was a loud clatter as Simon’s glass spilled onto his plate.
CHAPTER TWO
“SIMON! WHAT HAPPENED? Are you all right?” The words rushed out of Delilah’s mouth in one giant sentence. At the same time Simon pushed away from the table. The glass lay on its side on top of his risotto, what was left of the contents pooling onto his plate.
She reached out to touch his arm only to have him wave her off along with the waitress hurrying toward their table. “No harm done.”
“Except to your food,” Josh said.
“Serves me right for being such a klutz. Besides, the spill will keep me from overindulging.”
“Wish a little spill would keep me from overindulging. I’d just treat it like wine sauce.”
“Which is why the two of us are built like beer kegs, and he’s not,” Jim joked.
All three men chuckled and conversation shifted to new topics. Delilah did her best to join in, but she couldn’t focus. Her brain was too busy replaying what happened. Not so much the spill, but Simon’s expression. She wasn’t sure if the others noticed, but he’d turned white as a sheet. Like he’d seen a ghost. Even now, while he was acting unruffled by the whole event, his complexion remained ashen. She wanted to ask him if he was ill, but didn’t want to make a bigger deal out of the moment now that it had passed.
Still, her concern lingered. After four years of watching Simon interact with clients, she knew the difference between a full-on Cartwright charm offensive and simply going through the motions. Simon might be charming the Bartletts, but she could tell that the special Simon spark had disappeared.
It was his eyes. Normally they reminded her of the prairie sky on a summer’s day, bluer than blue. But now the color had dulled, as though a cloud had blown in.
Fortunately, the mishap occurred near the end the meal, and an hour later, the quartet was back on the sidewalk where they began, saying goodbye and making arrangements for the next day’s brewery tour. A hearty, two-handed shake accompanied Jim Bartlett’s farewell too, she noted, meaning they either didn’t notice the subtle change in Simon’s demeanor or that it didn’t matter. In fact, watching the enthusiastic exchange, she wondered if perhaps she’d let her imagination blow the whole incident out of control. No sooner did the Bartletts head up the sidewalk however, than the smile faded from Simon’s face killing her theory. Wordlessly, he opened the door to their town car and waited.
She slid into the backseat, taking pains to move as far to the opposite door as possible. Although he never said anything aloud, based on how he hated being approached unaware, she assumed he preferred a lot of personal space as well, and since he never bothered to correct her behavior...well, she kept up the practice.
A flash of movement caught her eye. Yet again, he was rubbing his neck. After biting her tongue all dinner, she had to ask. “How’s your head?”
“Hurts.”
That answered that question. “Would you like those aspirin now?”
“What I could use is a drink.”
“Really?”
He turned toward her, his expression hidden by shadows. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. Last time I checked, alcohol wasn’t the best cure for a headache.”
“No, but it sure as hell cures other things.”
Like what? Whatever it was that spooked him in the restaurant? She wished she had the nerve to ask. Even more so the nerve to erase the gap between them and let him know she was there for him. In the dimness, everything seemed more acute. The sound of his breath exhaling long and slow, the rustle of fabric as he sought to find a comfortable position. Tension radiated from his body. She longed to reach across the seat to rest her hand on his arm to soothe him.
She could only imagine how well that gesture would go over. So instead, she did nothing.
* * *
When they reached their harborside hotel, Delilah assumed they would check in and go their separate ways. It surprised her then when Simon grabbed her wrist to stop her from heading to the elevator.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.
For the second time in less than a day, Delilah imitated a fish. “You want my company?”
“Do you mind? I’m not in the mood for drinking alone tonight.”
His smile was almost sheepish, so boyishly winsome, her insides turned soft and warm. How could she say no?
Ten minutes later, she sat in a bamboo fan chair waiting on a glass of white wine. Being close to the water must have inspired the hotel decorator to try a Caribbean theme. With its potted palms and soft calypso music, the verandah bar resembled a tropical hideaway. A New England version anyway. Paper lanterns strung on wires swayed in the ocean breeze. Being a Thursday night, the room was only partially full, mostly small groups of professionals visiting the city on business. She and Simon were the only couple in the crowd.
Only they weren’t a couple, she reminded herself. Just employer and employee sitting in a romantic moonlit setting.
She searched around, looking for a distraction. To her left, Boston Harbor stretched black, red and green lights guiding boats to the Atlantic. More lights dotted the horizon, the runway markers for Boston’s airport. Delilah watched as a line of planes made their way to their descent. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waiter return.
Simon slid her wine across the table toward her, then raised his whiskey in the air. The gesture forced her attention back to him. Not that she needed much force, seeing how she hadn’t completely stopped paying attention.
“To getting through dinner,” he said.
Delilah frowned at his choice of words. “Wouldn’t we be better off toasting to success?”
“That depends on your definition of success.”
“You don’t think tonight went well?”
“Are you talking about before or after I dumped cabernet all over my tenderloin?” He took a long, healthy drink before speaking again. “I think we can both agree, I’ve had better performances.”
“It wasn’t that bad. You recovered nicely,” she added, when Simon arched his eyebrow.
“The idea is to not have to recover at all. Not with an account this size.”
“Jim Bartlett didn’t appear too concerned.”
Holding his tumbler by its base, he studied the contents of his half-full glass. “Didn’t your mother tell you appearances can be deceiving?”
Her mother had been too consumed by grief to teach her much of anything. “So, what do we do?”
“Nothing.” He set the glass down with a resounding thunk. “What’s done is done. We start over better and stronger in the morning.”
“Well
