by Lisa Jackson
He was still tall, dark, and handsome. More so than ever, in fact.
But there was a sophistication about him that had never been there before. He wore a dark suit, white shirt, and tie—obviously expensive, even from here.
Even if she were able to sidle into the vicinity—confident they wouldn’t recognize her between the wig, the padding, and the glasses—she wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying. It was much too loud in here: chattering voices, clattering silverware and plates, jaunty Greek music playing in the background.
Disappointed, she turned and left the coffee shop, realizing she’d just have to piece it all together later.
There he was.
Right in front of her.
Looking at her, presumably, from behind the dark glasses that shielded his eyes.
Touching her—his hands on her lower arms in a brief grasp—but that was all.
And that’s good, Lindsay told herself, trying not to be disappointed that he didn’t initiate a hug or kiss. That would have been too awkward. It wasn’t as though they were officially long-lost friends—or long-lost anything.
Not officially.
“You look really good, Wyatt.”
Why did I say that? she wondered on the heels of her impromptu comment as they both settled into the booth—she for the second time.
I said it because it’s true, for one thing. He does look really good.
Great, in fact.
She never in a million years expected Wyatt Goddard to show up dressed like a successful businessman, cleanshaven below his sunglasses, his black hair attractively cut with a bristly top that seemed to beg her fingers to spike it further.
Was he a successful businessman?
He must be successful at something, living where he does. The Fairfield County shore towns weren’t affordable otherwise.
“You look pretty good yourself, Lindsay.”
Dammit, she could feel her cheeks growing hot at the innocuous compliment.
Or maybe it wasn’t so innocuous.
She looked up to see that he had removed his black shades and was looking at her as though…
Well, as though he hadn’t forgotten what had happened between them that New Year’s Eve.
She hadn’t, either. Not for a second.
But not, apparently, for the same reason as him.
Oh, she definitely remembered what it had been like—Wyatt Goddard making love to her.
You don’t forget your first time.
But she had a feeling she wouldn’t have forgotten Wyatt even if he had been her hundredth lover, or her thousandth.
How ironic that after going out with Jake for so long—two years—she never could bring herself to sleep with him. Everyone assumed that they were. And he assumed that they would.
Right, and he pressured her from the start. Jake Marcott was used to getting what he wanted—including sex. He couldn’t believe his girlfriend wasn’t willing to provide it. Back then, Lindsay marveled that he stuck around anyway.
Now, having learned infinitely more about human psychology, she had a feeling that if she had given in, he wouldn’t have stayed with her for as long as he did.
You always want what you can’t have.
And, if you were Jake Marcott, you were hell bent on getting it.
That was what kept him around.
And it was why he finally got fed up and dumped her.
She wasn’t quite sure why she never gave in to Jake back then, she only knew that it wouldn’t be right. She loved him, yes—but there was something about him that she just didn’t trust.
How strange, then, that she instinctively trusted Wyatt Goddard from the moment they first connected. Really connected—at that New Year’s Eve party.
She knew who he was before that, of course. He was always around, on her peripheral radar, but she was with Jake. And even if she hadn’t been, Wyatt wasn’t her type. He had too much of an edge…or so she believed.
Maybe that was because she’d never gotten a good look at him. At his eyes. Not until that night.
Unless you were a rock star, you could hardly show up at an indoor party, in the evening, in the dead of winter, wearing sunglasses. So there he was, without his ever-present shades—looking at her. She could feel his stare long before she allowed herself to meet it. And when she did…
Well, it might just as well have been midnight. Fireworks and confetti seemed to erupt with fanfare somewhere inside her, heralding the beginning of something new and promising.
She was drawn to Wyatt Goddard as she had never been drawn to anyone before.
At the party—and afterward. When they were alone together.
Even now, twenty years later, she knew that if she closed her eyes, she’d see the look in Wyatt’s that night as he lay intimately above her, propped on his elbows, her face cupped in his hands…
So Lindsay didn’t dare close her eyes.
She didn’t want to remember that. Especially not now.
She didn’t want to remember the unexpected tenderness that lay beneath his rough exterior…
No, because she’d feel even guiltier for not telling him about the baby.
Back then, in the months that followed their brief connection, she had managed to convince herself that she was doing him a favor not revealing her pregnancy. That a guy like Wyatt Goddard wouldn’t have any interest in a child, not even his own.
It was only when it was too late, when Wyatt—and the baby—were long gone from her life, that the fog lifted. It had comforted her in that year—the numbing haze that had enveloped her like a protective cloak, shielding her from the icy reality of her pregnancy and the harsher one of Jake’s murder.
But when her head began to clear, the memories came back. She was forced to acknowledge, if only to herself, that there might have been more to Wyatt Goddard than met the eye. More than she was able to see before they got together, more than she was willing to recall after she left him.
I cheated him, she told herself now—not for the first time. Not by far.
But sitting here across from him, looking into his eyes, the knowledge hit her harder than ever before.
“Coffee?” a waitress asked briskly, appearing with a steaming glass pot and a couple of laminated menus.
Wyatt nodded and turned over the cup before him in its saucer.
Lindsay did the same, though she was sure that if she tried to take a sip of anything right now, she’d gag.
In fact, she might gag anyway. She might throw up right here and now, in front of Wyatt and the waitress and everyone else.
To distract herself from the wave of nausea washing over her, she focused on returning the waitress’s brief, efficient smile as she poured their coffee.
Good. That’s better. She focused on the middle-aged woman’s faded gray eyes that matched her faded gray hair. Her plastic name tag said Marissa. That was interesting. She didn’t look like a Marissa. She looked more like a Bea or a Madge.
“Are you okay, honey?” she asked, peering at Lindsay with motherly concern. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine…just a little…” She trailed off, conscious of Wyatt’s eyes still on her.
“Green,” the woman supplied, and chuckled.
“Right.”
“I’m right there with ya. I’m still in my first trimester—this is my fifth kid—and I’ve got morning sickness every day.”
Morning sickness? She can’t be much older than me, then, Lindsay realized with a start. She had her pegged for at least a decade beyond.
Well, Marissa was a coffee-shop waitress in New York with four kids to support and another on the way. She’d probably led a difficult life, and her struggles had taken a physical toll.
Which would indicate, in turn, that Wyatt must have led a relatively easy one. He didn’t look a day over thirty.
“I’ve been scarfing down saltines all morning,” the waitress continued conversationally, lifting the small stainless steel
creamer from their table and making sure it wasn’t empty. Nope. She set it back down. “Every damned time I get pregnant, pardon my French, I tell myself it’s going to be different. I tell myself I’m not going to throw up every morning for the first couple of months. And every damned time—pardon again—it happens worse than ever.”
Lindsay murmured something appropriately sympathetic, because the woman seemed to be mainly addressing her.
“Oh, I’ll be okay in the end. The reward is worth it. I just love my babies.”
Lindsay offered her a taut, queasy smile.
“How about you? Do you have children, hon?”
Talk about a loaded question.
It certainly wasn’t one she wanted to answer in front of Wyatt Goddard.
She merely shook her head.
The waitress looked from her to Wyatt and back again. As if she’d been assuming they were a couple—and now realized her mistake—her smile lost some of its cheer.
“I’ll be right back to take your order.”
With that, she was gone.
Wyatt picked up one of the menus and wordlessly handed it to Lindsay.
She glanced at it blindly, her thoughts rushing along like a swollen mountain stream in April.
I have to tell him.
Right now.
Just get it out there, in the open.
Just get it over with, for God’s sake.
But somehow, the words refused to come.
“Do you know what you want?”
Yes. I want to tell you that you have a son.
But I can’t seem to do it.
She glanced up to find him looking over his own menu.
“I’m just having toast,” she said, because she felt as though she’d have to order something.
“I’m having it, too.” He snapped his menu closed. “With eggs, bacon, and a side of sausage.”
She couldn’t help but grin. “Hungry?”
“Always. There are just some things I can’t resist.”
He’s talking about food, she reminded herself, even as she noted the provocative quirk in his brow.
For some reason, she found it necessary to say, “Like cholesterol?”
“Among other things.”
Okay, so he’s not talking about food.
But you should. Just to keep things straightforward and make it clear that nothing is going on here, under the surface.
“Do you, um, eat a huge breakfast every morning?” She could hear the nervousness in her voice.
“When I’m home, I do. I like to cook. In fact, I’ve always known my way around the kitchen, ever since I was a kid.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“A lot of things about me might surprise you, Lindsay.”
He set his menu aside, leaned back in the booth, steepled his hands, and looked at her.
“So,” he said, “what’s up?”
And away we go.
Except…she still wasn’t ready.
So she hedged. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Twenty years last New Year’s.”
Whoa. Nothing like throwing it right out there, she thought, ducking her head to gaze at her menu again so that she wouldn’t have to look at him.
Wait a minute.
This was ridiculous. She wasn’t a teenaged girl anymore. She didn’t have to skirt around the fact that she’d had a, a—thing—with him. Wasn’t that essentially why they were here?
Forcing herself to meet his gaze again, she saw a glint of amusement there and actually found herself relaxing. Just a tad.
“I wasn’t talking about that, specifically,” she allowed herself to say, referring to their one night together.
“No, but you were thinking about it…right?”
He leaned forward abruptly, and she found herself with a close-up view of the face—the eyes—she had tried so hard to forget.
No wonder she couldn’t.
She was mesmerized all over again.
“I’ve thought about it a couple of times, too,” he told her.
“You mean…about that New Year’s Eve?”
“Yeah. Come on, you didn’t forget…did you?”
You have no idea.
She shrugged.
“You couldn’t have,” he said simply, leaning back again, folding his arms. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here now. Right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You looked me up. It must have something to do with the past…unless you’re looking for a Lamborghini.”
“What?”
He frowned slightly. “Cars,” he said inexplicably.
“You lost me.”
“That’s what I do. Exotic luxury cars.”
“Oh!” She hesitated, wondering if she should let him think she had invited him here on business.
What? Have you lost it?
What are you going to do, buy a Porsche from him to throw him off the scent?
“I didn’t know that was what you did,” she said, buying time.
He shrugged. “That’s what I do. You?”
“I’m an event planner.”
He nodded as if he already knew that.
Had she told him?
She doubted it—but she seriously couldn’t remember.
Right now, under the heat of his gaze, she seriously couldn’t remember much of anything at all.
Oh, yes she could.
She remembered his lips…his mouth…his hands…his skin against hers; his weight, pressing the hard length of his body against hers, into hers…
He remembered, too. She could see it. He was remembering right now.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Dammit. Why was there always this…thing, this connection, between them?
Always?
Talk about an exaggeration.
There was no always where Wyatt Goddard was concerned. It was more like…
Never.
“Did we decide?” the waitress asked breezily, materializing beside their booth again, shattering the moment.
Thank you, Marissa.
Lindsay ordered toast.
“White, wheat, rye, whole grain, pumpernickel…?”
“Whole grain.”
“Butter, margarine…?”
“Butter.”
“On it, or on the side?”
Oh, for God’s sake, it’s just toast! she wanted to scream, the distraction she had just welcomed now irritating the hell out of her. She wanted to be left alone with Wyatt again.
Truly alone, though.
Not here, in a public coffee shop.
Alone.
She ordered the butter on the side.
Wyatt ordered eggs, toast, bacon, a side of sausage.
“How do you want your eggs?” Marissa began. “Scrambled, over, up, poached—”
“Surprise me,” he cut in, and thrust the menus at her. “On all of it.”
The waitress sent him an amused, knowing smile and left them alone again.
“You might get hard-boiled eggs and pumpernickel toast with margarine,” Lindsay informed him with a grin.
“Sounds good.” He shook his head, reached across the table unexpectedly, and grabbed Lindsay’s hands.
There went her heart again, a ricocheting hockey puck skittering around in her rib cage.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “Really, really good.”
He was a flirt. She knew that; had always known.
This was part of his charming routine, she told herself sternly. Once a womanizer, always a womanizer.
“I haven’t seen anyone from back home in years.”
“Actually, neither have I,” she admitted. “Except my parents. But they don’t even live in Oregon anymore.”
“Where are they?”
“Retired. Near Las Vegas. How about yours?”
“They passed away.”
“I’m sorry.”
>
A shadow slid over his face. “So am I.” He squeezed her hands, let go. “But people die, and you move on. That’s life, right?”
He’s trying to be cavalier, she thought, and it isn’t working. Not at all.
“Are you married?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know, grateful he had let go of her hands. Just in case he was.
Not that anything could possibly come of this if he wasn’t. But still…
“No.”
Her hopes soared ridiculously.
“Divorced?” she asked.
“Nope. You?”
“Nope.”
“So you’re…Are you married?”
She shook her head quickly, trying not to smile. But she felt so damned giddy, realizing he was interested in her status.
“I’m surprised,” he said, and poured a generous amount of creamer into his coffee. “I always pictured you married to a great guy, with a couple of kids.”
Kids.
About to sip her own coffee, she set the cup down again hard, the untouched black liquid sloshing over the edge.
“No,” she said tersely. “Not married to a great guy with a couple of kids.”
“Any particular reason why not?”
She shrugged.
“Let me guess. You’re still waiting for Mr. Right to come along. Right?”
She forced herself to look at him. “Isn’t everyone?”
It was his turn to shrug.
You have to tell him.
Now.
She couldn’t just sit here shooting the breeze with him, flirting, letting him think this might be some kind of casual reunion for old times’ sake.
Or worse, the deliberate sparking of an old flame.
He deserved to know the truth before this went any further.
I just wish I didn’t want so badly for it to go further.
Wyatt insisted on picking up the check Marissa had dropped on the table. Lindsay argued, but she let him.
She didn’t argue, however, when he suggested that they take a walk through the park. He had a feeling that wasn’t just because she wanted to delay getting to the office or because it was a beautiful May morning.
Something was weighing on her mind.
Something she hadn’t been able to articulate back in the coffee shop.
A couple of times, he got the feeling that she was about to say something significant.
Other times, he sensed that she was tempted to bolt.