Windswept

by Julie Carobini

  "At all."

  He gave a slight laugh. "What?"

  "You said you didn't care for it at all."

  He nodded and smiled, ducking as if he'd been caught. "Right. Right."

  "And how do you like it now?"

  A small smile persisted. "I've gained a whole new perspective, Sophia."

  The waiter delivered their chocolate-and-whipped-cream concoction, which was an ambitious undertaking, even for two. They'd been given both straws and spoons, he supposed, to use as the partaking progressed from ice-cream firmness to a pool of pudding.

  "So," he said, after his second bite, "this place was in a movie and that's why you like to come here?"

  She shook her head, waving her spoon around. "It's been in at least three movies and that's probably why I heard about it. I come here, though, because it doesn't take itself all that seriously."

  He looked around. Yup, hard to stay too serious in this place. "You mentioned your mother earlier. Did you also come here with her?"

  "Yes. Many times."

  "What was she like?"

  Sophia seemed to mull that for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "She was ... eccentric."

  "Ah, so like mother like daughter."

  Sophia laughed, visibly relaxing, her smile authentic. "Actually, we were very much alike, I'd say. My mother taught me to sew—I think I've mentioned that—she was artistic, but also quite organized."

  Christian scanned the fifty-year-old restaurant, a patchwork of art and kitsch.

  Sophia caught his eye. "I bet you're wondering why we liked to come here." She shrugged. "I don't know, really. One day we were jumping over puddles on the sidewalk, the rain coming down in sheets, when we ducked into this place. All at once it felt warm and aglow with happiness. We stayed here a good long time that first time."

  "Then it makes perfect sense that you'd want to return here often." He took one more bite, his mouth starting to freeze.

  "I couldn't return, actually. Not for a few years after. But then, after a while, I wanted to come back."

  "When did you lose her?" he asked quietly.

  "I was fifteen."

  Christian nodded, his heart heavy in his chest. If it were appropriate to wrap her in his arms right now, he would. "I'm sorry."

  She gave him a half smile. "It's okay. She's in here now." Sophia put a palm to her heart. "Knowing that has helped me through many times of heartache."

  She'd opened up to him, and though he knew he was treading close to territory she might deem private, he couldn't help himself. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "What did you mean when you said that someone in your family once wrote something hurtful to you?"

  She dropped her gaze to the table and gave her head a little shake before returning his gaze. "You know, that is something I have never in my life talked about." She sighed. "It was a long time ago. My, uh, my stepfather wrote some things in a letter that I do not wish to repeat. Although, I was never meant to read it in the first place."

  "I don't understand. Then how did you come to see it?"

  A flash of something, anger perhaps, or a kind of fear, flashed in her eyes. "My sister gave it to me."

  He stabbed at the soupy chocolate with his straw. "Your sister. Does Jackson know?"

  She reached across the table. "No. Please don't tell him. She's given him enough grief that I've vowed to keep the hard things to myself."

  Christian's eyes swept over her face. So many emotions passing across her features. He took a deep breath and asked, "Whatever did she have to gain by giving you your stepfather's letter?"

  "I sometimes think she did it to get back at me for being so close to our mother." She shrugged. "That is only a guess."

  "You mentioned something about addiction earlier. Was he an alcoholic?"

  She leaned her wrists on the table and lifted her chin, as if to think. "He drank too much sometimes, and even so after my mother died. But he really wasn't an angry person, even when he drank."

  "You don't have to defend him, Sophia."

  Her eyes flashed. "Oh but I do! You see, he never meant for me to see the letter. He knew that I read his words, and that I was deeply hurt. He tried to explain why he wrote it, but I'm not sure I ever understood what he was trying to convey."

  Christian studied her. She was lovely. So different from other women he had met. There were plenty who were smart and talented, yes, but kind? Forgiving? Humble yet beautiful? He couldn't name one other. "Maybe you reminded him of what he had lost. You said yourself that you and your mother were similar."

  Sophia stared at Christian. Maybe she had never thought of things in quite that way before. She swallowed, blinking back tears. Or maybe he had gone too far.

  He cleared his throat. "Where is your stepfather now?"

  "He's gone. He passed away two years after I left. Unfortunately, I was living here and he was in Italy."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm not sure if things were ever quite the same between us." She blinked away those tears, not meeting his eyes. "It's my one regret."

  He saw her back to the hotel, no awkwardness between them, yet their voices quiet. He paid the cab driver and escorted her into the building. After he knew Sophia was safely upstairs, he planned to walk the four blocks back to his own hotel to clear the webs that had formed between the thoughts in his head.

  "Oh!" She spun around to where Christian stood near the hotel's front doors. "I completely forgot that I dropped off some of my bags from the showroom at the bell desk. I was going to bring them to my room, but—"

  "But you were in a hurry to see me?" he quipped.

  She laughed—her old smile was back. "Something like that."

  He gave her a dramatic sigh. "Okay. Fine. I'll help you with your stuff." He avoided thoughts of what he would do when invited into her hotel room ...

  The bell desk was unstaffed. She gave her name to the desk clerk so she could call someone to retrieve her bags.

  "Sophia ... Agli?" the woman asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "I'm very sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  "We've had a delivery for you, but I have not had anyone available to bring them to your room."

  "A delivery? I wasn't expecting anything, but it's not a problem. We can take it with us now."

  "Wonderful. I will only be a moment."

  Christian leaned against the front desk as the desk clerk disappeared to dig up Sophia's delivery. "Good thing I brought my considerable muscle mass with me."

  Sophia gasped.

  "Hey, now. No need to be alarmed by my strength."

  "They're beautiful," she was saying.

  Christian turned to look over his shoulder and that's when a gasp left him too. The clerk struggled beneath an obnoxious display of red roses. "Somebody die?"

  She sent him a "you're incorrigible" look.

  He looked away, as if bored, while secretly hoping that those roses were from Jackson—though that would be weird.

  Sophia reached for the vase. "Thank you for taking such good care of them."

  A bellman appeared with two bags bearing Sophia's name. "Can I take these up for you?"

  "No, we can take them," Sophia said.

  One of the bags was stuffed and unwieldy, like a soccer bag full of balls and cleats. The other was a simple rolling backpack. Christian bent to pick up the overstuffed bag by its handle. How would it look if he were to leave her to navigate the halls with that overly aggressive spray of flowers in her arms while he grabbed the other bag—the one with the wheels—and pulled it behind him?

  He set his jaw—and reached for the flowers, noting the card signed, "All my love, Wade." Carrying Sophia's gift from another man gave new meaning to the term "walk of shame." What might putting a fist through a wall add to that phrase?

  They stood in silence in front of the bank of elevators. "Are you and Wade dating?"

  He had expected her to give him a knee-jerk "no." But she didn't. In
stead, she took a long while to answer—a gratingly long time.

  "To answer your question, Wade and I are not dating."

  The elevator doors opened, and he waited for her to enter before following her inside.

  "Because it seems to me that a guy doesn't send flowers like this unless, you know, there's a serious relationship in the works."

  She bit her lip and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear that had fallen from her updo. "He wants there to be."

  "He told you that, then."

  "He knew that Fashion Week has been consuming my time." She turned toward Christian, her expression earnest. "Wade has been a huge help to me these past few months. I'm grateful to him for so much."

  "So once this week is behind you ... "

  She rubbed her eyes. Despite their present conversation and his drive for answers, she had to be exhausted. Even he knew she had been moving nearly nonstop all day—and would wake up and hit the showroom floor in the morning for round two.

  "He's a good man, Chris," she finally said.

  So am I.

  Jackson's admonishment hit him in the gut: She needs someone stable.

  Christian had spent too many years taking what he wanted, when he wanted it. Except now. Jackson knew Christian's reputation intimately. Had covered for him when necessary. Friends through and through.

  He could not dishonor his friend's request that he leave Sophia alone.

  And considering she had someone waiting for her on the West Coast, he may not have even been given the option.

  As they walked the long hall to her guest room, Sophia changed the subject. "I can't wait to get home and sing Meg's praises to my brother. We'll all have to go out to dinner one night and recap this week."

  "About that ... "

  "Now, I know you still have many pages to write, but you'll have to take a break to eat, won't you?"

  They arrived at her door. "Sophia, I'll be leaving the inn soon."

  "Oh."

  "I'm sure the inn could use one of its best suites back."

  "I ... well, what about finishing your book? I was not aware that your stay had an end date."

  "It didn't, but you see, I'm nearly finished, and that means it's time for me to move on." And frankly, he'd rather go than see her with what’s-his-name, despite that promise to Jackson.

  "When do you leave New York?"

  "Tomorrow afternoon."

  "That soon?"

  He did not connect his gaze with hers. "It's time. But I thank you for giving me the grand tour of New York tonight."

  Her expression was awash with questions. "I hope you enjoyed it ... as much as I did."

  He didn't have an answer. He was beginning to find it difficult to breathe in this hot, stuffy, and altogether suffocating hall.

  She nodded, as if acknowledging his discomfort. She waved her key card in front of her door and let it fall open. He entered quickly, put the vase on the closest surface, and headed back out to the hall.

  Sophia took a step closer to him. "Meg and I will be heading back in a few days. I hope that we can find time for one more sunset out on the deck." She paused before saying, "I'd really like that, Chris."

  He took a step back and turned to leave, but turned around. "I'd like that too, Sophia. I would really like that too."

  Chapter 14

  Britt Jones had been the manager of Fifth Avenue Books for four years. She was a rock star in the book world, having set two feet on the precarious world of printed books even as the divide between internet sales and brick-and-mortar store sales had widened.

  If he had known how last night would end, he would not have agreed to stop by the bookstore.

  Christian accompanied her down aisles of shelves bulging with every topic and subtopic imaginable, an anomaly in the age of internet shopping and digital books.

  "Thank you so much for stopping by, CJ," she was saying. "And on your way to the airport! I was so pleased when you returned my call."

  He put on his professional voice. "It's a pleasure to stop in at my favorite bookstore—even though it is in the City."

  Britt laughed. "I will not be surprised one bit if one of these days I read that you've up and moved yourself to somewhere like Montana."

  He mustered a smile. "Could happen. Might even inspire me to set a book on a ranch."

  "That would be lovely." She led them into a room where two staff members were stacking books on a table. "Now, we've set you up here, out of the way of customers since this isn't an official book signing. Oh, I do appreciate this."

  Christian took in the stack of books. There must have been dozens. He tilted a look at Britt. "What's all this?"

  "Please don't take offense. If I had known you would be in town, I certainly would have placed a larger order. In fact, a secondary shipment is already on its way here."

  He scanned the stacks and did a mental calculation to figure out how much time this would take. "Do you want them all signed?"

  "Oh yes, if you can! Our patrons would love it. Ever since your next book was announced, we've had so many inquiries—you have no idea. At first, we didn't have many in and I wanted to say to those people—'Hey, why'd you wait so long to buy the first one?'" She had a fist pressed into her side, her expression comical.

  "But then, you know, people are deadline motivated. Good job floating out rumors about the next book before even making a preorder available." Her boisterous laughter bounced through the room. "Dazzling move, that one."

  He'd been called many things over the past couple of years, but dazzling wasn't one of them. For the next half hour he dutifully signed books while a staffer placed "signed by the author" stickers on covers. Muzak played in the background, providing a fertile ground for his mind. If Burns's announcement about his next book, which wasn't quite finished yet, had caused someone astute like Britt Jones to order up this many copies of his previous novel, then he'd learned a couple of things.

  First, buzz came from the unlikeliest places.

  And second, Burns had unwittingly done him a favor. He bristled at the likely scene his old agent would make once he learned that Christian had turned down Median Publishing's offer.

  "Isn't that why you came all this way?"

  When Sophia innocently asked him that million-dollar question (euphemistically speaking) last night, he'd had to face it himself. And the truth unveiled itself to him. Jackson had called him on it, but he'd rebuffed him. Said his travel plans, which mirrored Sophia's, were purely coincidental.

  But the truth had smacked him in the jaw last night: He had traveled all the way from the West Coast, to the dreary City, to be close to ... her.

  "I can think of a multitude of adjectives to describe you, Sophia, but scrappy is not—nor would it ever be—on my list."

  How had he managed not to tick off the string of adjectives he really had for her? Ethereal, breathtaking, sexy ... unforgettable ...

  "Sir?"

  Christian glanced up. The young staffer across from him gave him a quizzical look. He'd been staring into the void, his pen hovering over the open page of a book.

  "Thinking up a new story, sir?"

  An embarrassed laugh came out. "You could say that. Sorry to keep you waiting."

  "No problem. I do that all the time when it's slow around here."

  He was still thinking of this exchange at the bookstore when he stepped off the gangway and into the airplane at JFK. Only instead of the memory buoying him, the realization that he'd be checking out of the inn as soon as he landed cast a rope around his heart and tugged it down into the pit of his stomach with a mighty force.

  The red-eye sounded like a good idea at the time, and even though they had gained three hours on their journey from the east to west coast, Sophia could hardly wait for a hot shower and cool bed sheets.

  "You're here!" Trace's bold voice announced their presence to the lobby. She abandoned two women at the concierge desk to come around to give Sophia and Meg each a hug. "You gals are a sig
ht! Are you glad to be back? We heard all about it—sounds like an amazing trip."

  "It was, but you're right, I'm glad to be back," Sophia said.

  "Me too!" Meg said. "Where's my husband?"

  Trace chuckled. "That man better be out buying you flowers since he's not here to greet you."

  "I'm here, I'm here." Jackson stepped up to the desk, pulled his wife close, and kissed her soundly. He reached out to Sophia, gave her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. "You should've let me pick you up."

  Meg waved him away. "The shuttle was perfect. The driver only swore once."

  "Twice," Sophia chimed in.

  Meg laughed. "Okay, twice." She huffed a sigh and looked around. "I love this place."

  Jackson pulled her close. "This place loves you too."

  "Oh my gosh, it's getting thick in here." Trace fanned herself.

  Sophia leaned over to them both. "Before you two get out of hand, I just want to thank you both for your support. I'll never forget it." She gave Meg a hug.

  Meg hugged her back, tears lighting her eyes. "Not sure if it's the lack of sleep or what, but I'm pretty darn emotional right now. Love you, girl."

  Thomas appeared next to Sophia, a cart full of her luggage and boxes. "I'll go ahead and take these up to your suite now."

  "Wonderful. I'll go with you."

  They exited the elevator to the fourth floor with Thomas leading the way. Christian's door was open. She hesitated. They had not spoken since their dinner in New York, and though the days since had been dizzyingly full, more than once she had lingered on thoughts of his plans. Maybe he should stay awhile, get the book finished, and then figure out what was next. No sense in rushing away, especially now that the summer tourist season had passed. She'd been planning to take the issue up with Jackson, but with Christian's door open, now was as good a time as any to give him her two cents.

  She rapped her knuckles on the door. "Knock, knock."

  A housekeeper emerged from the bathroom. "Hello, Ms. Riley."

  “Hello, Mandy. I was looking for Mr. Capra." She glanced behind her. "There's no cart by the door, so didn't realize his room was being cleaned."

  "Oh, it's not. I was just inspecting it for the next guest."