Chapter 17Amelia
Chapter 17
Amelia
Through eating Chinese and taking the walk back to the lake house, lying awake and staring at my ceiling before a fitful sleep, and all the rest of the next day, working alongside one another at the café, I can’t stop thinking about Maverick.
As I watch him making coffees for endless customers, always with a ready smile, taking the time to listen to their stories, I scroll through everything I know about him.
I know he’s an American from a small town in Washington state with the most whimsical name of Maple Falls.
I know that he lives in Los Angeles and has a job he doesn’t particularly like, surrounded by fake people.
I know that he’s kind to lonely customers in the café.
That he listened to me read him my favorite fairytale, even though I’m sure he thought it childish.
That he’s patient in teaching me basic life skills, like how to wash strawberries and how to make a coffee without spraying myself with milk foam.
That he’s saved me more than once, like some fairytale knight in shining armor.
I know that he looks irresistibly cute as a goth, and totally out of place, that he’s tall and handsome, with the most kissable lips I’ve ever had the good fortune to see.
I know all these things, and added together it makes him the most perfect man of my acquaintance.
No one has even come close to having all the qualities Maverick has.
No wonder I’ve got feelings for the guy.
And they’re growing by the day.
“All set?” he asks, holding the mop he’d caught me dancing with only last night, the mop I’d imagined was him .
“Nearly.” I busy myself with rearranging the condiments shelf—the shelf I’d already arranged before he appeared at my side—to buy me some time before I need to look him in the eye.
Because looking Maverick in those deep blue eyes and seeing the warmth that lies there?
Hmm, so not a good idea.
“You finish up. I’ll go put your dance partner in the supplies closet.”
I chance a look at him. He’s smiling at his joke, looking impossibly handsome in his close-fitting plain white T-shirt that shows off his muscular arms, his pecs, his wide shoulders, his abs… oh, all of it. It shows every inch of his enviable torso off to perfection. All I can say is thank goodness he’s still wearing his pink Francine’s apron, because otherwise I might very well throw myself into his arms and confess how I feel.
“Sure. Okay,” I manage before I return my attention to the condiments that certainly don’t require a further rearrangement—but they’re getting another one anyway.
I don’t quite know how I’ve got through the last day in his presence, my new feelings for him swirling around inside of me like water going down a drain. And now it’s closing time and we’re heading back to the lake house, where it will be just him and me and those swirling feelings.
I blow out a breath.
Why did I have to go getting a crush on someone who’s not only my work colleague, but my housemate, too?
And I haven’t even told him who I really am.
Maverick strides past my position behind the counter, locking the door. “Front door and windows secured. Shall we head out the back?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say with a smile.
This is just Maverick. He’s my friend. Nothing more.
“After you, mademoiselle,” he says with a bow that wouldn’t look out of place in the State Room at the palace.
“Thanks,” I say as I traipse through the kitchen and out the back door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
Instead of answering, I feel his arms reach around my waist. My heart stops. What’s happening? Is he—? But then I look down to see him untying the long strap of my apron before he loops it over my head and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to get my breathing in check.
He hangs my apron on a peg and locks the door behind us, and then we begin the walk home along the cobblestone streets. Him taking his long-legged strides and me toddling to keep up.
We reach the town square, which is busier than usual at this time of day. There are people lounging on the church steps, others paddling in the fountain, and still others snapping selfies with the pretty town backdrop.
“Must be tourists,” Maverick murmurs, but no sooner have the words left his lips when music begins and I notice for the first time that many of the people in the square are dressed similarly, in ripped jeans, head bands, and fluorescent-colored shirts.
Justin Timberlake begins to tell us about a feeling he seems to have in his bones, the catchy beat thrumming, and instantly, the people dispersed around the square clamber together and begin to move in unison, facing us.
“What the—?” Maverick says, reflecting my exact thoughts.
“It’s a flash mob!” I say, excitement rushing through me. “I’ve heard of these but never actually seen one.”
The singer is now telling us to dance, dance, dance, and I can’t help but move to the music, the atmosphere around us electric.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” I ask Maverick.
“It sure is something,” he replies, his brows pulled together in his characteristic way.
What can he be worried about? It’s a flash mob, not the Mob.
By now, the dancers are in lines, the music pulsating around us, waving their hands then clapping them in unison before moving into a turn. They slide to the right, then shimmy to the left, slowly making their way toward us both.
It’s mesmerizing. Everyone is in perfect harmony, their outfits working together to make them look like a professional dance troupe.
“Have you seen one of these before?” I ask as I move from side to side to the music.
I notice someone in the crowd, dancing along with the others. “Oh, my. Is that Francine?”
“Where?” Maverick questions, and I point at the short, round figure of our boss, dressed in a fluorescent-colored skirt and white shirt, her hair teased to twice its usual volume. “Francine is involved in this?”
“Look! That's Mr. Bellamy from the bookshop!” I exclaim as I spot him moving stiffly to the music, his movements small and rigid. “Perhaps it's a whole town event they put on annually?”
“Maybe? They're getting closer.” Maverick places his arm protectively around me, and I can't help but wish he was doing so for another reason.
I smile up at him and see his jaw is clenched tight. “What are you worried about?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” he mutters, sounding anything but.
“Don't you like flash mobs?”
“It's just … why are they all looking at us ?”
I watch the dancers. “It could be that we're the only spectators here. It makes sense that they should all focus on something.”
Maverick pulls me closer to him, pressing me up against his firm, muscular body, which I am determined to ignore and instead focus on the rather wonderful spectacle playing in front of my eyes.
By now the dancers have spread out in a semi-circle around us and it's hard not to feel backed up against the wall. Quite literally, as it happens, the stone wall outside the pharmacy is mere inches from our backs.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the music stops and everyone begins to disperse casually, as though they weren't just dancing in perfect synchronicity for an audience of two rather bewildered café workers.
“Oh, my goodness,” I say as I recognize two more dancers, one man, and one woman.
The man approaches me and offers me a red rose at the very same time as the woman approaches Maverick and does the same.
Giovanna, looking more like Sophia Lauren than ever in her full skirt nipped in at her enviably slim waist, places a kiss on Maverick’s cheek, and a knot in my belly twists painfully.
“A beautiful rose for a beautiful rose,” Pierre says to me, his eyes trained on mine as he holds the rose out for me.
“Thank you.” Automatically, I take it from him as I have taken countless flowers from people on royal promenades, my eyes sliding back to Maverick. Giovanna is now smiling her confident smile at him, completely oblivious to the jealousy raging inside of me.
“You are a rose without thorns, and I am your perfect match,” she purrs as she pushes her long dark hair back, exposing the soft skin of her shoulder.
Maverick smiles at her as he takes the flower somewhat awkwardly, and I'm pleased to say it's one of his smiles that doesn't reach his eyes—not like the ones he gives me.
“You will think of me when you hold it, yes?” she asks, looking up at him bashfully.
Huh! Giovanna Fiorelli is about as bashful as a hungry cat at a seafood buffet.
“Do you like it?” Pierre asks, dragging my attention back from Maverick and Giovanna.
“Of course I do. It’s lovely. Thank you, Pierre. You’re very sweet.” I lift the rose to my nose, but its scent is too faint.
“All this was for you, to show you how special you are, Amy,” Pierre says as he takes my hand in his and presses a kiss to my palm. It’s alarmingly intimate, and I force myself not to snatch my hand away. Years of royal training has taught me to deny my instincts in such situations and instead paste on a banal smile.
“The flash mob was absolutely amazing. Thank you both so very much,” I say.
“Amy’s right. You guys nailed it,” Maverick says. He slips his arm around my shoulders, giving me a thrill, even though I’m sure it’s only because he wants to double down on his message to Giovanna that they can be nothing more than friends.
Whatever his motivation, I’ll take it—as desperate as that sounds.
Thankfully, Pierre lets go of my hand, and I wipe my damp palm on the back of my jeans.
“It was all for you, Maverick,” Giovanna says in her heavy Ledonian-accented English.
“Pierre said it was all for me ,” I say.
I couldn’t resist it. Take it up with my lawyers.
“It’s for both of you, our special Montelac visitors,” Pierre says with an outstretch of his arms.
“Really? Do you put on flash mobs for all your visitors? Because if you do, you must be exhausted,” I say, genuinely interested in this dance. “But on the other hand, it could be quite the tourist attraction. I’m certain people would come from all over Europe to witness your dancing.”
“We … err, we did it for you,” Pierre repeats.
Strange.
“Well, you did a great job, guys,” Maverick begins. “But we’ve got to go, right, Amy?”
“Right,” I say, still luxuriating in having his arm held around my shoulders.
“I’ve got that salmon back at the lake house I promised to cook you tonight. Remember?” he says.
“The salmon. Of course.” I know absolutely nothing about some salmon, but I’m not going to let a minor detail like that get in the way of getting Maverick away from Giovanna channeling Sophia Lauren, even if he’s told me he’s not interested in her.
He’s but a man, and she’s a woman most would be powerless to resist.
“Thanks again, you two. Splendid work. Just splendid,” I say.
“See you guys later,” Maverick adds.
I look over my shoulder when we’re at a safe distance to see them both watching us, Giovanna with a distinct scowl on her face, and Pierre looking … well, if I didn’t know any better, I would say he looks confused.
“What was that ?” Maverick asks, a laugh rumbling out of him as we reach the edge of the town.
“A terribly complicated way to tell someone you like them?” I offer, giggling.
“But that would have taken so much time to pull off. Even though it’s clear as day Pierre’s got a thing for you.”
“I’ve disagreed with you about that before, but now evidence would point to you being right.” I hold up the rose.
“You think?”
“And Giovanna certainly hasn’t got your ‘let’s just be friends’ message, if you did indeed communicate that to her.”
“Of course I did,” he replies, his tone indignant.
“What I mean is, she doesn’t speak terribly good English, and you don’t speak any Ledonian, so perhaps it got lost in translation?”
His arm is still around my shoulders, and as he comes to a stop, he pulls it away, looking into my eyes.
I look up at him, my heartrate kicking up a notch. “Did I say something?” I ask.
“No. It’s … I—” he begins, only to be cut off by Francine’s voice.
“Hello, you two,” she says, and Maverick instantly takes a step back from me as though singed.
Nooo! I’m dying to know what he was going to say! Of course the chances that he was about to tell me he feels the same way about me is probably one in a million, but even if there’s a tiny, miniscule, barely perceptible outside chance that he might have feelings for me, I need to know.
“You were amazing, Francine,” he replies smoothly. “You sure are a dark horse. A woman of many talents. Café owner and dancer.”
She smiles, pleased with the compliment. “It’s just a bit of fun, don’t you think?”
“It was so fun. I loved it,” I reply.
Francine beams at us, clasping her hands together. "I'm so glad! We wanted to make sure you both felt welcome here. It's not every day we get such special visitors."
There's something about the way she says "special" that makes me wonder if she knows more than she's letting on.
But that's impossible. No one here knows who I am.
Do they?
I glance at Maverick. He’s turned pale, as though he’s seen a ghost.
“What a thoughtful town you have. I've never felt so welcome anywhere,” I say, not pulling my gaze from Maverick.
What’s got into him?
“Anything for our favorite visitors," Francine says, giving us a little wave before hurrying away from us, up the street.
As Maverick and I resume our walk toward the lake house, I can't help but steal glances at him. He's twirling Giovanna's rose between his fingers, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Are you going to keep it?" I ask, aiming for casual and hoping I’m successful.
"What? Oh, this?" He looks at the rose as though surprised to find it in his hand. "Probably not. Seems a bit much, don't you think? The whole way they gave those roses to us, I mean."
"It was rather elaborate," I agree.
We walk in comfortable silence for a while, the evening surprisingly light as dusk settles. I'm acutely aware of every inch between us, the way our hands occasionally brush as we walk side by side.
"So," he says finally, and my heart soars. Is he about to tell me what he was going to say before Francine interrupted us?
“About that salmon.”
The salmon. Right.
“I may have stretched the truth a bit."
"You don't have salmon waiting at home?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"I don't even know how to cook salmon.”
We share a smile.
“Let’s stop by the market and pick something else up,” I suggest.
As we turn toward the market, roses in hand, I realize with startling clarity that I'm in real trouble here. Because this isn't just a crush anymore.
I'm falling for Maverick Mitchell.
A man who lives an ocean away.
A man who could never fit into my real life.
A man who doesn't even know my real name or how I live my life.
But as he smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do, I can't bring myself to care about any of that. Not yet. Not when everything about this moment feels so perfectly, impossibly right.
For now, I'll allow myself this—this adventure, this connection, this feeling. The rest of it can wait for tomorrow.
Or maybe the day after that.