The Wonder of You (10 page)

“Making coffee.”

“Oh, you’re a smart one. Seriously. What are you doing?”

“I believe it is a tall Moose Special, blended,” he said smartly.

“Roark!”

“Go out for dinner with me tonight.”

She blinked again, but he didn’t look at her, just began to blend the mixture. She waited until he finished to keep from shouting.

“What
 
—?”

“I just want to talk.” He poured the drink into a cup, added the lid. “Emma?”

Emma Hueston looked up from where she was texting near the door and retrieved her coffee. “Amelia. Hey.”

“Hey,” Amelia said, glancing at Roark, then at Ree and Vivie, whose expressions made the entire thing feel like an episode of
Big Brother
.

Emma walked away and Amelia pitched her voice low. “No, I won’t have dinner with you.” Although why those words issued
from her, she couldn’t say. Didn’t she long for this, a chance to talk to him, forgive him?

But what if her brothers
 
—or Seth
 
—found out? She’d call the feeling panic. “No.”

To her shock, he lifted a shoulder. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He shrugged again. “I’ll wait. I have coffee to make.”

“You really moved here to get me to go out with you? Isn’t that sort of . . . extreme?”

He looked at her then, his eyes so full of emotion that it swiped away the present, flung her back to that moment only four months ago, New Year’s Eve, when he’d leaned her direction, one hand braced against the wall over her shoulder, gaze in hers, searching.

When she could taste her heart in her throat.

“Amelia,” he said quietly, so softly she felt it more than heard it. “
Extreme
doesn’t begin to describe what I’d do to win you back.”

His words pulled her back to the present: the sounds of the beans spilling, the frothing machine, Kathy barking orders at the counter.

Ree and Vivie laughing from across the room.

He gave her a sad smile, and it settled deep inside her.

Oh, Roark.

She managed a quick, sharp shake of her head and fled to the safety of her friends.

“What do you mean you said no?” Ree said after Amelia ran down their short, brutal conversation. “What more does the man have to do?”

Maybe not so safe after all. Amelia sat there gripping her coffee, the sense of him still like heat inside her.

Roark had returned. For her.
Because
of her.

And Saturday, that
had
been him pulling Yulia’s mother from the river, trying to revive her.

“You know, he probably needs a tour guide, being new in town,” Vivie said. “I think I’ll go offer my services.”

“Vivie!” Ree said, but Vivien was already on her feet.

This time, Amelia caught her arm. “If anyone is showing him around town, Viv, it’s me.” She got up and walked back to the counter.

“Still making coffee,” Roark said, not looking at her. “Not going away.”

“I’ll have dinner with you.”

He smiled. “I’ll come around about seven.”

Oh, well
 
—“Meet me at the Harbor Grill.”

“Fair enough.” He capped another drink. “Chai latte for Vivien?”

“I got that,” Amelia said.

“Attagirl,” Vivien said as she delivered it. “Now, let’s angle our chairs and watch Mr. Bond save the world with coffee.”

Apparently Claire Atwood had become his dating therapist.

“So how much do I tell her?” Roark said. He looked into the dusty medicine cabinet mirror, one hand running the shaver, the other holding his mobile. He could hardly believe his fortune
 
—not only seeing Amelia, but getting her to agree to a date on his first day of work.

And Ethan had doubted him. He’d texted the guy, just to set him straight.

“Well, don’t mention the
R
word. We already know that. But you have to tell her enough so that she’ll give you another chance.”

“Right.”

“I think the fire story might be too much. You haven’t told her that, have you?”

“I omitted that.” In fact, he’d omitted nearly everything the first time around
 
—depended on charm and his vast knowledge of the trivial to make her laugh. “I did teach her about wine. And how to crack an oyster.”

“What every girl longs to know.”

He finished the shave, tucked the razor back into his kit. “I mostly let her talk. She told me about her life
 
—and I listened. I’ve heard girls like it when you listen.”

“You’re not wrong,” Claire said.

Through the line, he heard Jensen say, “Tell him to take her out to the lighthouse. That’s a great place to
 
—”

“Jens! It’s a first date!”

Not quite, but it felt that way, the way Roark’s stomach had roiled with nerves all day. He’d managed to keep his mind on working his way through the different specialty drinks, pulling the perfect shot of espresso and frothing the latte milk to the exact temperature.

It didn’t help that Amelia and her henchmen sat like critics for the better part of the morning. Or that she’d left with nary another word to him. But he held fast to her promise to meet him.

“Reiterate that Cicely was a friend. That she needed someone to talk to, and yes, that you had a history. It’s all true.”

“I said all that before. It didn’t seem to matter. And then I left
 
—how do I explain that?”

“Your uncle had a heart attack
 
—which is true too.”

“So play the sympathy card?”

“Have you never faked an injury to get a girl? Jens, this boy of yours could use some pointers!”

“I’m not going to lie to her.”

Silence.

“Much.”

“Just take her out, remind her of the guy she knew in Prague, and see what happens.”

But he didn’t want to be the guy he’d been in Prague. He wanted to be better.

“And call me tomorrow with an update. I’m eight months pregnant and you’re my only social life.” Claire rang off, and Roark laughed as he tossed the mobile onto the bed.

He stared in the mirror, listening to Amelia’s words today.
Are you out of your mind?

Probably,
he’d said, but he wasn’t. He’d never been surer about anything than when Amelia had walked into the Java Cup wearing jeans and a trench coat, her auburn hair flowing out from under a green beret, and taking his breath away.

Again.

Not unlike their meeting in Old Town Square, two days after he’d first seen her on the Charles Bridge.

He walked out into the main room, trying to choose a shirt, the memory of their first date sweet as it surfaced inside him.

“You again?” he’d said, although he knew perfectly well she’d be there, had asked Claude for the itinerary and details of the class.

He arrived with his satchel over his shoulder, camera around his neck, ready to take notes. To learn. To discover if Amelia had given any further thought to their meeting on the bridge.

“Hi,” she said, wearing the same trench coat and boots as the first time they’d met, her hair caught in a cap, her smile lighting up the square. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

Of course, she was probably referring to Týn Church, the famous gothic church located just off the square.

He nodded, paying it no mind.

Claude arrived without showing a hint of recognition
 
—good man
 
—and lectured for an hour in the grassy area in front of the fountain on f-stops and apertures. The entire class began to blur as Roark watched Amelia sit in the grass and take notes, twirling one long hair around her finger. They photographed the church then with different settings, and afterward, he invited her back to Charles Bridge because he knew of a café in the shadows. They walked through the cobbled streets, around gardens and monasteries, and he pointed out statues and ancient landmarks.

“You seem to know this city well,” she said later, spinning a glass of cabernet. The evening sun setting on the river turned her hair dark, the color of autumn leaves.

“Not well enough,” he said. “I went to school in Scotland, so only when I came on holiday.” True enough. He and Francesca had traveled here at least twice to visit her family
 
—once for a concert, another time when he accompanied her on a photo shoot.

“By the time I leave, I plan to know all the best hole-in-the-wall cafés in the city,” she said.

He made that promise to himself too.

“Where’s home?” he’d asked, and she’d leaned in, told him about a hamlet in the north woods of Minnesota
 
—a home pitched at the edge of a lake, three brothers, two sisters, and a life that reached out and entwined him with its charm.

A life that seemed reminiscent of one tucked deep in his memory.

By the time their pork knuckles arrived with creamy garlic potatoes and crusty bread, he’d plunked himself into her life, seeing a future with her.

He’d walked her home, longing to hold her hand, deciding that no, he should probably wait. Hope.

And show up for the next class.

Now Roark chose a blue shirt, pressed it on the bed, then threw on his leather jacket. He forwent the hat, the scarf, and set out for the half-block walk down the street early so he could pick their table. Perhaps order an appetizer.

He found the restaurant
 
—the one located next to the fish shop
 
—nearly vacant. Not odd for a Monday night, and it meant he had his pick of tables; he chose one overlooking the harbor. A schooner, its sails still lashed to the masts, rolled with the waves, and on the dock, gulls wandered, waiting for scraps.

He asked for a lit candle. Perused the wine list, then realized that in this country, Amelia couldn’t drink anything alcoholic.

Instead he ordered lemonade and bruschetta.

And at 7 p.m. precisely, his heart stopped in his chest when Amelia walked through the door.

She wore a blue dress, those tall brown boots, a leather jacket, and a teal-and-blue scarf he remembered buying for her in Paris. Her beautiful auburn hair was pulled into a long, sweeping tail.

He stood as she approached. “You came.” Oh, he didn’t mean for it to emerge quite so desperate, but there it was, his heart beating and raw right outside his chest. He tried to reel it back with “You look so lovely.”

She caught her lip in her teeth. “Thank you.”

He pulled out her chair. She sat, sighing, her eyes following him into the seat. “You know this isn’t necessary, right? I have already forgiven you.”

“I wanted to explain.”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” She clutched her bag in her lap. “Frankly I feel silly for making such a fuss about it.”

He sat back, flummoxed.

She didn’t look at him as she spoke, not slowing. “But don’t you think this is quite a bit of work for a fling? I mean yes, we had fun but
 
—”

“A fling?” He schooled his voice just in time. The waiter approached with the lemonade, but Roark gestured him away. “Amelia, I do not consider what we had a fling.”

She lifted a shoulder, looked out the window, and he saw her swallow.

Steady, boy. This was not the conversation he’d planned. “Darling. Never once did I believe that you were a dalliance. Every moment we spent together was . . . breathtaking. I never meant for you to think otherwise.”

She sighed again, and he took the moment to dive in. “That woman you saw me with
 
—her name is Cicely. She is just a friend
 
—”

“It doesn’t matter, Roark. I don’t care how many female friends you have. I was childish and stupid to be angry over something that is so easily explained.”

Oh. But her mouth tightened into a smile that seemed forced at best. “You did me a favor. Did
us
a favor. See, we never would have worked, not really.”

He sat back, stunned. Took a breath. “I don’t
 
—”

“You and I are vastly different people.”

They were? He wanted to argue then, a match lighting inside. Never had he felt so in tune, so right.

“Listen, I went to Prague to find adventure. And I found it.” She smiled, something genuine this time, her eyes softening. “You gave it to me.”

He did?

“We had a grand time, didn’t we?”

He didn’t quite know
 
—“We did. I
thought
we did.”

She gave a small laugh. “You remember when we went on that hunt for apple strudel?”

“You saw it on a television show here in the States and demanded we find it.”

“We took three trains, a bus, and walked a mile through a park.”

“And when we got there, the store was closed.” His sudden hope felt too feeble to smile.

“You bought me a Nutella waffle that night from a street vendor,” she said. “We ate them at the park right by the Church of Virgin Mary of the Snows.”

“The Franciscan Garden.”

“You told me about this place in Paris where you could get crepes the size of American pizzas.”

“You remember?”

“Because you took me there when we went to Paris.” Her eyes were shining now, free of the shadows that had hovered when she arrived.