“You think?” he asks curiously.
“What?” I blink, shocked that he’s finally speaking.
“You think you’re in love with me?” he asks again, leaning forward across the table, not mincing his next words one bit. “Because I know I’m in love with you.”
His words, spoken so clearly and matter-of-factly, are enough to strike me silent. I sit across from him with my mouth gaping open. Then, realizing I probably look like a largemouth bass, I clench it closed again.
I can’t…He can’t…
“Here we are!” Marissa announces cheerfully, striding up to the table with a tray full of fragrant food. The appetizers have arrived, and I’m too stunned by his declaration to remember that I was supposed to flip her tray and spill them before she could set them on the table. I sit perfectly still, paralyzed by fear as I wait for him to shoot to his feet and leave. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, seemingly exhausted.
Marissa is completely oblivious to the scene she’s witnessing. She arranges four different appetizers on our table with careful dexterity, all the while explaining each one in excruciating detail. James opens his eyes and meets my gaze, and I’m surprised to find his expression has softened to one of what I’m really hoping is forgiveness. My heart leaps in my chest.
“So you’re going to want to dip those in the spicy mango salsa,” Marissa explains. “It has a kick to it thanks to the jalapeños, but it is literally to die for.”
“Marissa,” I say, cutting her off while maintaining eye contact with James.
“Yes?”
“We got it, thanks.”
She beams. “Sure thing. Let me know if you need anything else.”
She waltzes away with a pep in her step, probably aware that her work here is done. When she’s out of earshot, I lean forward.
“Love?” I ask, my voice shaky and fragile.
His warm brown eyes scan my face before a slow-spreading smile overtakes his handsome features.
“Love,” he agrees.
I exhale the breath I’ve been holding for the past 10 minutes and then sag back against my chair. The range of emotions I’ve felt in the last few days is enough to send anyone over the edge, but now I sit here across from James, contemplating love—LOVE, of all things! I thought I’d be leaving the club in a body bag, stricken dead from a broken heart.
He’s studying me thoughtfully, probably wondering the same thing I am: what happens next?
I reach my hand out for his, face up across the table. It’s a vulnerable act, especially in the middle of the club’s dining room, but James doesn’t hesitate before he takes it. His hand envelops mine, and somehow it’s the most intimate way we’ve ever touched, palm to palm, heart to heart. I want more—a passionate kiss, a long embrace. Hell, I’d shove the appetizers to the floor and crawl across the tablecloth to get to him, but I’m not trying to send any of these old fogies around us to the hospital.
“I missed you,” he admits, stroking his thumb across my knuckles.
I still don’t trust my voice, so I squeeze my lips together and nod.
“I want to hear about your travels.”
There’s so much to catch him up on, and I do, over dinner. We start with the appetizers, and yes, the spicy mango salsa does strike me dead. I tell him about Diego and Nicolás and the girls. I scroll through my iPhone camera roll to show him the highlights of my time abroad and am embarrassed by the utter lack of photos of architecture or landscape. Surely I visited something that makes me look worldly? A cathedral? A statue? Instead, my phone is jam-packed with photos of Luciana making faces, Luciana waving to me on a playground, Luciana posing in front of an ice cream shop with a massive melting cone, Luciana and me with our cheeks smashed together as we test out various Snapchat filters. My heart aches knowing she’s still upset with me.
“She’ll come around,” James promises once I fill him in on the situation, and I hope he’s right.
After five courses and a delicious fruit tart, we walk out of the club hand in hand. He hasn’t invited me back to his house yet, but I’m hopeful that he will. I’m hesitant to leave him. It took so long for us to get to this moment, and we still have so much to clear up. I fear if we leave separately, he’ll go home and think over what I’ve told him then change his mind about us.
We’re standing beneath the porte cochère when he brings the back of my hands to his lips for a kiss.
“That’s all I get?” I tease.
He smirks before he tugs me closer and grips my chin between his fingers. With a subtle tilt, he tips my head back and kisses me gently. My eyes flutter closed as I wrap my arms around his neck and press up onto my toes. A groan ripples through me as he tightens his possessive hold, gathering me close. Our chests brush and he urges my mouth open so his tongue can skim across mine. A shudder runs down my spine as the kiss turns urgent, hungry. His hand fists my dress at the base of my back and my nails dig into his shoulders.
“Ahem.”
A voice clears comically behind us, and James breaks the kiss. We turn in sync to find Ellie standing with her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a smug smile as she asks, “Isn’t PDA against club rules?”
James smiles. “Since when do any of us follow the rules?”
She delivers an exaggerated eye roll before stepping forward and holding up her keys. “Brooke, if you’re coming home with me, I’m leaving.”
“Oh, right. Yeah…” I look back at James. “I should probably go with her, right?” I ask.
“Probably,” he answers with a telling smile. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”
That smile is dangerous. A girl could be convinced to do just about anything with a smile like that.
“I don’t have any of my stuff,” I point out.
“You have everything you need,” he responds with a telling smile while his fingers trace slow circles along my spine.
“Yoohoooo, can you two freaks work this out later?” Ellie asks, interrupting our moment. “My shift is over and I want to get the hell out of here.”
I pinch my eyes closed and try to stifle a laugh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this right now, but—I’m going to go home with Ellie. It’s been a wild few days—I’ve barely slept, and I’ve been on a rollercoaster ride of emotions. I need a moment to catch my breath. I’m so happy and excited and grateful and I just want to make sure we don’t screw this up and IwantyoutoknowthatIwanttogohomewithyousobadbut—”
“Slow down, Brooke,” he says, putting a finger up to my lips with a laugh. “Let’s get lunch tomorrow.”
I smile and step back. “Okay. It’s a date.”
…
James insists that he wants to eat at home the next day, and anyone with half a brain could guess his motive. Why doesn’t he just say he wants to eat lunch in his bed, under the covers, naked? Cut out all the pretense, right? Beth clears his schedule for the rest of the afternoon, and I arrive at his house by Uber at noon on the dot. When he sweeps the door open, he’s wearing jeans and a soft cotton t-shirt. The look is so simple and sexy that I nearly melt. Instead, I hold out the loaf of banana bread I baked with Martha this morning. He glances down at it and groans in appreciation.
“It’s her secret recipe,” I brag as he drags me inside by my hips. “She adds canned pineapple, which sounds odd, but I swear it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste!”
He takes it out of my hand, sets it on the side table beside the door, and yanks me against him.
“I guess you really like banana bread?” I tease before he tilts his head down and steals a kiss.
I close my eyes and let myself revel in the feeling of being in his arms again. I wasn’t sure if I’d played up how good of a kisser he was in my mind over the last year and a half, but now I know for a fact his skills weren’t embellished by time and distance. The man is lethal. He sweeps me up and kisses me so passionately I become a mess of aching desire, half-convinced we should just get it on right here—his scratchy welcome mat is
as good a place as any. Then something familiar catches my attention over his shoulder and I tear my mouth from his.
“My bike!”
“Your bike?” he teases, following my gaze. “I thought you gave it back to me.”
I step out of his grasp so I can move closer and run my hand along the handlebars. Then, it hits me. I spin back around to him. “Isn’t this the same spot where you left it that day?”
He nods and glances away, down the hall. “I couldn’t move it.”
Oh.
Regret socks me in the stomach yet again.
“I’m sorry,” I say on a soft whisper.
He glances back to me, and I’m surprised to see the residual hurt left in his gaze. Before, he would have tried to hide it, but not now, not if we’re going to try to move on. He extends his hand to me.
“C’mon, let’s go order lunch.”
Not much has changed around his house since before I left. There’s no new furniture or décor, and he’s still using paper plates and Solo cups. I can’t let it go on for another second, so while we wait on our Chinese food to arrive, I force him to unpack the dishes he’s kept stowed away in his cabinets for too long.
I am surprised to find Harry the goldfish swimming around on his kitchen island. James has upgraded his original tank, and now he’s basically swimming in a fishy paradise.
I beam and turn toward James. “You kept him.”
He shrugs. “Of course. What else was I going to do? He’s my fish.”
“Wait—you didn’t pull the classic kids movie gag, did you? Where the fish died months ago and you just replaced him with one that looks the exact same?”
“Are you saying you don’t recognize Harry?” he jokes.
“Can I feed him?” I ask, bending down so my face is level with the tank. Harry spins in a little circle and a few bubbles float up to the surface. It’s all very cute.
When our lunch arrives, we take it into the living room and sit in the center of the floor, envisioning what he could do with the space. I don’t insert myself into the design plans, not yet anyway. This is his house, and maybe one day I’ll share it with him, but it feels presumptuous to assume that will be the case now, after we’ve only just started to get back on track. Still, he wants my opinion.
“Do you think we should put up curtains?” he asks, pointing to the row of floor-to-ceiling windows that display a gorgeous view of the backyard. It would soften the space a bit, but I don’t think they’re necessary, so I tell him so.
“You don’t want to obstruct that view if you don’t have to.”
He agrees and admits he’s been dragging his feet on hiring a designer.
“My life has been in limbo for too long,” he admits, surveying the room. “I think it’s finally time I start to get settled here.”
I look down and chew on my bottom lip before asking a question that’s been in the back of my mind. “James, when I left…you didn’t—I mean, you weren’t waiting for me to come back, were you?”
I asked him not to, not if it meant he continued to live like this. I feel guilty knowing he might have hit pause on his life in the hopes that I might return.
“It wasn’t my intention. Up until I saw you at the gala, I was under the impression that you’d moved on, so I tried to do the same. A few months after you left, I started to go through the motions of dating. I needed plus-ones for a few events, and it was a good way to test things out without jumping into anything too serious.”
Jealousy digs its sharp claws into me.
“Did you like any of the women?” I ask, focusing down on the noodles twirling around my fork.
“Yes,” he admits with a sigh, and my stomach twists into a tight knot. His answer shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “They all fit the bill of what I was looking for.”
Oh, I’m sure they did—smart, beautiful, perky, closer to his age, and probably begging to settle down and start flexing their ovaries.
I barely stifle a sneer.
“None of them lasted though,” he reassures me, reaching over to still my hand. I’ve twisted and twisted my fork around so many times, nearly every single one of my noodles is wrapped around it in a heaping mess. “Apparently, according to most of them, I wasn’t emotionally available.”
“That’s too bad.” I try to sound genuine, but he sees through my thinly veiled disguise.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, pushing our plates aside and pressing up onto his knees. “Do you wish I’d tried harder to move on?”
I finally gather enough courage to look up and meet his eyes. “Not exactly…though I do feel bad for hurting you, for leaving like I did.”
He smiles as he stands and extends his hand down to me. I let him pull me to my feet and then we’re pressed together, hip to hip. His hands wrap around my waist and he squeezes gently. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me.”
“I plan on it, but first, I have one question.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any emotions available now?”
EPILOGUE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
It’s the middle of the afternoon and sunlight streams in through the living room windows. A group of older women ranging from their late 50s to late 70s sit in a small semicircle conversing with each other in broken French. Mrs. Walters sits closest to me and I listen intently as she practices simple sentences.
“Le chat brun.”
“Good.”
“La pomme verte.”
I shake my head. “Try it again, and this time emphasize the long m sound rather than the e. Like this: pomme, not pommay.”
The next time she tries it, it sounds much better. She’s learning fast, just like the rest of the women in our small French club. It all started a few months ago, after I first moved in with James. His neighbor Mrs. Walters came over to see if we needed help—though at 70, I’m not sure how exactly she would have assisted us with the moving efforts. Anyway, we got to talking. She asked what I did for a living, I told her, and when she heard I was out of work, she hired me on the spot. She’d always wanted to learn a foreign language, and she knew a few other women in the neighborhood who would jump at the chance to keep their minds active.
Our small French club started up pretty organically. We’ve met three times a week for the last two months, and I’m shocked at how quickly everyone’s been catching on. I’d always assumed children were my preferred students, but these women have been really fun so far. They’re all retired and dedicated to learning, so we’ve been tearing through workbooks and vocabulary, not to mention we’ve all agreed that if everyone can master a basic understanding of the French language by next summer, we’ll all take a trip to France so they can put their newfound knowledge to practice.
It’s the perfect arrangement for me. I have flexible hours, I still get to teach, and these women pay better than any of my previous gigs.
I stand and interrupt their conversations to let them know “class” has officially ended, though that usually doesn’t mean much. It’ll be another hour before everyone is out of the house, and I swear they do it on purpose in the hopes of catching James when he arrives home from work.
“Is that a car I hear in the driveway?” Mrs. Walters says, perking up in her chair.
“Oh! I bet James is home! It would be rude to leave now!” Mrs. Buchanan says with a wide smile.
I can’t help but laugh. “It should be Ellie coming over to help me make dinner.”
They all visibly sag in their chairs.
“But I’ll let James know you all missed him. Maybe he can make it home a little earlier on Friday.”
That gets me off the hook for the time being, and everyone stands and gathers their textbooks before heading to the front door. Ellie is already standing out front, holding the door open for them.
“Afternoon Ellie.” Mrs. Walters stops and pats her arm. “Are you sure I can’t set you up with my grandson?”
Ellie laughs. “He’s onl
y 17, Mrs. Walters.”
“Only? Why, I was married at 17!”
They do this every time they see each other. Mrs. Walters thinks Ellie is the prettiest thing she’s ever seen, and she won’t rest until Ellie is dating her grandson—who, by the way, is currently in 11th grade.
“Tell him to send me a graduation announcement,” Ellie calls behind her before following me inside. “Maybe the life of a cougar will suit me.”
In the last few months, James and I have been slowly but surely settling into his house. His house—every time I say that, he insists I call it our house. I smile and shake my head at the thought that we’ve lived here together for three months. It’s still pretty empty because he insisted on hiring an interior designer. He wanted everything to be perfect for us, not just a hodgepodge of his old furniture mixed with some of my things, though my yellow bookshelf did make the cut. It’s sitting in one of the spare bedrooms, the room we’ve both agreed will make a good nursery one day.
“What’d you do today?” Ellie asks, whipping open the refrigerator and peeking inside for a snack.
“I went to SoulCycle this morning before I had to prep my lesson for French club. Oh, and Diego and Nicolás called.”
“How are they doing?” she asks, bending low to grab some string cheese.
“Good.” I sigh. “But Luciana still won’t talk to me.”
She frowns. “I can’t believe it. I really thought she’d forgive you by now.”
“Yeah, I thought so too.” I still think about her all the time. How could I not? For that year and a half I was in Spain, we spent most of our waking (and non-waking) hours together. I desperately want her to forgive me, but I can’t push it. “Anyway, part of why they called was because they’re still trying to find a good tutor. The girls haven’t been practicing their English as much, and they’re worried they’ll start to lose it.”
“Did you suggest they contact the agency?”
“No.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “Actually, I recommended you.”
She rears back in shock. “Me?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“But I don’t even speak Spanish.”