Chapter Twelve
James felt like a teenage kid counting the number of times he’d touched his high school crush on a date.
Seven.
Once walking out of the room and into the hall.
Twice as they found their table in the restaurant.
Twice she’d placed her hand over his while talking during their meal.
Once more as they were leaving the restaurant .
. . and one more time when they found a quiet deck to stroll after all the food they’d consumed.
James was pretty sure there was one more, but he couldn’t quite place when it was.
Counting the contact wasn’t so much the goal, but the lack of Mari’s uncontrollable flinch from his hand that gradually faded.
Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was time and trust.
Or maybe, just maybe, Mari was desiring the contact as much as he was.
God, he hoped it was the latter.
Because, yeah . . . Mari D’Angelo was an unexpected gift he didn’t know he needed.
There were times on the ship when it felt like the captain was racing to a finish line. Tonight, it drifted as if their next location was in sight, but they didn’t have a parking space before the morning.
“I think that might have been the best Italian meal I’ve ever experienced,” James announced as they walked along the covered deck.
“Mmm, it was good,” Mari said. “But you haven’t tasted mine.”
He wasn’t really talking about food, but James went with her lead anyway. “Is that an invitation?”
“I can’t imagine we’d return to San Diego and never see each other again.”
He liked where this was going.
“Seeing you and an invitation for dinner are two very different things.”
“They are?” She genuinely looked confused.
“They’re not?”
“I own a restaurant, James. You can’t come by without me feeding you.”
“I can’t?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “It isn’t done.”
“Like cappuccino after noon?”
Mari smiled. “You’re a quick learner. I like that.”
The breeze picked up, and Mari covered her bare arms with her hands.
James shrugged out of his jacket. “May I?”
She offered a nod, and he placed his jacket around her shoulders.
That’s eight.
He cursed his own idiocy for counting.
Mari pulled the edges of his coat around her. “Thank you.”
“Did you always want to be a chef?”
She chewed on that for a moment before answering. “I always knew I’d be a chef. It came with being the daughter of a restaurateur. I don’t think I even considered anything else.”
“No regrets?” James asked.
“No. Regret is a waste of time and energy. If there is something you wish to have, reach for it. At the same time, know you can’t change the past. But every day you live in a life you don’t want, it’s a choice you’re making.
If I regretted being a chef my whole life and still chose to walk into the kitchen at my age .
. . well, that’s just stupid. Saying you regret it while still doing it is like, I don’t know .
. . standing in the snow with bare feet, regretting it, but still doing it. That’s not regret, that’s whining.”
“I don’t think I’ll look at the word regret again without that colorful explanation.”
“Don’t you agree?”
“I do. That’s the beauty of getting older, isn’t it? The wisdom that comes only with age.”
She sighed. “I like being older. I hear people complain about it. This hurts, that aches. Birthdays are a privilege that not everyone gets.”
“Like your Paulo?”
That soft smile Mari wore when she mentioned her late husband lofted at the edges of her lips. “Thank you for saying it like that.”
“What do you mean?”
They stopped and leaned against the railing as they talked.
“My Paulo. It must be strange for you.”
“What do you mean?”
She swallowed. “This.”
James said nothing and let the confused look on his face do all the talking.
Mari lifted her chin, a move James was coming to recognize as her way of gearing up to say something with passion. That passion could be anger, frustration, demanding, or simply explosive. Like whatever she’d said after his joke about ketchup.
Either way, she lifted her chin and quickly said, “Much as I’d like to convince myself that this isn’t a date, it is a date.
I’m on a date for the first time in . . .
well, since I was a teenager.” She quickly muttered something in Italian before she continued.
“It must be strange for you to be dating someone who still has love for another man.”
James slowly smiled and waited for Mari’s eyes to find his before he spoke. “First of all, I’m glad you said all of that out loud. Yes, this is a date. I think it’s a surprise to me as much as I think it is a surprise to you.”
“It is.”
James reached forward and pulled his coat tighter around her shoulders. Mari was shivering, but he thought that was more nerves than cold.
It wasn’t cold.
“Second, how I feel about you still caring for Paulo can’t possibly hold a candle to what being on a first date after him is to you.”
“It’s strange.”
“I bet.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t thought about him nearly as much as I thought I would.”
James did his best to contain the smile.
“I’m not sure that will last, James.”
“This is new for both of us. Talk to me. I’ve never dated a widow. I have zero expectations. I just know I like spending time with you and want to continue doing so.”
Mari looked at the ground and shuffled her feet.
James reached out, placed a finger under her chin, and directed her gaze to his.
They just stared at each other for several seconds. Neither of them talking.
He really couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.
He did know that women needed to feel safe. And he was going to do everything in his power to prove that in his arms, she would be safe with him.
Proving that started now.
James took a chance and stepped close and slowly gathered her into his embrace.
There was no attempt at a kiss, there was nothing suggestive about his touch. He simply wanted to hold her and remind her what it felt like to be held.
An awkward moment passed before Mari’s arms circled around his waist.
James guided her head to his shoulder and heard her sigh.
That sigh was heaven to his ears.
He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, saying nothing, yet everything in that silence. He scolded his body to behave, knowing this was the extent of the contact they’d have at this point. Mari had to set the pace here. Or the trust he was building would shatter.
He liked this woman too much to risk that.
Eventually, they pulled apart, with both of them smiling.
They arrived back in his stateroom, where the cabin steward had pulled out and made up the sofa bed in the living room, as well as doing a turndown service, complete with a mint on the pillows and an animal designed out of bath towels on the beds.
Mari looked around the room with a huff. “My clothes aren’t here yet.”
“My guess is they’ll be ready in the morning,” James said.
Mari removed his jacket from her shoulders and draped it over a chair. “I can’t exactly sleep in this,” she said, pulling at the bodice of her dress.
James crossed behind her and opened one of the drawers in the bedroom. “How about one of my T-shirts?”
When she hesitated, James added, “Or you can sleep naked.”
One look over his shoulder and he knew what she thought of that suggestion.
“One lucky T-shirt it is.”
“James,” she scolded.
He laughed and handed her the team shirt he wore at Ellie’s softball games.
It sported the black and red colors of her team, with Russell written on the back of it. Under Russell, in smaller letters, was the word Dad.
“Thank you.”
“And there’s a bathrobe in the closet. No need for you to feel exposed in any way.”
“That’s very thoughtful.”
He stared at her for a moment and knew he’d never be able to wear that shirt again without picturing her in it.
“Let me get a few things.” He collected what he needed for the night, including his toothbrush from the attached bathroom, and moved into the living room.
Mari stood holding his shirt and watching him walk around the room.
Eventually, he stopped and smiled.
She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I had a great evening.”
“So did I,” he replied.
“And thank you again for doing all this.” She lifted her hand holding the shirt.
James removed some of the space between them and started to brush her hair over her shoulder, only to stop himself as he played with the strands between his fingers.
“To be perfectly clear . . . I want to kiss you.”
Mari pulled in a tiny, sharp breath.
“I’m not going to. Offering my room to you wasn’t about that.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
“James . . .”
“Even if you wanted me to kiss you.” He shook his head. “I’d have to say no.”
That had her blushing like a woman half her age.
“I’d be happy to try that tomorrow.”
She laughed softly, and James released her hair.
His fingers lingered, and the heat in the pit of his belly started to swell.
“Good night, James.”
“Sweet dreams.”
She started to turn, and stopped.
Maybe she wanted that kiss.
“I forgot.” She turned her back to him. “The zipper.”
That was it! The missing time he’d touched her that night and didn’t count.
Reaching for the clasp, he carefully slid the zipper down, revealing her skin underneath. He wanted to kiss that spot between her shoulder blades more than he wanted to take his next breath.
He settled for ending his torture and letting go. But not before he placed a kiss on the top of her head.
Was that her leaning in?
Or was his imagination getting the best of him?
“That doesn’t count,” he whispered.
Mari stepped away and moved to close the door.
Their eyes met.
“See you in the morning.”
“In the morning.”
Once she closed the door, James heard her mutter something in Italian.
He needed to download an app.
Mari leaned her back against the closed door. What was happening? How was it that her stomach was filled with butterflies? She didn’t do butterflies.
James was equally as charming as he was wise and funny. And thoughtful. So very thoughtful.
When he’d held her on the deck, a dormant spark broke free of the cage it had sat in for a decade. Just the act of being held by a man who wasn’t family. She couldn’t help but think of Paulo and his long, loving hugs. “I miss that,” she said to Paulo as if he were standing right there.
A sense of comfort and warmth, a feeling so visceral she could reach out and touch it, drifted in the air around her.
“Promise me you’ll try and love again.”
How many times had he said that to her in his final days?
Was that what she was doing?
She’d convinced herself that she didn’t need this.
Didn’t need a man’s arms around her. Or a soft touch or brush of his hand against her hair, or his breath on her shoulder . . . and yes, even a kiss on her head.
But God, it had felt so nice to feel that again.
A single tear broke free and ran down her cheek.