children became quite quiet, watching him.
If he knew his suit was in danger, he never let on. Without any hesitation at all, he pulled up the teeny chair beside Molly, hung his jacket over the back of it—not even out of range of the fingers, despite the subtle Giorgio Armani label revealed in the back of it—and plunked himself down.
The children eyed him with wide-eyed surprise, silent and shy.
Children, Molly told herself, were not charmed by the same things as adults. They did not care about his watch or his shoes, the label in the back of that jacket.
Show me who you really are.
She passed him a red pepper, a silly thing to expect to show you a person. He looked at it, looked at her, seemed to be deciding something. She was only aware of how tense he had been when she saw his shoulders shift slightly, saw the corners of his mouth relax.
Ignoring the children who were gawking at him, Houston picked up a slice of red pepper and studied it. “What should I do with this?”
“Put stuff on it!”
He followed the instructions he could understand, until the original red pepper was not visible any longer but coated and double coated with toppings.
Finally he could delay the moment of truth no longer. But he did not bite into his own crazy creation.
Instead, he held it out, an inch from Molly’s lips. “My lady,” he said smoothly. “You first.”
Something shivered in her. How could this be? Surrounded by squealing children, suddenly everything faded. It was a moment she’d imagined in her weaker times. Was there anything more romantic than eating from another’s hand?
Somehow that simple act of sharing food was the epitome of trust and connection.
She had wanted to bring him out of himself, and instead he was turning the tables on her!
Molly leaned forward and bit into the raisin-encrusted red pepper. She had to close her eyes against the pleasure of what she tasted.
“Ambrosia,” she declared, and opened her eyes to see him looking at her with understandable quizzicalness.
“My turn!” She loaded a piece of celery with every ingredient on the table.
“I hate celery,” he said when she held it up to him.
“You’re setting an example!” she warned him.
He cast his eyes around the table, looked momentarily rebellious, then nipped the piece of celery out of her fingers with his teeth.
Way too easy to imagine this same scenario in very different circumstances. Maybe he could, too, because his silver-shaded eyes took on a smoky look that was unmistakably sensual.
How could this be happening? Time standing still, something in her heart going crazy, in the middle of the situation least like any romantic scenario she had ever imagined, and Molly was guilty of imagining many of them!
But then that moment was gone as the children raced each other creating concoctions for their honored guests. As when his shoulders had relaxed, now Molly noticed another layer of some finally held tension leaving him as he surrendered to the children, and to the moment.
They were calling orders to him, the commands quick and thick. “Dunk it.” “Roll it.” “Put stuff on it! Like this!”
One of the bolder older boys got up and pressed right in beside Houston. He anchored himself—one sticky little hand right on the suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair—and leaned forward. He held out the offering—a carrot dripping with dressing and seeds—to Houston. Some of it appeared to plop onto those beautiful shoes.
Molly could see a greasy print across the shoulder lining of the jacket.
A man who owned a suit like that was not going to be impressed with its destruction, not able to see soul through all this!
But Houston didn’t seem to care that his clothes were getting wrecked. He wasn’t backing away. After his initial horror in the children, he seemed to be easing up a little. He didn’t even make an attempt to move the jacket out of harm’s way.
In fact he looked faintly pleased as he took the carrot that had been offered and chomped on it thoughtfully.
“Excellent,” he proclaimed.
After that any remaining shyness from the children dissolved. Houston selected another carrot, globbed dressing on it and hesitated over his finishing choices.
The children yelled out suggestions, and he listened and obeyed each one until that carrot was so coated in stuff that it was no longer recognizable. He popped the whole concoction in his mouth. He closed his eyes, chewed very slowly and then sighed.
“Delicious,” he exclaimed.
Molly stared at him, aware of the shift happening in her. It was different than when they had chased each other in the garden, it was different than when they had danced and she was entranced.
Beyond the sternness of his demeanor, she saw someone capable of exquisite tenderness, an amazing ability to be sensitive. Even sweet.
Molly was sure if he knew that—that she could see tender sweetness in him—he would withdraw instantly. So she looked away, but then, was compelled to look back. She felt like someone who had been drinking brackish water their entire life, and who had suddenly tasted something clear and pure instead.
The little girl beside Houston, wide-eyed and silent, held up her celery stick to him—half-chewed, sloppy with dressing and seeds—plainly an offering. He took it with grave politeness, popped it in his moth, repeated the exaggerated sigh of enjoyment.
“Thank you, princess.”
Her eyes grew wider. “Me princess,” she said, mulling it over gravely. And then she smiled, her smile radiant and adoring.
Children, of course, saw through veneers so much easier than adults did!
I am allowing myself to be charmed, Molly warned herself sternly. And of course, it was even more potent because Houston was not trying to charm anyone, slipping into this role as naturally and unselfconsciously as if he’d been born to play it.
But damn it, who wouldn’t be charmed, seeing that self-assured man give himself over to those children?
I could love him. Molly was stunned as the renegade thought blasted through her brain.
Stop it, she ordered herself. She was here to achieve a goal.
She wanted him to acknowledge there was the potential for joy anywhere, in any circumstance at all. Bringing that shining moment to people who had had too few of them was the soul of Second Chances. It was what they did so well.
But all of that, all her motives, were fading so quickly as she continued to see something about Houston Whitford that made her feel weak with longing.
He couldn’t
