traumatic.”
“I see.” I’m starting to understand now. I’m also starting to understand why it was so hard for him to come to me, the awkwardness in his approach. Without even trying, I apparently did what nobody else has been able to do. “You wanted to know what she said to me.”
“That’s right, Ms. O’Neill.”
“Rebecca.”
I see him studying my scars: it’s in the slight, unobtrusive way the eyes shift sideways, then dart back again. I see it every day, especially around here. Nobody has the courage to ask, yet they all wonder what happened to leave me looking this way.
Michael rises unexpectedly to his feet, sliding his baseball cap onto his head decisively. “Want to go grab some coffee?”
“Now?”
“I’m going over to Borders on La Cienega. We can get some there.” Again the winning smile, accented by a single dimple that I hadn’t noticed before, and I completely cave. He’s got me in the palm of his hand already, damn it. I can’t believe that he’s seen the visible scars, but he’s just asked me out anyway.
“I’ll follow you there.”
The trouble is, if I’m not careful, I know I just might follow him anywhere. Oh, please, please, don’t be married, Michael Warner.
***
"Heard this one's interesting." From the shelf, he removes a face-out copy of Julian Kingsley's recent novel Beautiful, But Me . What editorial genius thought that title was a good idea?
“I don’t care for the guy.”
He turns to me in clear surprise. “You know him?”
“Well.” I sigh, taking the book out of his hand, studying the expensively designed dust jacket, inlaid with gold foil. “Let’s just say he broke my best friend’s heart.”
“Guess she hates him, huh?”
“Actually, he doesn’t.” I flip over the book to reveal Julian’s disgustingly perfect author photo on the back of the cover. Another good reason to loathe him: no man should be so absolutely gorgeous. Who knows? Maybe this latest title’s directed to the world at large as a form of honest apology.
“Oooh, he does look like a heartbreaker.” He gives a strange kind of laugh that I don’t quite know how to read. I think of Trevor’s first assessment of Michael, that he was gay. Because I can’t imagine that most straight guys would describe Julian as a “heartbreaker”.
Once again, I cast a covert glance at his ring finger, curious. Only this time I don’t like what I see—a silver band glinting beneath the streamlined bookstore lights. “Would your wife think so, too?”
“I’m sorry?” The bushy dark eyebrows draw together in genuine confusion.
“Your wife,” I repeat firmly, this time gesturing toward his hand. “You are married, right?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. No guy’s going to play me, no sir. “You’ve got a wedding band on, after all.”
He stares down at his hand, extending his fingers as if he’s never noticed the ring before, and I’m cool as possible, proud of myself for having been a smart girl, until he answers softly, “Uh, widowed. Actually.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed and sad all at once. Sad because of the dark pain that fills his eyes. It’s so obvious, only a fool could miss it.
“No, I’m glad you asked.” He picks up another copy of Julian’s book absently. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was playing around or anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“’Cause I’m not that kind of guy,” he presses, offering me a gentle smile. The thing is, I don’t know precisely what kind of guy he is. A melancholy one. A beautiful one. My kind of guy… maybe. With that quiet realization, I give my ponytail an anxious tug as he leans close, lowering his voice. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing, Rebecca O’Neill.”
“Me?”
He gestures toward the floor, at my sandal-clad feet. “You’re clearly off the market.” I stare down, confused, until I realize he’s pointing at my silver toe ring, a
“I see.” I’m starting to understand now. I’m also starting to understand why it was so hard for him to come to me, the awkwardness in his approach. Without even trying, I apparently did what nobody else has been able to do. “You wanted to know what she said to me.”
“That’s right, Ms. O’Neill.”
“Rebecca.”
I see him studying my scars: it’s in the slight, unobtrusive way the eyes shift sideways, then dart back again. I see it every day, especially around here. Nobody has the courage to ask, yet they all wonder what happened to leave me looking this way.
Michael rises unexpectedly to his feet, sliding his baseball cap onto his head decisively. “Want to go grab some coffee?”
“Now?”
“I’m going over to Borders on La Cienega. We can get some there.” Again the winning smile, accented by a single dimple that I hadn’t noticed before, and I completely cave. He’s got me in the palm of his hand already, damn it. I can’t believe that he’s seen the visible scars, but he’s just asked me out anyway.
“I’ll follow you there.”
The trouble is, if I’m not careful, I know I just might follow him anywhere. Oh, please, please, don’t be married, Michael Warner.
***
"Heard this one's interesting." From the shelf, he removes a face-out copy of Julian Kingsley's recent novel Beautiful, But Me . What editorial genius thought that title was a good idea?
“I don’t care for the guy.”
He turns to me in clear surprise. “You know him?”
“Well.” I sigh, taking the book out of his hand, studying the expensively designed dust jacket, inlaid with gold foil. “Let’s just say he broke my best friend’s heart.”
“Guess she hates him, huh?”
“Actually, he doesn’t.” I flip over the book to reveal Julian’s disgustingly perfect author photo on the back of the cover. Another good reason to loathe him: no man should be so absolutely gorgeous. Who knows? Maybe this latest title’s directed to the world at large as a form of honest apology.
“Oooh, he does look like a heartbreaker.” He gives a strange kind of laugh that I don’t quite know how to read. I think of Trevor’s first assessment of Michael, that he was gay. Because I can’t imagine that most straight guys would describe Julian as a “heartbreaker”.
Once again, I cast a covert glance at his ring finger, curious. Only this time I don’t like what I see—a silver band glinting beneath the streamlined bookstore lights. “Would your wife think so, too?”
“I’m sorry?” The bushy dark eyebrows draw together in genuine confusion.
“Your wife,” I repeat firmly, this time gesturing toward his hand. “You are married, right?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. No guy’s going to play me, no sir. “You’ve got a wedding band on, after all.”
He stares down at his hand, extending his fingers as if he’s never noticed the ring before, and I’m cool as possible, proud of myself for having been a smart girl, until he answers softly, “Uh, widowed. Actually.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed and sad all at once. Sad because of the dark pain that fills his eyes. It’s so obvious, only a fool could miss it.
“No, I’m glad you asked.” He picks up another copy of Julian’s book absently. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was playing around or anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“’Cause I’m not that kind of guy,” he presses, offering me a gentle smile. The thing is, I don’t know precisely what kind of guy he is. A melancholy one. A beautiful one. My kind of guy… maybe. With that quiet realization, I give my ponytail an anxious tug as he leans close, lowering his voice. “But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing, Rebecca O’Neill.”
“Me?”
He gestures toward the floor, at my sandal-clad feet. “You’re clearly off the market.” I stare down, confused, until I realize he’s pointing at my silver toe ring, a
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