| |
Ben’s alarm on his phone went off early. Neither of them wanted to move.
“I have to open up the café,” he groaned.
“Go,” she pushed him away, but only because she knew he had to. And because she wanted the rest of the blankets.
“I know there’s no lake, but will you stay here? You can take an ice bath if you need a substitute.”
“Ha ha, funny man.” Casey grabbed the comforters from him when he stood. “Ah, now it’s my turn for revenge.” She grinned as she watched him pad across to the floor.
“Don’t look at me!” he exclaimed and she burst out laughing.
“I’m sure everyone tells you what a great ass you have, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut and admire with my eyes.”
“A great ass? Mmm, tell me more!” He retraced his steps and slid on top of her, pinning her under the comforter as he kissed her again.
“Don’t you have a business to run? They’re going to be banging on the doors demanding their galettes, and you’re going to be up here mooning about! I don’t want any of them to know that the good stuff is up here and not down there.”
He reluctantly slid off her, planting kisses on her lips, her chin, her breasts.
“You seem to think I’ve had legions of women throwing themselves at me and my behind,” he said. “But I’ll have you know that not everyone has found me as irresistible as you seem to.”
“Impossible.” Casey shook her head.
“Well, then how about I have found them much easier to resist than it’s been to resist you.”
“Also lies, but lies that I like. Now go!”
He grinned and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon Casey heard the sounds of running water. But the thought of him standing there naked and soapy was too much to keep her lingering in bed, no matter how comfortable she was. Bracing the cool wood floor, she tore across the room to join him in the steaming shower. He could be five minutes late to open up downstairs.
Maybe ten.
Maybe fifteen.
* * * * *
SHE STAYED AND CLEANED the dishes from last night while he scampered down the stairs, his shoes still untied and his hair a mess. She bit her lip, wondering whether anyone would notice that her car was out front but she wasn’t in sight. Somehow though it was hard to care what anyone might say. The burnt down stubs of candle wax filled her with giddiness, a reminder of the long, beautiful night.
But it was more than how good the sex was. There was something deeper—she felt it. This time she knew neither of them would be running away.
She was wiping her hands down her jeans after washing the pot and heading over to throw the comforters into their heap when she stopped to crane her neck sideways and look at the books Ben had piled up horizontally on the floor. As soon as she saw it, she was surprised she hadn’t noticed it already—as if somehow it should have immediately leapt out at her, some beacon from her former life announcing itself for the whole world to see.
But it was only because she was scanning the titles, a mix of undergrad philosophy textbooks, contemporary fiction and cookbooks at the bottom, that she noticed the bright-orange spine. Nicholas St. Clair. It looked like a stranger’s name, lined up there on its side. Like any other author on the pile.
Carefully she wedged the book out of the tower and held it in her hands. As if instinctively her fingers leafed through, past Ben’s bookmark that hadn’t moved, until she hit the final pages and the acknowledgments that had so floored her that first time. She read the words again. His praise for his agent, his editor, his parents, his readers, with no mention of the one person who had read his drafts and carried him so much of the way.
Again her eyes lingered on the last line. Above all... to Aubrey... my muse.
She braced herself for the punch to hit. The shock, the revulsion. The ache in the pit of her stomach that she’d once felt upon reading those words.
She waited, searching for something. Anything. But it was like reading the words of a stranger, a message sent across time and space to someone she’d never met. Both these personas, Nicholas St. Clair and his muse Aubrey Peterson, seemed as fictitious as the characters on the page.
All the orange cover really reminded her of now was the first time she had met Ben. And that was a memory that only made her smile.
She closed the book, turning it over in her hands and then carefully put it back in the pile where she’d found it. It was strange the way time worked. When she first drove north up 87 and followed the signs to Bonnet, she never could have anticipated a time when reading Nick’s words wouldn’t cause her tears. She never would have believed that she’d read his public declaration of love to another woman with little more than a passing shrug.
She’d hardly known Ben when he first handed her the book. She’d had no idea how her feelings for him would develop. No idea he would be the one.
But now she was sure of it. No matter where they lived, or what they did, or what unforeseen things brought them together or pulled them apart, he was, above all, the one she wanted. She only hoped that she could be the same for him.
She slid on her shoes, stepped outside and padded down the wooden stairs. She walked into the café, hearing the pleasant jingle announce her presence, and saw Ben look up from the back of the kitchen, up to his elbows in flour again, his sleeves rolled up and his face flushed from the heat of the ovens. He gestured for the woman working the register to come over and whispered to her, pointing at Casey. She nodded and poured a large cup of steaming hot coffee.
“I’m Anna,” she said with a smile. “I moved up from Syracuse a few months ago. Ben said to be sure to meet you.”
Casey introduced herself, trying not to shoot too many glances over at Ben while he was working.
“Coffee’s on the house,” Anna said. “Also Ben says you should help yourself to whatever you want. I definitely recommend the spinach and tomato omelet with goat cheese, if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds irresistible, I’ll take it,” Casey said with a smile toward Ben, who had gone back to folding pastries, the flush in his face now from more than just the warmth.
Casey perched at one of the stools by the window and read the paper, watching the Sunday breakfast crowd come and go. It would be quiet over at the campsite, but as the morning wore on she figured she should swing back to the grounds and check on everything there. She stuffed a generous tip in the jar by the register and said goodbye to Anna, promising she’d see her again soon.
When she stopped back upstairs, she rooted around for a pen and paper to leave Ben a note. Finding nothing, she spilled a pile of flour over the counter top.
But then she didn’t know what to say. Call me was too trite, even though she hoped that he would. XO also didn’t capture what she meant.
She knew then that she didn’t really have to say anything. If Ben had looked up at her once while she sat in the café, he would have known what her smile said. There could be no question what she wanted from him. She no longer had any doubt that he wanted it too.
She traced her fingers in the flour and then wiped her hand on her jeans. On the drive over to Paper Lake, she imagined him coming up the stairs when he was done, or in the middle of the shift, wondering whether she was still there. He would poke his head into the apartment, calling her name. He’d see the dishes put away and smile at the candles left all over the floor, reminding him of their night.
Then he’d walk into the kitchen and see the mound of flour. He’d wonder what had spilled, until he looked closer. That’s when he’d notice the drawing in the center—a crescent shaped like a croissant, thick around the top and thin around the bottom where the arms met. He would smile to himself. Amandine.