they were seated across from one another in a red vinyl booth near the back of the café. Located in the center of town, Rosie’s was Gabriel’s Crossing’s most popular restaurant. A greasy spoon where folks came for home cooking and the latest gossip.
The lunch crowd had cleared out already, and dinner customers wouldn’t begin to trickle in for a few more hours. When the waitress came, they asked for pie and coffee, then sat in uncomfortable silence while the young woman went to fill their order.
Emma folded and refolded her napkin until the paper edges began to flake and fall away. Finally, she took a deep breath, laid her palms flat on the Formica tabletop, and faced Mitch head-on.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” she blurted out, deciding it was better to simply come to the point than sit here imagining worst case scenarios. Like tearing off a Band-Aid in one quick swipe rather than toying and tugging and prolonging the agony.
“Us.”
As much as she’d braced herself for his answer, she hadn’t expected that.
She waited until the waitress set slices of pie and steaming cups of black coffee in front of them before responding, using the much-needed time to calm her erratic pulse and get her scattered thoughts in order. He took a sip of black coffee while she stirred a sugar packet and dollop of cream into hers.
Once they were alone, she took a deep breath and kept her tone low so no one would overhear. “What about us?”
“I think there should be one.”
She knit her eyebrows. Mitch had never been the easiest man to talk to, but at the moment he was giving new meaning to the word confusing. “One what?”
“Us. I think there should be an us.”
Picking up his fork, he dug into his slice of blueberry pie as though they were talking about the weather instead of…them.
Before she could reply, he swallowed and went on. “You know what happened between us, Emma. It shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did, and for that I’m sorry.”
The flush of embarrassment she’d felt at his mention of the night they’d made love flared into sudden anger and more than a little hurt.
How dare he apologize to her for what she considered one of the most special nights of her life? If he was sorry, if he regretted what they’d done, then he should have kept it to himself instead of cornering her like this.
“That’s what you brought me here to tell me?” she demanded, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the edge of the table. “You’re sorry we slept together? I hate to break it to you, Mitch, but you’re not the first man I’ve had sex with. You didn’t seduce me, you didn’t take my virginity, you didn’t do anything that requires an apology. I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions and sleep with whomever I want. I don’t need your permission or your approval.”
A beat passed while he held her gaze, then he nodded. “You’re right. You can make your own decisions.”
He took another bite of pie and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. “The thing is, I’m not the type to have a one-night stand with a neighbor and childhood friend. It feels…sleazy.”
Her eyes narrowed in warning. He wasn’t calling her sleazy or even what had passed between them, she knew that. But it was a close thing, and in her current mood she wasn’t sure she was willing to split hairs.
“My point is,” he continued, “I think maybe we should keep seeing each other. See where it leads.”
Of all the things he might have said, that shocked her the most. It also made her heartbeat—which had slowed to a crawl at the direction the conversation was taking—speed up and thump against her rib cage.
She swallowed hard, praying she wasn’t hearing things. “Excuse me?”
“I think we should…date. Go out a couple of times and see what happens.”
It was half-true, anyway. But the suggestion wasn’t driven by interest as much as nobility. And, he admitted, guilt.
In the two weeks since the Fourth of July picnic…since they’d made love in the loft of her father’s barn…he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
Partly because the sex had been incredible and every fiber of his being wanted to be with her again. And partly because she was his neighbor, a friend since childhood. They’d gone through school together. Climbed trees and ridden horses together. Survived the prom and graduation and the death of a parent—her mother, who had been a second mother to him as well—together.
She wasn’t some casual acquaintance to be used to slake his lust. Even if it had been four long, lonely years since he’d been with a woman.
So far, this was the best solution he could come up with. His personal code of honor wouldn’t allow him to just walk away and pretend that night had never happened. That might be all right for a stranger he’d met in a bar, but he couldn’t treat Emma that way.
Emma deserved better.
Using her for a one-night stand was unacceptable. But dating her for a while wasn’t.
Nothing would come of it, he knew. Nothing could ever come of it, and he didn’t want it to. But if they dated for a while and then split up, he could justify having slept with her.
And he wouldn’t sleep with her again, that was a promise.
Even if the memory of kissing her, touching her soft skin, heated his blood and tightened his trousers across his groin.
He’d known Emma all his life, but this was the first time he’d been distracted by her as a woman. The first time he’d noticed how sexy and attractive she was.
Physically, she was the opposite of Suzanne in every way. Where Suzanne had an hourglass figure, with full breasts and wide hips, Emma was proportionally well-balanced. Small, but still shapely.
Her hair was more strawberry-blond than peroxide-blond; her look more natural than painted on; her clothes stylish but comfortable, rather than skin-tight and meant to attract attention.
She certainly had succeeded at catching his attention, and not a day went by that he didn’t regret it.
“So?” He took a swig of coffee to wash down the last of his pie, taking note that Emma had yet to touch hers. “What do you say?”
What could she say? What should she say?
This had to be the most bizarre date invitation she’d ever received. And if it were coming from anyone other than Mitch, she’d have probably laughed the poor guy out of the restaurant.
But it was Mitch, which left her torn.
Did she accept because her feminine heart had dreamed of this moment a million times? Or did she turn him down because she suspected the offer stemmed more from guilt than an actual interest in seeing her socially?
Wrapping her fingers around the mug of still-warm coffee in front of her, she lifted it to her mouth and took a sip, buying herself a little more time.
