Chapter 15
Meri awoke to the smell of bacon frying and a strong hand holding out a tall mug of sweet-smelling coffee.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
“Mmmmmm,” she murmured, stretching. Mark waited patiently for her to sit up and take the drink. She drew the sheet up over her chest, took the mug in both hands, and sniffed. Vanilla. She blinked him into focus. He was already neatly dressed. “How’d you know?” She smiled, still groggy.
“That’s what you ordered at the diner. Lucky for you, I happen to own an espresso maker.”
Had that been only two days ago? And what was that peaceful, easy feeling inside? Was this what happiness felt like? The vivid details of last evening came flooding back to her. But later, all they’d done in his bed was sleep. Now she felt deliciously rested. Ready for round two. Or would it count as three, or maybe four?
Suddenly aware that Mark seemed to be waiting for her to taste his concoction, she took a careful sip of decadent creaminess. That couldn’t be skim milk in there. Guilt, her constant companion, reared up. “I said I’d help you clean up last night.”
“If you insist, I can leave you the breakfast dishes.” He reached out to finger the hot-pink streak in her hair, making her insides tug with something wilder, something stronger than simple contentment.
She set her mug on the bedside table, rose onto her knees, letting the sheet drop to the bed, and glided her arms around his neck, luxuriating in the feel of her bare breasts pressed against his fresh-smelling, button-down shirt. But after a disappointingly brief hug, Mark slid his hands from across her back onto her upper arms, gently pushing her away.
Confused, she leaned in again, but he held her at a distance.
“Meri . . .” His yearning gaze dipped to travel the length of her nakedness, only to reluctantly tear itself back to focus on her face.
“Something wrong?” She feigned innocence.
He arched his brow ceiling-high and cleared his throat. “Er, no. Believe me. Nothing’s wrong at all. Everything”—he did another quick body scan—“and I mean everything—is in exactly the right place. I just—I don’t know how to say this. About last night. That’s not me . . . throwing myself at you, only knowing you since, what—Tuesday? That’s not how I roll.”
Him, throwing himself at her? Had they been in the same atelier last night—the same car?
“I want us to start over. Do this right.”
He’d done everything perfectly right, as far as she was concerned.
He pulled the sheet up over her breasts. “I’ve got a full day planned.”
Of course. She knew the drill. They’d slept together. He’d got what he wanted. Now he was kicking her out—in the nicest way possible.
“No offense taken. I should get going anyway.” Besides, she had a collection to finish, orders to fill. She threw her legs over the side of the bed.
“You misunderstood,” he said. “What I meant was, I have more respect for you than that. Not to mention, you just made a big sale to a major retailer.”
She frowned, still confused.
“I took a personal day so that I can take you out to celebrate.”
Her head tilted, her eyes widened, and a smile bloomed on her lips.
“How’s that sound?”
She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “That’s just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He smiled in an aw, shucks way, keeping his safe distance. “Anyway. There’s stuff on the stove. It’s ready whenever you are. I’ll leave so you can dress.”
Meri watched his excellent butt as he crossed the floor of the bedroom, watched his masculine hand pull the door closed for her modesty.
Can there possibly exist a man more precious than Mark Newman?
When she carried her mug out to the kitchen wearing her flats and jeans, he stopped short, eyeing her from the waist down. “What the—where’d you get those?” he exclaimed. He lit up, remembering. “That bag. Do you live out of that thing?”
“Practically. I didn’t have an extra top in it, though.”
“No problemo, señorita,” he said, bringing two plates of huevos rancheros to the table. “We’re going down to Union Square. You can buy a shirt there.”
“We are? I can?”
He slid into his chair, twisted open a jar of salsa, and launched into his plans with schoolboy enthusiasm. “There’s a guided tour at the Museum of Craft and Design. You been there? Or, if you’d rather, we can check out the architecture and design show at the MOMA. It’s supposed to be great. Then we’ll hit the Pan Grill for lunch. Their Asian fusion is the best in the city. . . .”
She giggled between sips of coffee. “How can you be thinking about lunch when we’re still eating breakfast?”
And how was it that he didn’t have an ounce of fat on his angular frame? She examined him from across the table in the morning-bright, if small-scale kitchen.
Mark Newman was a sweetheart. His looks, his manners, his insistence on what he’d called “starting over.” A good cook, too, but her appetite ran to different things. As he rambled on about his plans, she slinked out of her seat and over to his side of the table, where she surprised him by lowering herself sideways onto his lap. She took his fork from his hand, placed it neatly across his plate, and kissed his mouth, loving the feel of his arms going around her in an automatic male response, his hands warm on her back.
But he denied her again. “You are delicious. But we have an agenda.” He glanced at the time.
That can’t be a real Patek Philippe. Not on a buyer’s salary. The only other time she’d seen a real Philippe was on Papa’s wrist. Watches didn’t come any better. For a second, it even took her mind off being rejected twice in one morning.
“The tour starts in less than an hour. I really want to go to it with someone who’ll appreciate it.”
Chagrinned, she returned to her seat, picked up her fork, and took a bite of piquant savoriness. These were pretty decent huevos rancheros. Maybe she was hungry, after all.
By the time the sun was sinking into the Pacific, Meri and Mark had indulged in an entire day feasting their eyes on fabulous art and their palates on mouth-watering food. Mark seemed to know every restaurant in San Francisco. Not just the obvious, upscale places, but even the unmarked doorways that opened to tiny residential dining rooms where you could get salmon ravioli made by an old lady who only spoke Italian.
After the craft museum, they’d taken their Smashed Tsukune sandwiches from the Pan Grill to a bench at Pier 33 to chow down among the tourists, and then gone on to the MOMA, swapping opinions on everything from Eames chairs to a Hsin Ming Fung print. Ironically, it was the sort of day she’d never had during art school. What kind of man had serious discussions about the elements and principles of design and kept a running journal of his dining experiences? It was completely out of her realm of experience.
At least art kept them from talking about business. Now they were lounging on the grass outside of the Conservatory of Flowers, and Mark was offering her a lick of the tobacco-flavored ice cream cone he’d bought at DeLise.
She sniffed and turned up her nose. “Uh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I already took a chance on this maple orange, when you know I’m a plain vanilla girl.”
He laughed and took a big bite out of his cone. “You’re anything but plain. Besides, haven’t you heard?” he announced, smacking his lips. “Aromatic tobacco is the new vanilla.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” she laughed. “And don’t think you’re going to be kissing me with that stuff on your breath.” Maybe if she dared him to, he actually would kiss her. She’d been aching for his mouth on hers all day long.
“If you say so.”
But halfway through his cone, he paused to sling his arm around her neck. “Not that I don’t want to kiss you.” Pulling her close, he bored into her eyes with his, then lowered his tantalizing gaze to her lips before raising it again. He nuzzled the tip of her nose with his. “But I don’t want you thinking that’s all I care about. My goal for today was to prove to you that we can have a good time together without—you know. How am I doing?”
She gazed up at him. “If you ask me, you’re a bit of an overachiever.”
He brought his wrist close to her cheek to glance at his watch, and she wondered again. His small house on Russian Hill, while tasteful, wasn’t at all what she’d call “done.” No professional decorator had been paid to pair the crackled brown leather couch with the dove-colored suede accent chairs and gray carpeting. Good taste didn’t necessarily imply money, only discernment.
Despite that, her curiosity got the best of her.
“Nice watch.”
He stilled against her side. “From my granddad.”
That was strange. They were seated facing the same direction, gazing toward the Conservatory. He couldn’t read her confusion.
Both of them knew jewelry—their relationship, such as it was, was based on it—but he didn’t offer her a better look at the watch or elaborate on his terse accounting for it. There could be only one explanation. It was a fake, and he was embarrassed. He knew she’d recognize it if he gave her a closer look.
Did he think she was that pretentious? The impressive view of the glass and iron Conservatory blurred as the realization hit her: of course he did. She was both über-privileged and arts-educated. Why wouldn’t he think she would judge? Why wouldn’t anyone?
She felt suddenly self-conscious—and guilty—again.
“What do you want to do next?” he asked, popping the last of his cone into his mouth.
She pretended to consider her options. But she knew it was time to go.
“I should get going. You have to run me back up to Vallejo to get your car, and then you’ll have the drive back. And I have to work extra hard tomorrow. Can’t afford another day off.” She smiled ruefully.
“You sure? There’s this Polish deli over on Balboa—”
“Stop!” Her hand flew up. “No more food, or I’ll burst!”
He hopped up lightly, then reached down to assist her.
“Do you eat like this all the time?” she asked, brushing grass off the back of her jeans.
“Only on the weekends. This time of year I do a lot of grilling and tailgating. There’s a ’Niners game Sunday. Want to go?”
She hesitated. “I’ve never been to a football game.”
“They have a brand-new stadium. Bonus: you’ll get to meet my friends.”
An all-American football game, complete with tailgating. Her former classmates at Gates would think it hopelessly hokey. But to Meri it sounded different and exotic. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like more.