in the hotel room, he still managed to look elegant in dark pants and a gray button-down cotton shirt, open at the collar.
Suddenly conscious of the casualness of her simple peasant skirt and ribboned lace top, Sylvie lifted her chin and reminded herself this was Jackson Hole, not Boston. They were having lunch at the Coffee Pot, not one of his private clubs.
He pulled out her chair as she drew close. “You look lovely.”
Sylvie took a seat and glanced around. A baby wearing a pink crocheted hat several tables over met her gaze and began to cry.
Andrew didn’t appear to notice the wails. His entire focus remained on her.
“I may have miscalculated.”
He resumed his seat, his brow furrowed slightly. “How so?”
“I didn’t realize the place would be so busy.” Or that the seating was so tight. The table next to them was scarcely two feet away. Though Sylvie didn’t recognize the couple sitting there, that didn’t mean they didn’t know her. “Hardly conducive...”
She let her voice trail off, not surprised when he nodded. With Andrew she’d never had to complete thoughts. From the moment he walked into the Back Bay Bakery, where she’d been working after graduating from a New York City culinary school, they’d been on the same wavelength.
They kept the conversation centered on the weather until the waitress had taken their order. Sylvie ordered a salad, though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to eat. Not with the way her stomach pitched.
Once the waitress left, Andrew’s gaze returned to her and she felt the impact of those gray eyes all the way to her toes. “That was an impressive article on you related to Jackson Hole’s Wine Auction.”
Sylvie traced her finger around the water glass, absently wiping away the condensation. “Is that how you located me?”
“I knew where you were within a week of you leaving Boston.”
Startled, she dropped her hand and looked up. “You knew where I was, yet you didn’t come after me?”
Andrew lifted his own glass of water and took a long drink. “You made it very clear in your text—”
The jaw muscle jumped again as Andrew paused. He appeared to carefully consider his next words.
“You said you didn’t want to see me again.” He spoke slowly and distinctly in a low tone, the words for her ears only. “You made it clear what we had was over.”
“I’m sorry about the text.” The fact that she’d texted him her goodbye seemed to be a particular bone of contention. She had to admit if he’d done that to her, she’d have been furious. More than that, she’d have been crushed. “I really am sorry. I thought if you wanted more of an explanation, you’d follow me. But you didn’t.”
Sylvie wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. She’d been happy, relieved, he hadn’t come after her.
“Audrey collapsed the morning after the party. I was at the hospital when I received your text.” Andrew paused as the waitress dropped off their drinks.
Two tables down, the baby began to wail in earnest.
* * *
Andrew glanced down at the coffee he didn’t want and felt the rage he’d kept contained for the past three months threaten his tightly held control. That day had been the worst of his life. It was as if the world around him had imploded.
He couldn’t believe the woman he loved, the woman he’d planned to marry, had, for no discernible reason, decided she didn’t love him anymore and walked out. Still reeling from that shock, he’d learned a close friend from childhood was terminally ill with cancer. He hadn’t even known Audrey was sick.
The baby’s piercing cry broke through his thoughts. He rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache was trying to form. Coming here had been a bad idea. A busy café on a Sunday morning was no place for a serious discussion.
He shouldn’t have come to Jackson. Hadn’t Sylvie made it clear by her words and actions that she didn’t want him? Andrew O’Shea didn’t run after any woman, even one he loved. Had loved, he corrected.
He would leave. Thank her politely for her time and walk out the door. Why did the reason she’d left him even matter? The fact was, she’d walked out on him. That couldn’t be undone.
Andrew took a deep breath. “Tha—”
Her hand closed over his. They weren’t soft, do-no-work hands, but ones with strong fingers and clean, blunt-cut nails. A hand with just a hint of calluses on the palm. A hand that smelled faintly of citrus.
“I’m sorry about Audrey.” Sylvie’s voice grew thick with emotion. “She was a wonderful woman.”
The words took him by surprise. “You knew Audrey had cancer? That she passed away?”
Sorrow filled those violet eyes. “Just recently I read the piece on her in the Globe. It was quite a tribute.”
Audrey had been a talented musician, Juilliard-trained, and came from a prominent Boston family. The piece, tastefully done after her passing, had been not only a testament to all the lives she and her family had touched in their philanthropic endeavors, but also a tribute to a beautiful young woman who died way too young.
“She and I were friends for as long as I can remember.” Andrew found himself thinking back. Quite unexpectedly, his lips quirked up. “When we were thirteen, or perhaps it was fourteen, we made a pact that if we weren’t married by the time we were thirty, we’d take that trip down the aisle together.”
Andrew had turned thirty at the beginning of the year, right around the time he’d met Sylvie.
“You didn’t marry her.”
It was such an odd thing for her to say that for a second Andrew wondered if he’d imagined the words. “Audrey was like a sister to me. There was never anything more between us than friendship.”
Sylvie glanced at her untouched cup of coffee. The baby had grown silent, too.
“Andrew, I—”
“Tell me about your life here,” he said brusquely.
Those thickly lashed violet eyes widened. “Wh-what?”
Impatiently he gestured with his head to the couple beside them. The man and woman, both in their thirties, had quit talking to concentrate on their food. Or to listen?
Understanding filled her gaze. As if she needed to gather her thoughts to answer his simple question, she took a long sip of tea before responding.
“Even back in culinary school, I knew I wanted to open my own business.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “My craft is important to me. It’s a passion. I’m an artist, not simply a baker.”
Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d known she loved to bake, er, create. Heck, she’d been working in a bakery when he met her. He’d known she enjoyed making cakes. But had
