’s clear the staff adore you.” I smiled at him. “We’ll make it work. I know we will.”


He gave a wry smile. “I wish I’d met you a few years ago. There’s this restaurant in Boston I would have taken you to, to celebrate our first date. It’s a special place. Locke-Ober. It’s around the corner from the state house, and their steaks …” He let out a breath. “Stunning. But they shut down.”

I nodded. “And I could have taken you to see the Nutcracker at the Wang Theater. It’s a breathtaking venue, with elegant gold scrollwork. You could just imagine men in tuxes and women in long, golden gowns moving their way to their seats. And, best of all, it’s right around the corner from Jacob Wirth’s – an authentic German restaurant.”

He grinned. “I guess that was a tradition of yours, around the holidays?”

“It was, indeed. It was all just perfect. I’d wait the entire performance for the Arabian dance. The sensual, flowing music …” A sigh eased out of me. “It was just right.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why’d it stop?”

I shrugged. “I think the Wang wanted something more modern and flashy than the Nutcracker, and kicked out the Boston Ballet. I know I was heartbroken that year, and every year since then I miss it.”

His eyes held mine. “I should be done and settled just before Christmas. Maybe we could see them, wherever they are now?”

My heart lifted. “Really? You’d go with me? They’re at the Boston Opera House now. I just couldn’t bring myself to go, but if you were to come along …”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Jacob Wirth’s and then the Nutcracker. And there’ll be snow falling. A traditional New England white Christmas.”

I looked into his eyes, and time fell away.

At last he gathered up the remnants of our meal, bringing the cooler and towel over to the woman at the booth. “Thanks so much, Suzie,” he smiled at her, handing over a ten with the items. “Get yourself a jar of that jam for yourself.”

She smiled a grin which was missing a few teeth but was full of good will. “You two take care, now.”

My steps slowed as we rounded the last corner and the ship came into view before us. Our moments together were constricting, narrowing, and it seemed if only we could turn around, that we could reverse time, snatch more seconds in each other’s arms.

We reached the wishing arch, and he paused, turning to look at me.

My throat grew tight, and I nervously glanced around. “We shouldn’t …”

His gaze swept down me, his voice thickening. “I shouldn’t have let us come this far as it is,” he countered roughly. His shoulders flexed as if he were struggling with internal voices. “What’s one more …”

He drew me in, our lips met, and I melted into him, my body coming alight. Only one thought rang in my head, taking over all others.

I would wait forever.

At last he pulled back, looking down at me, his body wavering as if he would draw me in again. Then he exhaled and turned, setting us in motion again.

“You are magnetic,” he murmured. “You are made of witchcraft and moondust.”

“And you,” I countered, sliding my hand along his bare skin at his back, “You are rippling muscle and the fingers of a god.”