grinned; the hostess scowled.
“You don’t appreciate romance,” she scolded Rachel.
“I do appreciate romance,” his dinner companion insisted. “I’ve even done bouquets with engagement rings tied to the ribbon. But I think that words spoken from the heart make a more memorable proposal than the staged presentation of a ring.”
“What about a ‘will you marry me?’ spelled out on the big screen at a sporting event?” Andrew asked.
Rachel opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut again and eyed him warily. “Is that how you proposed?”
He chuckled. “No.”
“Should we make a wager on what her response will be?” Andrew asked, as Gemma left the kitchen with the dessert.
Rachel shook her head. “I might not be a fan of public proposals, but I hope she accepts. He obviously put a lot of thought into his plans tonight, bringing her back to the restaurant where they first met, remembering the dessert she had on that first date.
“And I don’t think he’d pop the question in this kind of venue if he wasn’t sure of the answer,” she noted, before asking him, “How did you propose?”
“Oh.” He pushed his now-empty bowl aside. “It wasn’t very well planned out at all.”
Her lips curved, making him suspect that the tips of his ears had gone red as they sometimes did when he was embarrassed.
“Impulsive...and in bed,” she guessed.
Since he couldn’t deny it, he only said, “She said yes.”
Her smile widened, and he couldn’t help noticing the way it lit up her whole face. She was an attractive woman—he could acknowledge that fact without being attracted to her. But looking at her now, he felt the stirring of something low in his belly that he suspected might be attraction.
“Did you at least have a ring?” Rachel asked, as she dipped her fork into the slice of chocolate-raspberry cake that had been set in front of her.
“No. We went to get one the next day.” He realized, as he shared the details with Rachel, that it no longer hurt so much to remember the special moments he and Nina had spent together. He’d grieved for his wife for a long time after her quick and unexpected death, but he’d finally accepted that she was gone—that it was time to move on with his life without her.
“I hate being alone on Valentine’s Day,” Rachel admitted. “But it must be even harder for you—to have found the one person you expected to share your life with, and then lose her.”
He shrugged. “Being alone on Valentine’s Day isn’t really any different from the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”
She considered this as she took another sip of her wine, then shook her head. “Logically, I know that’s true. And I’m generally satisfied with my own company. But somehow, on February 14, being single is suddenly spelled A-L-O-N-E, all in capital letters.
“I blame the greeting card companies,” she continued. “And the jewelers and chocolate shops—”
“And the florists,” he interjected dryly.
She smiled again. “I’m well aware of the hypocrisy. I’m also grateful that the shop keeps me busy so I don’t have a lot of time to think about it. But when I lock the door behind the last customer, there’s a strange sense of emptiness.” She shook her head, as if to shake off the negative thought. “And I just filled that emptiness with too much pasta and bread.”
“So let’s do something,” Andrew suggested impulsively.
She blinked. “What?”
“That was the advice my mother always gave me,” he told her. “Don’t stew, do.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“Are you up for it?” he challenged.
She eyed him with a combination of curiosity and wariness. “I guess that depends on what ‘it’ is.”
He just smiled and called for the check.
* * *
Rachel wasn’t in the habit of getting into a car with a man she barely knew, especially not heading off to a destination unknown. But Andrew insisted that he wanted to surprise her, and she figured she was safe with him because Gemma and Tony knew him and they knew she was leaving the restaurant with him.
A development that had Gemma’s brows rising in silent question when she told her of the plan. Rachel had answered with a shake of her head, warning her friend not to make a big deal out of something that wasn’t. She only hoped that she could follow the same advice.
But as he drove toward Ridgemount, she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Andrew Garrett—aka Sexy White Roses Guy—was no longer married. And while she understood that his legal status had changed, the fact that he continued to wear his wedding band on his finger confirmed he was still emotionally unavailable.
And that was okay, because she wasn’t looking for a relationship. She had no intention of ending her sixteen-month dating hiatus simply because she was in the company of a really hot guy who made her heart pound and her blood hum.
Because somewhere along the line—no doubt when her heart was still bruised over her breakup with Eric—she’d developed a bit of a crush on Andrew Garrett. Her feelings had been fueled, at least in part, by his obvious love for and commitment to his wife. Every time he’d come into the shop, she’d looked at him as proof that there really were good guys in the world. And because she’d believed he was married, she’d been confident that the attraction she felt would never be anything more than an innocent infatuation.
Now that she knew he was widowed, she was afraid that crush might develop into something more. She wasn’t looking for anything more, and yet she’d accepted his cryptic challenge. After a brief tussle over the bill—which Gemma settled by refusing to take money from either one of them—she’d chosen to spend time with him rather than go home alone. And after a ten-hour day that left her mentally and physically exhausted, she was a little worried about what that meant.
“Here we are,” he said.
Rachel stared at the blinking neon that spelled out Ridgemount Lanes with two crossed pins and a ball between the words.
Apparently “it” was bowling.
He pulled into a parking space and unfastened his seat belt. She didn’t move.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she told him.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t remember the last time I was bowling.” She considered for a minute, her brow furrowed. “Actually, I think it might have been way back in high school.”
“How far back is ‘way back’?”
“I graduated ten years ago.”
“Which
