The following morning, Jonathan sat on the edge of his sectional, cell phone in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. “How’s things going?”
“Good,” Gib said, the muted sounds of an active kitchen in the background. “They’re setting up their stations. I’m going to stand in the pass and call out orders, like a real dinner service.”
He smiled to himself. He’d done the same thing at Quartet whenever there’d been a menu change. “Sounds like you’ve got it all in hand.”
“That I do. Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got this.”
Once again, he was grateful Gib accepted his offer to come to Sedici. Having faith in her had made it easier for him to take her up on her offer when he’d realized how much Leighton needed him.
“You’ve really stepped up, Gib, and on short notice. I appreciate it.”
“That’s my job, Chef.”
“I’ll be in tomorrow and I’ll expect you to give me your impressions of the staff and how close they are to being ready to open.”
He disconnected the call and took another gulp of coffee. He didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d suggested a quiet day at home watching movies, but he knew he needed to take a step back from what he’d done the night before. Being with her had been more intimate than any of his previous sexual encounters. Which was a huge ass problem. He shouldn’t have touched her, shouldn’t have tasted her. But once he had, he’d been a goner.
He’d planned the movie marathon because that’s what he should’ve done in the first place. He should’ve spend time helping her adjust to being out of the hospital instead of rushing out of the house like a bat out of hell because her nearness had turned him on. It may have taken him a while, but he eventually allowed the correct head to do his thinking. And he was glad he did. He’d had a hell of a good time. She fascinated him and the day had only increased his affection for her. He loved that they had the same taste in movies. He loved that she was a hoophead like him. He loved how much she loved food. He could’ve spent another day doing the exact same thing, and he would’ve, except her fear concerned him.
After this weekend, he couldn’t afford to take any more days away from Sedici, at least not before it opened.
Leighton had an appointment with Dr. Faber on Tuesday to check in and Jonathan was going to encourage her to talk to the doctor about her fears. Her concerns were valid; DC was a big city and it could be a scary place, especially when you didn’t know what to expect around any corner. He’d planned an outing that might help.
Any hope he had that Thomas would come back and take responsibility for her and his part in this situation had been frustrated by his brother’s neglect. While Jonathan hadn’t agreed with Thomas’s decision to stay in London, there’d appeared to be some measure of common sense behind it. But it’d been a week with almost daily calls and texts from Jonathan and nothing. It was clear Thomas didn’t give a fuck about his fiancée and that notion made Jonathan want to beat his brother’s ass.
Leighton came bounding down the stairs, a walking ad for summers spent boating on the lake, in a navy and white striped dress that flared from her waist and ended just above her knee.
“Don’t I wear jeans or shorts?” she asked, standing with both arms bent at the elbow, her palms facing up.
He’d wondered the same thing. When packing clothes for her, the only casual attire he’d seen had been yoga clothes, nightgowns and her bra and panties—not that he’d rifled through her underwear, but he knew she’d need some and then he’d gone through them and when all he’d seen had been lacy and satiny bits of scraps—
Desire settled hot, thick and low in his belly.
Crap.
He seemed to be in a constant state of arousal around her. It’d been bad enough when he’d just kissed her. But now that he knew what she looked like when she came on his fingers . . .
He stood and placed his cup on the mantel. “I’ve never seen you in either, but then you were always—”
She jammed her hands on her hips. “If you say ‘busy with my career,’ I’m going to punch you in the throat.”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “Wow. Violent much?”
“No.” Her displeasure deflated, she let her lashes fall. “It’s just the more I hear about Leighton one point oh—”
“Leighton one point oh?”
“That’s what I call her, or rather, me before the accident. It’s how I keep us straight. Anyway, the more I hear about her, the more she doesn’t sound anything like me.”
“I can see how that would alarm you,” he said softly.
She rubbed her forearms as if cold. Improbable in the heat and humidity of a late summer DC morning. “How do you feel about that?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You asked Leighton one point oh to marry you. Are you regretting that decision? I may never get my memories back. Maybe Leighton two point oh isn’t what you signed up for?”
“And Leighton two point oh would be . . .”
“Me.” She pulled an invisible thread from her dress, refusing to look at him. “Without my memories.”
His heart constricted. He closed the distance between them and with his two fingers, tilted her chin up. “With or without your memories, you’re still the most captivating woman I’ve ever met. That hasn’t changed.”
Her expression softened and his gaze fell to her parted lips. Lord, give him strength!
He stepped back and grabbed his keys. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. I’m so excited.” She bounced from one white canvas shod foot to the other, those being the only non-dress or business shoes in her closet. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Thirty minutes later they stood in front of the iconic red brick building, bordered by white tents and rows of vendors.
“I love the Eastern Market. Is that something we do every weekend?”
He stared down at her, captivated by the excitement that shone on her features.
“Not as often as I’d like,” he said, smoothing away a stray hair that brushed against her cheek.
Her answering smile warmed him. Intellectually, he knew he should be working at the restaurant, but nothing waiting there could eclipse his anticipation at spending another day with Leighton and seeing one of his favorite places through her eyes.
He placed a hand on the small of Leighton’s back and guided her toward the Farmer’s Line, where local farmers boasted some of the freshest produce available in the tri-state area.
“I want to check out what they have,” he said. “Maybe I’ll find something to inspire me for dinner tonight.”
Strolling down the line of stalls, they paused to sample the abundant fruits and vegetables on display. Jonathan made a mental note of a couple of places to revisit, but he was looking for a specific stand, one of his favorites.
When he spied the familiar white canopy with its blue border, he grinned. “Hey Bob, you bring me something good?”
“Chef J!” Bob’s weathered face creased into a smile. “I would’ve brought you something if I’d known you were going to be here. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
The older man ambled from behind his table on bowed legs encased in worn denim. Jonathan shook Bob’s outstretched hand, feeling years of strength, hard work and tenacity in the man’s big, calloused grip.
“I only show up when you have the good stuff. I can sense it.”
“You do have an uncanny knack for coming on the best weeks.” Bob’s faded brown eyes fastened on Leighton. “And speaking of good stuff . . . Are you going to introduce me to my next wife?”
Leighton laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
A dazed expression crossed Bob’s face.
Nice to know I’m not the only one stupefied by her presence.
“You’re already married and she’s already taken,” he said.
“By you?” Bob’s forehead rippled into mini hills and valleys and he shook his head. “Handsome, talented and with this beautiful woman? What magical moonshine are you drinking and where can I get a barrel full?”
“Stop flirting and let’s get down to business.” Jonathan rubbed his hands together. “What you got?”
Bob rounded his display. “Well, I got some nice blackberries, an assortment of cooking greens . . . Here, try some of this raw honey.”
Bob dipped two flatbread crackers into a clear, plastic sample cup containing a grayish-white liquid. He handed a wafer to each of them.
Leighton popped hers into her mouth and her eyes widened. “That’s really good. It’s not just sweet. There are layers of flavor.”
Jonathan rolled the rich, buttery texture against the roof of his mouth, activating his palate. “Floral with hints of lavender and a maple finish.”
Bob stroked his salt and pepper beard. “Sourwood honey. One of the best and rarest produced.”
Leighton pointed to the other samples. “May I?”
Bob handed her another cup. She dipped her pinkie into the nectar and stuck the digit in her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she pulled the ambrosia off her finger.
His throat forgot how to function as his mind began cutting and pasting what he saw with the image of her sticking something else in her mouth and sucking on it. When she withdrew her finger and dipped it in the cup again, attempting to repeat the process, he intercepted her and slid the finger in his mouth instead.
Her lips parted and reconfigured into an O. His tongue swirled around the elegant digit and while the exquisiteness of the honey couldn’t be denied, he much preferred the sweetness of her skin. While he suckled her finger, her gaze fell to his mouth, then lifted to clash with his. In their dark depths, he saw the ache of his own yearning reflected at him.
If they’d been home in that moment, he would’ve damned the consequences and continued what they’d started the night before.
“Do ya’ll need me to step away for a moment?” Bob’s dry humor broke the spell.
Leighton’s chin dipped down. She lowered her gaze and tugged to free her hand.
Jonathan let her go, but her taste lingered on his tongue. He cleared his throat and faced the farmer. “I’ll take a liter of the honey, but I know you’ve got something special you’re hiding down in that cooler.”
He kicked the hard-sided container peeking beneath the table cloth.
Bob pulled the white carton out and pried off the lid. “I got my hands on some Amish cheddar cheese and some of the best goat cheese you’ll ever try.”
Upon sampling the smooth, tangy dairy, he knew the other man was right. He didn’t utilize either of those cheeses at his restaurant, but he was eager to whip up something at home that would best highlight both flavors.
“I’ll take a wedge of both of those, too. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Chef J.” Bob set to work wrapping up his purchases. “Tell me, when does that fancy restaurant of yours open?”
“On the ninth.”
Leighton jerked her head around to gawk at him. “That soon?”
“Everything’s proceeding according to the schedule.” He winked at her then said to Bob, “Why don’t you and your wife stop by that night?”
Bob’s weathered cheeks reddened. “Oh, we couldn’t. You’ll need to entertain the city’s food critics and celebrities, not some country farmer.”
“Yes, but I also need to be surrounded by my friends.” Jonathan clasped Bob’s shoulder. “For once, don’t argue with me. I’m going to put your and Opal’s name on the list.”
Bob nodded and squeezed Jonathan’s arm, then glanced over at Leighton. “He’s a good man.”
She bit her lip and her eyes tightened at the corners. “So everyone keeps telling me.”
Jonathan took the shopping bag from Bob, and with one last wave, continued strolling down the row. Produce, herbs and breads were available and he added a few other items to his purchases, but Leighton was quiet, withdrawn. Maybe sucking the honey off her finger had been too much.
“Did you come here a lot when you were little?” he asked, curious and wanting to get her talking again.
“Yes, but it wasn’t always this big. My family moved to Paris for four years while my father was an ambassador there and when we came back, they’d expanded.”
Ah. “Tu parles francais?” he asked in French.
“Oui.” She stopped walking, heedless of the crowd that continued to surge around them like river water around a stone impediment, and tipped her head to the side. “Quand est-ce que tu as appris, too?”
“Je ne connais pas grand chose, surtout les termes de cuisine et de gastronomie.” He smiled and switched to Spanish. “Mi espanol es mucho mejor.”
She frowned and he rushed to translate and ease her confusion.
“I said ‘my Spanish is better than my French.’”
“Lo se,” she said in Spanish, a cocky smile teasing her lips, “estaba tratando de decidir si debo dejar que sigas creyendo eso o desafíes la afirmacion.”
Bullshit! His Spanish was excellent. Okay, hearing her accent, maybe he’d have to downgrade his own fluency and intonation to pretty good, but he wouldn’t admit that to her.
“How many languages do you speak?”
“As far as I know, only three. French, Spanish and Italian.”
All places he loved to visit. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
She bumped him with her hip. “Don’t tell me the amnesia is contagious? I almost burned your house down yesterday.”
He laughed and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”
Their fingers entwined and he brushed his thumb against her skin. She smiled at him and for the moment all was right with his world. Being at one of his favorite places with her filled him with joy. They continued, walking and holding hands as the produce, flowers and baked goods gave way to the artisan and craft section.
“Hold on.” Leighton’s face brightened when she spotted a stall featuring handmade leather jewelry.
Her fingers skimmed the goods and she asked questions, charming the seller and getting her business card with a promise to check out the woman’s website.
She didn’t purchase any of those items, but that didn’t prevent her from stopping to chat with another vendor, this one selling vibrantly colored hand poured candles.
For fuck’s sake, did she intend to stop and talk to every vendor there? He’d thought they were leaving. Now that he’d acquired what he’d needed, he was anxious to experiment with his purchases. He had some ideas about how he could utilize the goat cheese and the honey.
When she paused at another stand, he exhaled loudly. “Are you going to buy anything? At this rate, we’ll never make it home.”
She peered at him over her shoulder, a silver spherical sculpture in her hand. “I’m sorry, was there someplace else we needed to be?”
The soft volume of her question was his first clue that he’d made a mistake. “No.”
She replaced the sculpture and picked up a ceramic jar. “You just figured we were only here for the food vendors, since that’s what interested you?”
The back of his neck heated. That’s exactly what he’d assumed.
She rolled her eyes and held out a tall brown and amber vase. “What do you think of this?”
He shrugged. “It’s nice.”
“Do you think you’d get tired of looking at it?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m thinking it would look great in the entryway.”
“In my house?”
“Your house? Oh.” She lowered the vase. “So you are a control freak.”
Shit.
“I wasn’t too busy to decorate and it had nothing to do with our decision to live separate until after the wedding. You don’t want me to put stuff in your place. Why?”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he tell her it wasn’t what she thought? It was a vase. If they were in a real relationship and she wanted to buy it for their house, he wouldn’t object. That type of thing didn’t matter to him one way or another.
But they weren’t a real couple. Soon she’d go back to his brother and he’d be left looking at the stupid vase and remembering his time with her.
“I—I just don’t like it,” he finished weakly.
Leighton’s withdrawal was a tangible thing. She returned the vase to the vendor and muscles engaged in her face to raise the corners of her mouth, but no one who’d ever seen the original would call it a smile. Her expression lost its usual animation and leveled out to one devoid of emotion. It was the first time he’d seen Leighton one point oh—as she’d named herself—since she’d awakened in the hospital.
He watched her and the space around him grew bleak, as if clouds had engulfed the sun.
Fuck!
He’d upset her, the last thing he’d wanted to do. He strove to rectify his error.
“What about this one?” He lifted a beautiful, palm-sized sculpture of a surging wave, constructed with two different colors of wood. Easy to exhibit and easy to discard when she left. “We can put this on the fireplace mantel.”
She cocked her head to the side and arched a disbelieving brow. “It’s your house. If you like it, you should buy it.”
She maneuvered around him and proceeded on, her posture stiff, her movements spasmodic and lacking in their usual grace.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
He replaced the piece and hurried to catch up with her. They walked for several minutes in an awkward, tension-filled silence. She no longer held his hand and his palms itched, a physiological rebuke. Gone was her pleasure in their surroundings. Before she’d drifted from booth to booth, asking the vendors about their process and inspiration, admiring their wares, her happiness infectious. Now, her head was aimed forward and she strode as if her eyes were on the exit and her body intended to follow.
They’d had an amazing weekend. He couldn’t allow it to end in bitterness and anger because he’d allowed his own insecurities and uncertainty about the pact with his brother to affect her.
A few minutes more and the craft booths gave way to food vendors and music. A trio of musicians playing the guitar, saxophone and violin were surrounded by a crowd of people, clapping and swaying to the well-known jazz melody of a popular song.
Enough was enough. She was hurting and he needed to make it right. He set his bags down on the side of the tent then jogged after Leighton, taking her hand and leading her back to where the band performed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, slightly resisting the pressure of his tugging.
He raised and dropped his shoulders in an alternating pattern in time with the beat of the music and his steps matched the rhythm, hauling them backward.
Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she tried to pump the brakes, Fred Flintstone style. “Oh no.”
He paused on the outskirts of the crowd, her fingers lightly clasped in his. “Please. One dance.”
Various emotions skimmed over her features too quickly for him to figure out the direction of her ultimate decision. Finally, the tension eased from her stance and she moved with him toward the other two couples on the makeshift dance floor.
Her hips swayed, her body moved back and forth and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She smiled—a true one—and it burnished her features. In her dress, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was easily the most stunning woman there and a tide of male satisfaction washed over him.
She was his.
For now.
It didn’t matter. He’d take it.
Her lashes fell, her head dropped forward and she lost herself in the music. She was so fucking sexy! She released his grip and his jolt of dismay was appeased when she raised her arms above her head and shimmied, the epitome of womanly seduction.
Hot damn! His blood sallied south and set up camp in his dick. He lowered his hands and kept them around his waist while he danced in an effort to camouflage what had occurred.
No need to frighten any of the young children present.
The song ended with a flourish and the crowd clapped and expressed their admiration vocally and monetarily. When the band launched into a ballad, some of the spectators moved on, but he and Leighton didn’t move. They stood staring at one another until he lifted his hand toward her, palm up.
She glanced at it, then at him, and he swore his heart went into hibernation before she placed her hand in his and moved into his arms. He slid an arm around her lower back and pulled her close, pressing his cheek against her hair. The soulful notes provided them a cocoon from the world where no one was between them and nothing else mattered. She must’ve felt it too, because her soft curves melted into him. Relief closed his eyes and he squeezed her tight, inhaling the sweet citrus of her shampoo.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as they moved to the music.
She stiffened within his embrace, but she didn’t respond.
“That didn’t have anything to do with you. It was all me and the . . . shit I’m dealing with.”
Would she acknowledge his apology?
“What’s going on?” Her question slid into his ear, her tone hesitant. “Is there something you’re not telling me? About us?”
How could he not confess when her anguish was obvious?
Determination galvanized his pulse and he set his jaw. Screw Thomas. He could come clean now. This was his chance, the universe giving him the opportunity to do the right thing. He’d explain everything to her and she’d understand. She had to.
She continued. “Very few things make sense to me right now. I have so many questions about who I was and who I am and the uncertainty is unsettling. It makes me afraid to seek out the answers I need.”
She extracted her hand from his and twined it with her other, clasping them around his neck like he was her lifeline.
“But I recognized you. I can’t remember anything about my life in the past six years, but I know you and, more importantly, my heart trusts you. And if I can’t depend on that—” Her voice broke and her head moved against his.
This scenario had passed complicated and was hurtling toward fucked! Should he tell her the truth and risk derailing any progress she’d made in getting her life back on track? Or continue to lie to her and provide her the stability she needed until she was settled or her memories came back?
He reared back so he could look into her eyes. The faith he saw humbled him. He stroked his thumb along her jaw and when her lips parted, he lowered his head and kissed her, concentrating on pouring all of his concern and tenderness into the caress. He knew he’d succeeded when he felt her soften.
“We’re okay,” he told her when they’d parted, “and you’re going to be fine.”
He closed his eyes and hugged her tighter, wishing the song would never end, but knowing it would.
Just like this relationship, built on a lie.