Chapter Fourteen
Sawyer
He’d said yes.
It wasn’t a date.
I spent most of the afternoon reminding myself of this.
Yet again, he had gone above and beyond to help me. Installing a security camera had been such an obvious idea. I hadn’t thought of it because I was so wrapped up in the questions of why and who, I hadn’t stopped to consider much else .
I knew the best I could hope for at present was if the police were able to pick up footage of the guilty party from the cameras on the street—but I was thinking in past tense, not future tense. I hoped I wouldn’t have to worry about another break-in, but knowing the store was now better equipped should something like this ever happen again put me at ease.
Rory had done that. In his own way, he was looking out for me.
This time, I hadn’t even asked.
I’d never had a man in my life who I could rely on. Not really. Even when I’d found something close to love, part of what broke us apart was the fragility of our foundation. It couldn’t bear the weight of hardship. It was such a long time ago, and we were so young—so na?ve, what we had couldn’t exist outside of the world we created with each other. When life tested us, we broke, and I hadn’t found a man worthy since then.
My mother had been self-reliant, a trait I inherited. While I’d always found a way to make friends, I was careful not to expect too much from them so as not to over-burden our relationship to the point of breaking. Diane was the one person in the whole world I relied on more than anyone else.
Over the years, she’d proven whatever I needed was never too much. Even after she got married, her relationship with Brady didn’t dimmish what we had. That’s why I considered her as close to a real sister as I would ever have.
But Rory was proving to be a constant in my life. In part because I’d opened that door the first time I went knocking on his, asking for help. On his part, he kept going out of his way. For me. And not because he was getting anything out of it.
Words couldn’t express my appreciation.
I hoped dinner would.
It wasn’t a date. It was a thank you —but while my head understood that, my heart was sending a different message to the nerves in my stomach.
At a quarter after six, I left Victoria alone in the bookstore to freshen up for dinner before we closed. I liked the sweater I had on, so I didn’t bother changing it. I did, however, swap out my blue jeans for a pair of skinny white ones—it made the cool, winter colors in my knitted top stand out more. I also traded my flats for my tan, wedge-heeled ankle booties.
After fifteen minutes in the bathroom, I had on a touch more makeup, and I’d added a bit of texture to my hair with a little help from my curling iron. It was twenty minutes to the top of the hour when I returned to the store with my coat draped over my arm and my purse in my hand.
“You look lovely,” said Victoria suggestively. “All ready for your date?”
“It’s not a date. It’s just dinner,” I replied, speaking aloud what I’d been reciting to myself for hours.
She smiled, raising her eyebrows at me. “Are you sure?”
Discarding my things on a nearby couch, I made my way toward the front counter. “I am. We’re only friends.”
“If that’s true, why are you wearing eyeshadow?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but found I didn’t know quite how to respond. I never told her about the kiss Rory and I shared a month ago, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Not because it was particularly private—I’d laid one on him while he was at work, in front of more than a handful of people. Neither did I wish to keep it to myself because I was embarrassed.
I wasn’t.
I wanted him that night as much as I wanted him now—and that was my problem.
He wanted me now as much as he wanted me then—which was not at all.
What I said was true because it was my only option.
“I knew it. You’re sweet on him,” Victoria said, leaning against the counter separating us.
I didn’t want to lie. Not to Victoria.
Neither did I want to say it out loud.
Instead, I replied, “He’s not interested. Trust me.”
“I don’t believe that. He doesn’t give away much with that handsome face of his—but you know what they say. Actions speak louder than words. How do you explain the security cameras?”
I shrugged. “He was being neighborly. Besides, it wouldn’t be good for the block if a string of break-ins started happening.”
“Hmm,” she murmured as she straightened. She looked away from me then and began tidying up around the register as she said, “I might be a single, old spinster, but I’ve lived enough life and read enough books to know a man doesn’t come around like that unless he wants something. I’ve been here for ages, and he’s never come in for me. That leaves you, you gorgeous woman.”
She peeked at me out of the corner of her eye, smirking as she did it.
I rolled my eyes and combated the smile that wanted to spread my lips wide.
“It’s just dinner,” I insisted.
Only, when Rory walked through the door—right on time—one look at him and my insides combatted the lie.
He had changed, too.
He was wearing a pair of olive green chinos and a beige, quarter-zip sweater with subtle cable knit stripes. He had on the wool coat he’d worn on the day I’d officially met him, outside of Mr. Johnson’s office. Now, like then, he had his collar popped to protect his neck from the chill.
My goodness, he was so effortlessly debonair.
He gave off an air of not caring what anyone thought, but rather than arrogance, he carried himself with a quiet confidence. He looked after himself and possessed the pride necessary to look as good as he did, making him all the more desirable.
“Do you need help securing the door?” he asked by way of greeting, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” I replied, remembering how it had taken both of us the night before.
“Alright, then. That’s my cue,” said Victoria, slipping into her coat. “I’ll see you in the morning. You two enjoy your dinner.” She winked at me as she passed, and I shook my head just slightly but waved at her in farewell.
Two minutes later, the shop locked up for the night, Rory and I were left standing in the cold.
“Did you think of someplace you wanted to go?”
“Yes. I made a reservation earlier. It’s about a twenty-minute walk, but an Uber would be better, given the temperature. I ordered it before I left my place. Should be here any moment.”
I wanted to make a joke about how I was the one who was supposed to be treating him, and yet he’d already thought of everything—but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The truth was, walking into a restaurant with him and asking for a table for two was one thing. Walking into a restaurant with him for a reservation for two seemed different.
I thought it best to leave well enough alone.
“What’s the restaurant called?”
“Duck and Waffle.”
I smiled up at him. “ Duck and waffle? Is that a thing here?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. It’s delicious.”
“Well, if it’s anything like chicken and waffles, I believe you.”
“I will say, the food is only part of the experience. This place is known for its exceptional views of London. Thought you’d appreciate it.”
Before I could process and respond to what he’d said, our ride arrived. We climbed into the back of the Uber and our driver confirmed our destination. He had the radio turned on, which was actually a welcome distraction. Rory and I didn’t talk much during our ten-minute ride, but I didn’t mind. I needed the time to gather my wits about me and to remind myself—for the hundredth time—we weren’t on a date.
Duck and Waffle was located on the fortieth floor of a towering commercial building.
Rory hadn’t exaggerated. The view was stunning.
Our table wasn’t beside a window, but it didn’t matter. I could still see out over the city—lit up in the darkness of night—and it was beautiful.
In other circumstances, it might have been romantic.
That night, I’d settle for beautiful.
“Do you come here a lot? I mean, would it be fair to say this is one of your favorite places to eat?” I asked when we were left with our menus.
He knit his eyebrows together, in that habitual way of his, but didn’t bother to look over at me as he replied, “I enjoy it, but it’s been a while. I don’t dine out much. Takeaway, sure, but nothing like this.”
“How did you first find out about it?”
Almost as soon as the words passed through my lips, I regretted them.
Surely I wasn’t the only one of us who thought this was an ideal location for a date. I didn’t really want to know if he’d brought another woman there.
“Like I find out about most of the restaurants in the city I like. Graham.”
I relaxed then, smiling to myself as I glanced down at my menu.
Already sure I would order the duck and waffle, I didn’t bother looking at the other dinner selections but perused the cocktail options.
“Will you be having your usual drink tonight, or are you up for something new?”
Peeking across the table at him, I found Rory actually looking at me, his question mirrored in his gaze.
“Do you have a suggestion?”
“Try the negroni.”
I glanced down at the ingredients of the gin drink then shrugged and set aside my menu.
“Okay.”
Our server arrived and we ordered our drinks, Rory surprising me by tacking on his request for bacon-wrapped-dates. Open to just about any kind of food—and a born and bred American—I had zero objection to bacon.
Not surprisingly, when we were left alone, Rory didn’t jumpstart the conversation. Intent on overcoming the silence, I thought I’d ask a question that had been on my mind for a few weeks.
“Speaking of Graham, I’ve been wondering, you two met in college. You both studied economics, right?”
“Yes,” he replied simply.
“But The King’s Steed, it was handed down to you by your grandfather?”
“Yes.”
“So—if you knew you’d end up at the pub, why study economics?”
“Because I didn’t know I’d wind up owning the pub. Had my Uncle Henry survived, it would have been his business now, not mine. Maybe we would have split it, I don’t know. I started working there to put off a career in economics; a bit of a gap year, if you will. I wound up loving it, and my grandfather would never have forced me out. Economics was fine, but it had always been my father’s choice, not mine.”
There was so much in his answer I wanted to explore. I wasn’t sure where to begin. That wasn’t the first time I’d heard of his uncle’s passing—but I’d yet to unearth how it happened or how long ago.
Except, the next thing out of my mouth was, “Was your father disappointed you’d chosen the pub over, I guess, a more white-collar career?”
“A little. But only because he’d hoped our jobs would be one more thing we had in common. He got over it. Hard to fault a man for wanting to get involved in the family business, even if it is on my mother’s side. It was my choice, and my parents are nothing if not supportive.”
“That’s nice,” I murmured, curious how much of his confidence came from the love and support of his parents.
“What about you?” he asked, turning the tables on me before I could get out another question of my own. “A PhD in English Literature? I get it, you’re surrounded by books—but I don’t know anybody who goes through the trouble of a doctorate degree to work in a bookshop. You could have been a professor or a researcher.”
A hint of a humorless laugh sounded from the back of my throat, but I wasn’t sure if he heard it. Our server picked that moment to arrive with our cocktails, and I had the chance to take a breath before I told him the truth.
“My mom was a writer. She wrote more than a dozen best-sellers. Stories were her whole life. It’s hard to explain, but she wanted me to be her echo. Not necessarily a fiction author, but notable in the world of literature somehow, and I wanted nothing of the sort. Not because I didn’t have an appreciation for the art of the written word—the exact opposite, honestly. I just wanted her to love me no matter what, not under any conditions of who I turned out to be.
“Anyway, I rebelled against her desires, like a typical, angsty daughter, and didn’t think about what I wanted outside of putting her in her place. It wasn’t until after she died that I went back to school to earn my PhD. I’d like to believe a part of me did it because it was what I wanted to do all along—but another part of me knows I did it because I didn’t know what to do after I’d lost her.”
I frowned, uncertain whether or not anything I was saying made any sense. Then, dropping my gaze down into my drink, I concluded, “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until I got here. Now, out of stubbornness or pride or destiny—if such a thing is real—I feel like I’m doing something I care about. I’m preserving something of value, something with a history. My ownership of Tattered Edges is tradition. Maybe it’s a tradition from a family that doesn’t want me—but,” I paused then, lifting my gaze once more. “Sawyer Blackstone left the store to the only one of his children who would keep it going. He didn’t know it, but he did. And it feels important.”
The expression on Rory’s face was not one I understood. I couldn’t tell if I’d bored him or overshared. Nervous it might have been a little of both, I forced a smile and said awkwardly, “That was a long-winded way of saying: it’s complicated.”
“Trust me, I understand the significance of keeping alive a business that was handed down to you.”
Our bacon-wrapped-dates were delivered to the table. Before our server left, he asked after our dinner order. We both opted for the same entrée, and our menus were finally collected from the table.
“Can I ask a sensitive question?” I asked, smoothing my napkin across my lap.
“Go ahead.”
“What happened to your uncle? The night I sat down with Hattie, she mentioned Henry, too.”
“He got hit by a car and died,” he told me straight. “He was out on foot in a horrible fog. The driver didn’t see him until it was too late.”
“Oh,” I breathed, sinking back in my chair. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah. It was a tough loss. It’s been twelve years, and my mum still cries on the anniversary. He was well loved.”
“I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Silence settled between us for a few seconds. Rory filled his appetizer plate with a few dates. When I didn’t move to do the same, he did it for me.
“You asked the question, and I answered. There’s no reason our conversation has to die because of it,” he teased.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things so heavy.”
“Make it up to me, then. Pick a lighter topic.”
He said it with a straight face, but I could see the amusement in his eyes.
Everyone knew, eyes were the windows to the soul. But those blue irises weren’t just windows—they were a secret passageway as much as they were a billboard, expressing what his mouth wouldn’t.
My lips tipped into a smile.
“Okay. Tell me—are you a complete snob when you order a cocktail you haven’t made? Do you judge it and compare it to yours?”
“Absolutely,” he replied without blinking.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but I bet he wasn’t.
I’d been to the Parlour.
Reaching for my drink, I nodded toward his and inquired, “How does yours rate tonight?”
“Not bad. I’d give it a seven out of ten, which is pretty good, seeing as they’re known for their food more than their drinks.”
“Good to know.”
Conversation was easier after that. We discussed topics that ranged from work to our favorite kinds of music. I learned his dad was Irish, which was why he had a muddled accent, and we both had a distaste for mushrooms. By the time we were finished with our dinner, my stomach wasn’t the only thing that was full.
When our server asked if we’d like to see the dessert menu, my insides tingled pleasantly when Rory insisted we would.
He wasn’t ready to leave, which felt nice.
I wasn’t ready, either.
We agreed to split the sticky toffee waffle because, why not?
As we waited for it to arrive, feeling comfortable and relaxed, I brazenly asked, “How old are you?”
He quirked an eyebrow and muttered, “Forty-one. Why?”
“Have you ever been married?”
He relaxed his brow as his face became expressionless.
“No,” he answered matter-of-factly.
I didn’t want to admit to myself why I was digging, but neither could I ignore the voice in my head pleading with me to keep going.
“Have you ever been close?”
“I don’t even know what that means—but if you’re asking if I’ve ever been engaged, no. Why?”
It was a fair a question, one I couldn’t duck on account of he’d answered mine.
“I’m trying to figure you out, I guess. You’re—you’re successful, kind, handsome and handy. You strike me as someone who could have any woman he wanted, but you don’t. Are you uninterested in romantic entanglements?”
He studied me for a long time before he answered. After a few seconds, I began to feel warm beneath his gaze, but I refused to look away.
If he thought I was asking on a strictly platonic level, I assumed he wouldn’t have any reason not to tell me. We’d been open with each other all night.
If he thought I was asking as my way of reopening the door he’d shut that first night, I didn’t want to cower.
Finally, he said, “I just know better.”
Frowning in confusion, I murmured, “What do you mean? Know better than what?”
“I know better than to enter into a relationship that’s bound to fail when she realizes she’ll never have all of me because I’m incapable of complete surrender.”
“And what does that mean?”
He paused again, his hesitation evident before he replied, “My last relationship ended five years ago. We were together for six. She lived in my flat for more than half that time. We split up when she took a job in Nottingham. It was the right move for her. Better prospects, better wage. I understood why she wanted it—but I couldn’t leave the pub, no matter how much I loved her. She knew that. But one of us was going to have to lose.
“In the end, she decided it wasn’t going to be her. She made me choose—her or the pub. I chose the pub. I’ll always choose the pub. I know that now, unequivocally.”
I opened my mouth to respond at the same time our dessert was delivered, and that brief moment of interruption was enough to save me from saying something I couldn’t take back; an admission neither of us was ready for me to say.
Nevertheless, as we both picked up a fork and cut into opposite sides of the waffle, the thought still lingered.
Any woman who claimed to love him and then forced a choice like that couldn’t have loved him after all.
I knew I would never ask him to choose. Not after learning what I now knew—about the generations of men in his family who owned the pub before him; about the transformation he helped inspire; about Henry, and the awful way he died.
Rory wasn’t royalty, but he bore the responsibility of The King’s Steed like a crown. To ask him to leave was like asking a man to denounce his throne and his birthright. It was unfair.
I didn’t realize how consumed I was by my thoughts until our dessert was half gone and our server returned with our bill. Only, it wasn’t merely the bill he’d brought to the table.
“Hey!” I cried, scowling at Rory as he returned his credit card to his wallet. “You weren’t supposed to pay. This was supposed to be my treat.”
“I said yes to dinner. I didn’t say I’d let you pay.”
“Rory, that was the whole point,” I groaned.
“You’ve expressed your gratitude. You’ll pay me back for the equipment, and we’ll be even.”
I huffed out a sigh, cognizant of the fact this wasn’t a battle I was going to win easily—and definitely not one I’d win if I made a scene in the middle of the restaurant.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I muttered, “This isn’t over, Red.”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he replied, “So you say.”
We finished the rest of our dessert waffle and then bundled up to face the cold. Rather than an Uber, Rory hailed us a cab. Fortunately, this meant when we reached home, I finally had the chance to pay for something. I leaned over him and touched my card to the reader mounted against the door, beating him to the punch.
I didn’t get to see the look on his face as I did it, but I swear he chuckled. Just once. A soft, low sound that made my stomach clench.
Ever the gentlemen, rather than saying goodbye on the side of the road as the taxi drove away, he walked me to my door.
It wasn’t a date.
It wasn’t a date.
We weren’t on a date.
But if we were—it would have been a good one.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said as I fidgeted with my keys.
“You’re welcome.”
I pointed a finger at him and declared, “I should warn you, if a truckload of biscuits appears at your doorstep in the near future, you brought it on yourself.”
My comment earned me a half smile, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
The last thing I wanted was to ruin the memory of a nearly perfect night. So, rather than do what I’d been longing to do for weeks now—I reached for his shoulders, beckoning him closer, then brushed my lips against his cheek.
“Goodnight, Rory,” I whispered before I let him go and headed inside.