by Ava Miles
“I love figs,” she said. “We have them on our place in Napa. I used to love picking them with Michaela and my brothers and eating them warm off the trees.”
She spoke softly about her family. Her eyes had even darkened when she’d mentioned her worry for Connor. He wondered if she knew.
“You read my proposal; it must be the kindred spirit thing that makes you know there’s another reason.” She pushed her empty plate to the side. “It’s a little embarrassing.”
Heat was already infusing her face. “More embarrassing than learning my mama lied about who my daddy was? Come on.”
“That fact doesn’t change who you are deep inside,” she said, taking his hand, something they’d both been doing from time to time as they ate. “A while back, I started dating a guy I thought was…a good guy. We went out for a while, and he did all the good-guy things. You know… He called me the next day after we went out. Brought me flowers. Talked to me for hours late into the night when one of us was traveling. Opened the door. Helped me with my coat. Yada yada yada.”
“He acted like a ‘gentleman.’” He stroked her hand, starting to understand her fears. “When did you find out he wasn’t a good guy?”
“I didn’t see the signs before, but it smacked me in the face when he offered to give me a boob job as a birthday present.”
Beau reeled back. “What? How could he— What in the Sam Hill was wrong with him? You’re perfect. Those beauties—” He used his other hand to point at her chest. “Are perfect. What an ass!” He could have let loose a whole string of curses, but her face was already as red as a hot poker.
“Need me to break his legs?” he asked when she remained quiet. “No, that’s not good enough. A man who says that to a woman deserves a few inches cut off his dick. But wait. He probably didn’t have that big of a dick to start with.” Usually he wasn’t crass, but New Beau thought it apt.
Her lips twitched then, and he knew she was putting the crap behind her. “You’re right about him not being much of a man. When it came down to it, he thought he was doing me a favor. He couldn’t imagine I would be happy with my boobs as they were. He clearly wasn’t, but he was nice enough not to say so. And that’s what pissed me off the most. He made the suggestion in such a way that he could still tell himself he was a good guy after I balked.”
“A guy like that never thinks he’s an asshole.” Why had no one ever told him how powerful it could feel to use a hard word when the situation called for it? “So this perfume was your way of reminding yourself that you were good enough and that you mattered. To yourself. To someone.” He remembered the words from her proposal. “You wanted to remember the core of you too.”
“The roots of being a woman,” she said. “It’s not easy sometimes, feeling sexy or confident. I talk a good game, but I’ve got my feelings of inadequacy and doubts.”
“Everyone does, honey,” he said. “I expect even Ibrahim, our Perfume Jedi, does, and he’s one of the wisest men I’ve met in some time.”
She smiled, the candlelight flickering over her face. “I like that you called him ours. He’s turned out to be so much more than a perfume master. This whole process… It’s like a personal inventory, a life review. I mean, those questions he gives me, rolled up in those tiny scrolls, they’ve made me dig deep. I’m journaling about scents, which leads to memories.”
“I’m loving it too,” Beau said. “Making a perfume is like making a song. Ibrahim’s encouraging me to search for my own truth, I guess. I figure coming here with you might be the best decision I’ve ever made since I picked up a guitar or wrote my first song.”
“That’s one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me,” she said, her voice soft and hushed, and he leaned forward to better hear it.
“Even though you and me speak kinda different. You with your Yankee accent and me with my Southern one… I figure we speak the same language.” He took her hand and put it on his chest. “We speak the language of the heart.”
She stroked his chest, her fingers dipping between the buttons. His skin prickled at her touch. “We should tell Paula not to bring the cheese plate,” she said.
He could feel the smile spread slowly over his mouth. “Eager to leave? Honey, we have a lot more romance to bring in tonight. In fact, if I could reach up and bring down one of those stars over our heads, I’d do that tonight even though they couldn’t shine as bright as that sunshine in your eyes.”
Another caress from those delicate fingertips made him edge even closer. She leaned into him, and he kissed her, using his lips to show her how much she mattered to him.
When they pulled apart, she said, “Beau, you’ve been romancing me for hours now. Until tonight, I thought romance was a bunch of gestures, but the way you talk to me. About me. I feel like I’ve never been romanced before.”
“I find romancing you is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done,” he said, the huskiness of his own voice reminding him of the low notes of musk.
She took his hand and kissed the back of it, her eyes radiating that golden sunlight.
“Honey, I just want to make sure I’m doing it enough to tell you all the things I can’t seem to put words to.”
“Then we should leave so you can show me,” she whispered.
Her decision was in her voice, and it made his belly tighten. His heart throbbed once and settled. He was to become her lover tonight. Somehow the word struck him in a new way. Love. Her. The person who’d invented the word must have understood the act well.
He had to wait a while for the server to reappear. No one seemed to be pushing anyone out of their tables. He asked for the check, only to hear that yes, Paula did have a cheese plate coming. Caitlyn gave in, saying they would be delighted. Beau figured the kindness was enough to make them linger a while longer.
“It’s a nice gesture,” she said, shrugging. “You made friends today.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He shook his head. “How great is that?”
“Pretty great,” she said. “When you receive true affection from the French, it’s a special thing. But I’m not surprised. You treat people well. You listen to them.”
He gazed at her, the candle sputtering on its last legs. “You mentioned liking that I listen to you. Were you not listened to much growing up? In a family with seven kids, I expect there was a lot of chatter.”
“And not much time for one-on-one attention. You know, Ibrahim asked me why lavender. I finally remembered. My dad brought me lavender soaps from Provence for my sixteenth birthday. He always worked a lot, what with running the company. Unlike our generation, he didn’t have any brothers or sisters to help him. So when he thought about me in the middle of a business trip…”
The light bulb went on. “You felt like you mattered to him. He wasn’t just celebrating your birthday, he was celebrating you.”
“Bingo. Does that make me sound silly?”
He blew out a rude noise. “Honey, you’re talking to a man who had a breakdown over his father. Why wouldn’t you want him to cherish you? He’s your daddy. It’s what he’s supposed to do.”
And not something Walt could ever have done. Perhaps some men might have been big enough to look past the events of his conception and eventual birth, but not many, he thought. He hadn’t mattered to Walt Masters because he wasn’t his son. Hell, he’d likely been a reminder of his wife stepping out on him.
“You’re not here anymore,” she said softly as the cheese plate arrived, followed by a glass of Paula’s special pear brandy.
“I have a lot of thoughts these days about the past,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”
She took the brandy and sipped, and he reached for his glass. He could smell the burn—the first note of scent reminding him of the hard liquor in Walt Masters’ Mason jar—mixed in with the pear and something like baking spices in a pie.
A deep breath in and out, and he took a sip.
“It’s strong,” he said, clearing his throat. “There�
��s caramel to the flavor. Huh.”
“Wine and spirits are a lot like perfume,” she said, echoing his thought from earlier. “God, you should see the tasting notes for some wines. ‘This rosé is a bold wine with fresh notes of ripe strawberry—why would you have it any other way?—a touch of orange finished off with hibiscus, clove for extra warmth.’ Some of it is so pretentious.”
He laughed. “I expect perfume can be the same. But yours won’t be.”
She was quiet a moment as she sipped her brandy. “No,” she finally said, “ours won’t be.”
The warmth of the brandy mixed with the warmth in his chest. By the time they finally left the restaurant after the three-kiss send-off, he was feeling warm all over. The air was fragrant with the lingering notes of dinner and the pungent scent of flowers hanging from the walls enclosing them.
“Come, let’s walk,” he said, taking the hand not holding the dahlias. “I like that I can stroll around like a regular guy. If I were back home, I’d take you walking down my private path to Dare River. The fireflies would be out winking, and the cicadas would be singing their sad song.”
The clock in the town square showed it was a quarter past twelve, and only a few couples sat under the bubbling fountain in the middle, kissing in passes like two dancers trying to find their rhythm.
Beau understood. He was still finding his rhythm with this woman, but like every song he’d written, he knew it would come, and it would be just right when it did. In the meantime, he kept breathing her in, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, and listening to the music of her voice.
His heart would tell him when they had it right, and then she’d be his for what he hoped might be forever.
Chapter 18
Caitlyn didn’t want this night to end.
They walked hand in hand, navigating the meandering side streets of the quiet Provençal village with no destination in mind, content just to be together. Now and again, he’d comment on the quiet of the night, the unfamiliar French music playing softly from an open window, and she’d answer, or maybe just trail her fingers over his hand. With him, there was no impulse to digress. To fill the silence with unnecessary words. There was warmth there, and a connection so visible she realized they’d started to walk at the same pace.
Like one person.
Shivers rained down her spine, and she paused on the cobbled street. The soft golden light fell on Beau’s chiseled face, and she traced his lips, wanting to kiss him. He leaned his head down to her, barely touching their mouths together. His hot breath sent another wave of shivers through her, and he pulled back and started to take off his jacket. Then he laid it over her shoulders, his scent enveloping her along with the warmth from his body.
“I wasn’t cold,” she said softly, stepping closer. “But I like that you thought to take care of it.”
“I don’t want my woman cold,” he said, his drawl making her knees weak.
How many times had she heard Beau Masters sing about his woman and wonder: who is that lucky woman anyway? Now, to hear him say those words about her… “Am I your woman?”
He leveled back but lifted his hands to rest on her shoulders. “I’d like you to be. The question for you, I guess, is whether that suits you.”
“Suits me?” She laughed. “Are you kidding?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Be sure you know it’s me saying it—this man in the process of changing—and not the Beau of old.”
She felt a tremble in her belly. “A fair point, but I feel… Oh, this sounds so corny.”
He cupped her cheek. “No, tell me.”
“There’s this peace inside me,” she said. “It’s crazy really. Like I felt when we first met. Holding your hand. Walking through this town tonight. Simply talking. It’s…easy.”
“I always figured it was supposed to be, although I had no real models for it,” he said, stroking her cheek. “It was just something I knew. In here.”
He raised their joined hands to his chest. She felt the warmth there and the steady cadence of his heart. It reminded her of when he’d made this same gesture their first night on the farm. They’d come so far since then.
Gazing deeply into her eyes, he said, “I thought we might drive back to the farmhouse so we can let the driver get on home and then take a car out all by our lonesome. Find a private spot to listen to some music. Look at the stars. I…now I’ll be corny. I’ve always wanted to do that with a girl on a date.”
“Why didn’t you ever?”
“Well, the girl I asked in high school said we’d get eaten alive by mosquitos, and she was probably right. Still, I thought some bug spray might help. Truthfully, she thought I was too sensitive. Corny even. I stopped sharing those kinds of things with girls and put them into songs instead. They got a better audience that way. Ironic, isn’t it?”
She wondered if the same was true of the twilight strolling. Had others poo-pooed it too? Crazy. “How in the world could anyone think that wasn’t romantic? Let’s call Claude right now and head home.” Home. That word made her shiver again. She’d spent most of her life jet-setting, making her home wherever she went, and yet this felt natural.
It felt right.
“How could anyone suggest you’re not absolutely perfect the way you are? I’m still upset about what that asshole said to you, by the way.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “Forget both of them. You’re not corny, and I’m…” Say it. “Perfect as I am.”
He grimaced. “I can tell you’re still working through that one, honey. Perhaps you’ll let me help a little tonight when we’re out under the stars. I…want you to know I’ve thought about the sleeping arrangements, what with you having relatives visiting and such. I don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable. When you’re ready to share yourself with me, we’ll figure out a way to be private. I want you to feel comfortable.” He laughed. “And I don’t want to worry your aunt or uncle will take me to the woodshed for being friendly with you.”
She’d thought about the full house too. “Aunt Clara would probably give you a blue ribbon. Not sure about Uncle Arthur yet. He’s more crusty.”
“So I noticed,” he said, tapping her playfully on the nose. “Come on and call Claude. He prefers to speak French, I think.”
“You did great today, setting everything up for our date.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Hargreaves and Colette did that. I only made a few suggestions. But the flowers and sitting in a car listening to music… That’s all mine.”
An hour later, they were doing just that, lounging on the back of the sedan, looking up at the constellations blinking light years away. He’d chosen Raï music, and its haunting, passionate blend seemed perfect for the warm night. Moonlight spilled over the lavender fields, casting the flowers in silver.
Maybe it was the music or the ongoing process of making this perfume—so much more than she’d bargained for—but Caitlyn found herself taking stock of her life. She was thirty-two and leading her first true Merriam business venture. A few months ago, she’d been reeling from Jace the Jerk’s insult to her body. Tonight, everything inside her was as quiet as the land around them. No chatter inside her head to make her feel like she didn’t have it all together. With her hand on Beau’s warm thigh, she pretty much wanted to stay here forever.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Life. Right now everything feels…perfect. I want it to stay that way.” She shifted to face him. “What about you?”
He made a sound filled with mystery. “I’m thinking about life too, I guess. How mad and betrayed I still feel. How I’m relieved—grateful even—that Walt Masters isn’t my real father. I wonder who my real father is and if I’ll ever find him. I’m hoping the geneticist will have a line on him, but the thought of reaching out to him scares me too.”
His voice was hoarse, and she ran her hand down his chest in comfort. He grabbed it and held it against his heart. “I
can’t imagine how that must feel. So you would want to meet your real father?”
He sighed. “I suppose I might change my mind if I find out he’s in jail or something, but some part of me needs, no, wants to face the man who helped give me life. He may not have done much to raise me, but I carry things from him with me. My looks, maybe even some of my mannerisms. When my geneticist gives me her full report, I hope to know a little more. It’s amazing how they’ve figured out a process to gather information about you from simple things like hair or spit. Sorry, my language. Wait. Forget I said that. That’s Old Beau. Nothing wrong with saying spit.”
“Not in my world,” she said, her lips twitching.
“I was also thinking how all the chaos inside me seems to settle when I’m with you,” he said, running his fingers over the back of her hand where it still lay on his chest. “I’ve been sitting here, searching myself, I guess you could say, and I struck upon something. I’d been pondering whether I should say it, but I’m a new man, and I want to. Seems untruthful to do otherwise.”
Her chest tightened, but then he lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss to it. He turned his head, the moonlight cascading over the sharp planes of his face, and she thought he was intentionally showing himself to her. His eyes shone, lit up by something more than moonlight. This was firelight, the kind that warmed the heart.
“I may still be working some things out, but I’m falling in love with you,” he said, his voice tender and deep. “Whatever happens between us—personally I’m hoping for forever—I’ll always be grateful for it. You’ve shown me what it really feels like to love a woman. I hope you’ll let me show you what it feels like for a long time yet.”
Her throat closed, so thick with an emotion she couldn’t swallow. Oh, this man!
“I don’t expect anything in return,” he continued. “I certainly didn’t say it to pressure you into feeling or saying anything. I only…tonight I found myself needing to tell you. That’s all.”
She cleared her throat, turning so the light fell over her face too. “I know this is fast for both of us, but since I met you, I’ve been feeling things I’ve never felt before for anyone. They stir me up and also give me peace, and for a firecracker like me—that’s what my family calls me sometimes—it’s a big deal. You make me think it’s okay to slow down. And when I’m with you, I feel warm in here.”