Chapter 6 Natalie
Natalie
Lunch with an ex is probably never fun, but Mason isn’t trying to win any awards, either.
“I still don’t understand why you won’t talk to me about the duke,” Mason says. “Is he that bad in bed?”
I don’t throw my napkin at him. I’m proud of that. “As I’ve told you, we aren’t dating. We had two sort-of dates, one of which you saw, in which he drove me into Waterford to get a cell phone while he met some people for a business thing. Pretty romantic, right?”
Mason’s frowning with one eyebrow cocked. That means he can’t decide whether he believes me.
I toss my hands up in the air. “I don’t care what you think, because my love life’s none of your business now. We’re only here to discuss the kids.”
“Are you ready to order?” The very nice waitress probably thought my hand throw was to summon her, but that’s fine.
It’s definitely better to get this over with as fast as possible.
I already regret agreeing to this monthly lunch coordination meeting.
Anything that can be done by text with an ex probably should.
“I’ll have the turkey sandwich.” I hand her the menu.
“With chips?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“Since when do you say no to fries?” Mason shakes his head. “I miss the old Natalie.”
The old Natalie? The one he cheated on because she got chubby? It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but I’ve decided to be entirely civil. “We’re not here to reminisce,” I mutter. “Just order.”
“I’ll have the turkey sandwich, mayo on the side, extra chips.” Mason winks at the waitress. That’s new. Before he did that kind of stuff when I wasn’t looking.
Honestly, though, now that he’s not trying to date me, it’s way easier to be around him.
“We may as well start.” I pull out the calendar.
“So for October, we have at least one, but maybe two horse shows on the schedule, and there’s a school play that Paul’s doing.
I’m also planning some events for the hotel that the kids won’t want to miss. ”
“Horse shows?” Mason blinks. “Who’s doing those?”
I don’t need to tell him that I am, but it would be nice if he could watch Paul and the little girls. “Me, for one, Clara, and Hannah.”
“Not the twins?”
“Blaine enjoyed riding Teagan the other day, but I don’t think she’s planning to do much more. Every time I’ve asked, she’s passed. Amelia. . .she’s not ready yet. Maybe next year.”
He nods.
“Will you be free that weekend to keep an eye on the other kids?”
“I can, but I’d rather come with them so we can cheer.”
I frown. “I imagine the twins will be bored, but Paul will be super bored.”
“I can keep one little boy entertained.”
It’s a first that he wants to come or keep one of our kids entertained. “Fine.”
“Also, can I just say that I think it’s great that you’re showing? You should’ve done that when we were married.”
I don’t remind him that he said it was a total waste of money. I don’t lose it because he told me showing was insane, to pay all that so I could win some twenty-five cent ribbons. I just smile and nod, as if he was always this super supportive guy.
We work out which days he’ll have the kids and when I will right before our sandwiches come.
I eat at least half of mine—even with the mayo, it’s pretty dry—and then I let him pay.
He’s the one who wanted to go over the calendar, after all.
I’ve bid him a polite goodbye, thanked him for the meal, and escaped down the road, when I hear my name.
“Natalie?”
My brain wonders for a split second whether I forgot something. But no, when I turn on my heel, it’s not Mason calling me.
It’s Cillian.
And my word, he’s even hotter than I remember.
He’s wearing a navy sweater and it makes his pale blue-green eyes look almost aquamarine.
His hair’s a dark, dark blond, but it makes the lighter parts really stand out.
He’s gotten it cut recently, so it’s still longish, but not weighed down.
It kind of falls around his face effortlessly.
I wonder, since he’s a guy, whether he obsesses over how it looks, or if guys really do have some kind of magic in which their hair always looks perfect without effort.
And while I’ve been staring at him, befuddled, he’s asked me something.
“I’m sorry?”
He’s reached me now, his grin turning into a full-fledged smile. “I asked where you were headed.”
I bob my head. “Right, just round the corner. The printer—McIlhaney.”
“Ah, I’m just past that. The cobbler next door.”
“No way,” I say. “People still use cobblers?”
Cillian’s smile evaporates, replaced by disbelief. “What else would you use if your shoe has a problem?”
I blink. “I just throw out shoes that have worn out and buy a new pair.”
“Not when you paid what I pay for them.”
Now that I glance down, his casual dress shoes do look pretty nice. I grunt and start walking again.
Cillian moves alongside me, matching his pace to mine. “So what are you having printed?”
“Fliers.” I sigh. “Only, I’m not sure which of the mock-ups I should use. I might be too American to know what will appeal to people here.”
“What are the fliers for?” Cillian bumps me with his shoulder. “As your Irish friend, I’m happy to consult, for a small fee.”
We’ve reached the printer. “What kind of fee?” I drop a hand on my hip. “I’m a new business, you know, and the whole reason I’m doing this Halloween party is to try and boost business a little bit. Get people talking about us.”
“Boost business? Halloween party?” Cillian’s frowning now. “I hadn’t even heard about it. Have you been keeping it a secret as some kind of marketing ploy.”
I groan.
“Alright, alright, well, have you thought about inviting local businesses to sponsor your party? That would give them a reason to talk about it.”
“That’s brilliant.” I freeze. “If you think any of them would even be interested.”
“Of course they will. That’s what small business is all about—synergy. We have to pry every last euro from the tourists’ pockets while they’re here.”
“That’s what I need to put on the fliers.”
“The thing about taking the very last euro?” His brow furrows.
I laugh. “Um no, but the synergy thing.” I duck into the printer, wave at old man McIlhaney, and say, “Nevermind these mock-ups. I’m going another way. I’ll be back by tomorrow.”
He never has much to say, so I’m not even surprised when he just touches the brim of his grey tweed hat.
When I step back out, Cillian’s still there. “Isn’t the cobbler right there?”
His half-smile’s lethally cute. “I thought you might walk with me—I have more ideas.”
I suddenly remember his joke about the fee. “You aren’t really going to charge me, are you?”
He sighs. “Clever little thing.” His grin widens.
“I do think you owe me, honestly. I’ve got lots of friends who run tours and interact with tourists, and I’m sure they’d be happy to help sponsor your party, and they’d even let you leave fliers—for the party and the hotel—at their establishments, but my help is worth something. Don’t you think?”
I shove past him and walk toward the little sign ahead. Lismore’s Finest Cobbler. “What did you have in mind?”
He jogs to catch up. “We talked about a date, and then you never called. You didn’t even reply to my texts.
” He leaps in front of me, just as we reach the shop.
“You don’t have to avoid me, you know. For payment, I just want an answer.
If you think I’m a creep, or if you think I look like a troll that lives under a bridge, you can just tell me.
I’m an adult, and I’ll take the news like an adult, I promise. ”
Staring at him, an age-appropriate, fairly normal man who’s far too good-looking for me, but is otherwise fine, I just. . .I have no reason to be nervous, but I still am. “It’s not that I’m not interested. I guess I’m just scared.”
“Scared?” His smile deepens. “Of what, exactly?” He steps closer, looking down at me with those big eyes. His hair falls over his eyebrow. “I promise that if you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m not very scary at all.”
“I think it’s less you that scare me,” I say softly, “and more the fact that I actually like you. I think Richard was easy, because even though the idea of dating him was exciting, he himself. . .wasn’t. Not to me, anyway.”
But the man standing above me, staring right at me? He’s very, very exciting. My heart’s racing, my breaths are far too shallow, and heat’s rising up my neck.
He steps back.
My heart falls.
And he drops a hand on my wrist.
Now it’s pounding again.
“Then come with me to lunch.”
I laugh. “I just ate lunch.”
He growls, not like a caveman who wants to force me to do things, but like a dog when someone tries to take its treat. It’s actually kind of cute. “Fine, then dinner later?”
“I really can’t tonight,” I say.
But only because I already made dinner, and my kids still need to eat, so even if I had a date, I’d need to make dinner. It’s basic—crockpot tacos. Slow-braised taco meat the kids love. Hannah and Clara are both capable of heating the tortillas and chopping tomatoes.
Cillian’s beautiful mouth is twisted. “It’s hard to know whether I’m being an irritation, or whether you’re really just super busy.”
“You’re not an irritation.” I think about what he said—he’s a big boy. If this doesn’t work out, if I can’t really date someone, anyone, I can just tell him that. He won’t break, or melt down, or stalk me. Probably. “Fine.” I sigh. “I can rearrange some things, and we can get dinner tonight.”
The smile that spreads over his face isn’t one of triumph. It’s not the smile of a guy who just scored a goal, or a guy who just shot a deer. I’d know, because I lived in Texas, and a lot of guys smile that smile on the regular.
No, this one’s a smile of hope.