Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The lavender was everywhere. For days it had brought a calm to Eliot.
Because of its medicinal properties? Maybe.
Definitely because of the woman it brought to mind.
The smell of it on her skin, in her hair, coming off his own jacket now that it was resting around her shoulders.
The floral aroma had been following him for days, taunting him about how he'd changed his stance on its scent.
Oh, Eliot's stance had changed, alright. His shoulders were straighter. His heart beat faster. His fingers curled around Dalene's in just the way he said he was not going to do. Just like he no longer wrinkled his nose at the smell of lavender.
The scent was in his nose, and he didn't flinch. Her fingers were twined with his, and he didn't pull away. Her lips were right there for the taking and he was going to take.
Until the Letterman showed up.
Tristan was fifteen feet away, watching them with an expression that had curdled at the edges. Brooke stood beside him, looking at him with displeasure.
Had Dalene seen the two of them? Had she seen her former boyfriend?
She'd brought up the mistletoe. She'd been the one to say it, to look up at Eliot with lips parted, entirely ready.
Was that for him? Or was it for the man currently standing by the root vegetables looking like he'd bitten into something sour?
Eliot had spent nine years standing in front of a green screen pointing at things that weren't there, making the audience believe in weather systems that were in their near future, but currently existed only in data and graphics.
Was he in a real life green screen right now?
Was Dalene pretending she wanted to kiss him right now so that she could restart her future with Tristan?
It seemed like she liked him. But seeming and being were different variables. As a man who made his life on predictions, Eliot knew that better than most.
His instinct was to pull back. Step away. Put some managed distance between himself and a situation his read on was compromised.
He didn't. Because Tristan was standing there with regret written across his face in large, legible print, and Eliot had made a promise. Eliot wasn't going to let this man see Dalene as something available. Something he could reconsider. Something that would wait.
Tristan crossed the market toward them. Eliot watched him come and felt something that was not quite territorial and was not quite anger. It was somewhere in the middle of the road of both.
"Dalene." Tristan stopped in front of them. His eyes moved to their joined hands. Back up. "Can we talk?"
Dalene didn't let go. "You should probably go after Brooke?"
Tristan blinked. Looked over his shoulder. Brooke was not where he'd left her. She was at the market exit, moving at the pace of a woman expected to be followed. In fact, she glanced over her shoulder, saw that he wasn't on her heels, and her features turned to outrage.
Tristan looked back at Dalene. Something moved across his face that Eliot classified, without sympathy, as a man understanding the cost of his own choices in real time.
Dalene's hand tightened on Eliot's. The grip went from held to clutched. Her fingers pressed into his. Not loosening. The opposite of loosening.
Eliot held on.
Tristan looked at their hands. At Dalene's face. At Eliot. Then he huffed. Short and frustrated. He turned and went after Brooke.
Smart man. Well, dumb for ever letting Dalene's hand go. But smart for not trying to unravel Dalene's fingers from Eliot's.
Eliot watched the Letterman go.
Dalene exhaled. It was a long exhale. She turned back to face him and her shoulders came down an inch. Her face assembled into an expression that was tired and relieved at the same time.
Around the market, people were watching. Taking notes. Drawing conclusions. Doing what small towns did with information.
Eliot pulled Dalene in. Closed the distance and brought her against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and held on, shutting out the onlookers. She came without resistance. Her head found the space just below his shoulder like it had been designed for the purpose.
She fit. She fit against him the way two fronts that had been moving toward each other across a long distance.
His chin found the top of her head. His right arm settled across her low back, his left hand squeezed her at the base of her neck.
The lavender came up warm from his jacket still around her shoulders.
He felt her breathe. In. Out. Slower than before.
The market moved around them, unhurried and golden in the October light, and he stood in the middle of it with Dalene Austen fitted against his side and told himself this was part of the deal, part of the plan. He was holding her for an audience.
He was doing it because people were watching and it was good for the plan. It was a bonus that Tristan had just walked away looking like a man who understood what he'd given up.
That was why Eliot did it. So why was he holding her longer than was necessary to get that point across?
He pressed his chin a little more firmly to the top of her head. And that's when he heard the camera flash. The sound was so odd, so out of place in a world of smart phones. But Gemma was old school.
She slung the camera over her shoulder as she approached them. "That," she said, nodding at her camera, "is going to make for a very good story. Too bad it's fake."
Neither Eliot nor Dalene moved. Neither of them spoke.
Gemma looked between them with a pleasant expression. "Don't worry. You'll both get what you want once the article runs." She looked at Eliot. "The network will see you're rehabilitated. Valor loves you. The meltdown becomes a footnote."
She turned. At the market entrance, Tristan and Brooke stood six feet apart. Brooke's arms were folded. Tristan's jaw was tight. Neither of them was looking at the other.
Gemma looked back at Dalene. "And it looks like you'll get what you want too. A new narrative for your neighbors to gossip about."
Gemma walked away. The fiddle player started something new. Someone laughed two stalls over.
Eliot looked at Dalene. Dalene looked at Tristan and Brooke. Eliot couldn't read her face. She'd put the assembled one back on. The smooth and untroubled fake smile. The one he was getting better at knowing when it was there but not yet good enough at seeing through it.
"Dalene?" he said.
"I'm fine," she said.