The Wonder of Now

by Beck, Jamie

  Sadly, before that start-up could take flight, brain cancer went to work, eating away all the hopes and dreams his dad had ever had. His father never saw the glory of the setting sun’s golden-peach light hitting centuries-old stucco. Never dodged scooters, or sampled fresh-baked cannoli, or listened to Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, and Chinese being spoken all around him.

  Nor did his dad stand outside a tiny restaurant that smelled like tomato and onion while waiting for a beautiful woman who looked like a classic movie star to emerge from the crowd.

  “Good evening.” He bowed, trying not to fixate on the long line of her neck or the way the pale-plum dress swayed when she walked.

  “One of these days I swear I’ll be waiting for you for a change.” She looped her arm through his and headed for the door as if she hadn’t lit his every nerve on fire with her touch. When she leaned so close that they were shoulder to shoulder, the sweet, clean scent of her hair gave sharp contrast to the savory aroma of pork coming from the front door. “But I’m curious. You looked a little sad all of a sudden. What were you thinking?”

  “Did I?” He shrugged, avoiding the discussion. “Must’ve been the sun hitting my eyes.”

  She cocked an eyebrow but didn’t push.

  Once they were inside the restaurant, his gaze wandered. Whitewashed stucco walls met with ancient rough-hewn wood-beam ceilings. The layout was something of an underground labyrinth filled with farmhouse and tile tables and idle chatter in a musical language he wished he understood. Modern beams stuffed with thousands of wine corks framing the bar that sat several feet above the first set of dining tables left him wondering about all the celebrations that had taken place here.

  They followed the maître d’ down a small flight of stairs to a table for two.

  “Benvenuto.” An older gentleman stopped by the table. “Ti porterò alcuni menù.”

  “Grazie,” Peyton replied.

  Mitch waited for an explanation.

  “He’s bringing us menus, but I don’t need one. I’m getting the amatriciana. If you like pasta, it’s to die for.”

  In truth, pasta at the Mathis house had been served with jarred sauce. Nothing to brag about. His mother had never mastered much beyond basic meat-and-potatoes fare.

  “Are you willing to trust my recommendation?” Peyton asked.

  The waiter returned and set the menus in front of them, but Peyton continued staring at Mitch with a question in her eyes. He nodded, having no particular taste for something else at the moment anyway. Her responding smile was worth it, even if he didn’t end up loving the meal.

  She pushed the menus toward the waiter, face filled with animation. Such a contrast to the way he’d left her earlier. “Due amatriciane, per favore. E una bottiglia di Quaranta Sessanta. Grazie.”

  The waiter nodded, rather stone-faced, and took the menus when he left.

  “This might not be a tourist hot spot, but the food is good, and I love the vibe in here. Cozy, real.” Peyton sat back, wearing a pleased smile. “It feels good to be back. There were days when I doubted I’d see this city again . . .”

  He sidestepped the reference to her illness, sensing they’d both had enough of that topic today. “I didn’t know you speak Italian.”

  “I don’t. Not really. I’ve picked up enough to read menus and order room service. Food was always my favorite part of traveling. I’d hire tour guides to help me when I went sightseeing and needed a history lesson. Then I’d peel away and lose myself for hours, wandering off the beaten path, looking for something unusual or undiscovered.”

  Her face came alive—eyes twinkling, cheeks flushed with warmth, lips curved upward—when she spoke about her past, giving him a peek at the energy she must’ve had when she’d been healthier.

  “Do you miss it?”

  She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap, a slight smile lingering on her lips. “Not at the moment.”

  The flirtatious grin—if that was what he was seeing—almost made him forget that this was a client dinner, not a date. Not. A. Date.

  “Perhaps we should talk a bit about what to expect in Barcelona. Your first bookstore event . . .”

  “Are you trying to ruin my favorite meal?” She smiled, but he couldn’t miss the warning in her eyes.

  “Okay, no work. So then, tell me, is there any place you haven’t traveled to that you’d like to see?” A safe topic. Now he had to make sure he didn’t stare at her mouth while she spoke.

  The waiter passed by, setting down a small basket of freshly baked rustic bread. Peyton snatched a thick slice. She blended olive oil, salt, and grated Parmesan on a plate and dipped a corner of her bread into the mixture. “I’ve been everywhere. Well, almost every country. Not every city.”

  She shoved a hunk of bread into her mouth. He readjusted his napkin as an excuse to look away. It figured that his first experience being thunderstruck would be with someone who was not only his high-profile client but who might also get deathly ill again in the not-distant future. That sobering thought formed a knot in his chest.

  “So there’s no place left on your bucket list?” If ever a forehead-slapping moment existed, this would be it. He blamed his need to distance himself from her for why he’d reintroduced the specter of death into their casual conversation.

  If the topic upset her, she didn’t show it. Could the bread be that good?

  “Did I sound obnoxious?” she asked. “I have to admit, having traveled so extensively comforted me during the lowest points of my treatment. I’m lucky to have seen most of the world—and been paid for it—before I die.”

  He’d opened the door to the topic, but he didn’t like her contemplating her death, even when she did so with aplomb. His face must’ve betrayed his thoughts, because she fluttered her hands. “Let’s not talk about me or my cancer tonight. After today, I wish I didn’t have to talk about it ever again. Let’s talk about you.”

  “Me?” Oh no. His life would bore this woman. Hell, it bored him most days.

  “Yes, you, Mitch Mathis, a.k.a. Optimus, a.k.a. Butters.”

  “Butters? That’s not flattering.” He reached for comfort food in the bread basket.

  “Better than Cartman.” She chuckled.

  “Let’s stick to Optimus.” He dipped his bread in her concoction. “At least I can pretend to take it as a compliment.”

  “Okay, Mitch-by-many-other-names.” She set her chin on her clasped hands, a glint in those gorgeous pale eyes. What would those shining pools look like when flooded with desire? “Tell me your secrets.”

  I want you.

  The waiter returned and uncorked the wine, giving Mitch a moment to collect himself. After Peyton sampled the wine and the waiter poured them each a generous glass, he left them alone. If Mitch had hoped the interruption would deter Peyton, he’d been wrong.

  “So . . . you were about to share a secret.” She swirled her wineglass, watching the garnet-colored liquid circle the inside of its bowl before settling, its legs trickling down the glass like tears.

  He hid his longing behind a sip from his own wineglass. “If I did, it’d no longer be a secret. How about we start with something simple, like my job?”

  “Small talk is dull. Besides, you heard my most intimate experiences today.” Her cheeks filled with color, making him aware of how well she’d hidden her discomfort earlier. “It’s only fair that I learn something personal about you. Something like . . . what was your most embarrassing moment?”

  She sat straighter, as if eager for his answer. He blinked in the face of her probing question. Most embarrassing moment . . .

  “You’re blushing!” She chuckled before sampling more wine. “This ought to be interesting.”

  “It’s really not.” His phone buzzed, so he peeked at it. An update from Rebecca. He slipped it back in his pocket.

  “I’ll be the judge.”

  He sighed at his lose-lose situation before capitulating. “When I was around thirteen, I walked
in on my parents in bed . . . except they weren’t beneath the covers. In fact, they were quite adventuresome.”

  She choked on her drink and then laughed, waving her hands. “Oh God, I don’t even want to think about my parents in bed. If I’d walked in on them as a kid, it might’ve turned me off sex forever.”

  It sure hadn’t fueled his sexual fantasies. Then again, soon thereafter, they’d all had more important things to think about, and fantasies had taken a back seat to prayers and fear and then anguish.

  “There’s that sad look again. Did I strike a nerve, or is talking about sex making you miss your girlfriend?” She slouched back, placing her hands in her lap.

  He shouldn’t go there, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my imaginary girlfriend.” He tried to meet and hold her gaze, but she won that game of chicken.

  “Imaginary? That surprises me.” In a good way, if that smile indicated her true feelings. Might she like him as he did her? Not that it mattered.

  “Does it?” He toyed with his fork to keep from fanning himself. “Starting my own business this year hasn’t left much time for romance.”

  “What about Tinder?” She laughed at him when he choked, then leaned forward. “Seriously, Mitch. Good-looking, ambitious men never have a shortage of willing partners. Did someone break your heart? Is that what’s behind the occasional glum mood?”

  “No one broke my heart.” He frowned. “And I’m not glum.”

  “No one’s ever broken your heart?”

  He recalled Mary Stewart, who’d helped him through the earliest stages of grief after his father had died. Then he thought about Danielle—although that was regret more than lingering heartache.

  “Aha! There was a girl.” Peyton clapped her hands together, a smug smile proving her to be very pleased with herself.

  “‘Girl’ being the appropriate word,” he mumbled, reluctant to get deep into the weeds with this discussion. When Peyton didn’t back off, he elaborated just enough to satisfy her curiosity. “Eleventh grade—Mary Stewart, my first sexual experience. But that spring she dumped me for Tom Sample, a senior with a football scholarship offer from Clemson.”

  Peyton shrugged. “Jocks are all the rage when we’re young. But puppy love isn’t real heartbreak, Mitch.”

  “No.” He knew heartbreak, though his biggest heartache had had nothing to do with women or romance.

  “So you must be a love ’em and leave ’em guy, then.” An abrupt scowl seized her face until it melted into something more contemplative. “Or you’ve never let yourself get close enough to get hurt.”

  “You seem to enjoy spinning these tall tales. Perhaps you should write a romance novel next.”

  She narrowed her gaze, circling the index finger she’d pointed at him. “I see what you’re about, turning this back on me. Uh-uh. That only tells me to go for the jugular. Is the reason you have such a hard rule about not dating work-related women because you had a bad experience doing that?”

  He swallowed more wine.

  “I’m right.” She preened.

  Had it not been for the zip of pleasure he derived from her singsongy tone and cat-ate-the-cream expression, he wouldn’t have said more. But if the most he could ever enjoy with Peyton involved this suppressed sort of flirtation, he’d seize the moments where he found them.

  “Yes, I, Optimus, robot-around-town, made the massive mistake of getting involved with a coworker when I worked at Savant’s mystery and thriller imprint, Rebus.”

  Her eyes went round as she leaned forward, hands stretching across the table as if she might grab his and shake them. His fingers itched for her touch, but she withdrew. “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He knew at once she wouldn’t let him off the hook with that response. “Suffice to say, when it ended, she made my life hell.”

  “Did she accuse you of something?”

  “No. Ours was a consensual relationship. But when we were together, I’d made the mistake of confiding my complaints about our boss to her, and of sharing some of my more-creative ideas. Very, very stupid, I know. Once we broke up, she not only took credit for some of my work but also cozied up to our boss and ‘let things slip’ at a time when she and I were both up for a promotion.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry she betrayed you that way.” Peyton paled.

  He nodded, well aware of Danielle’s deft manipulation of the situation. It’d taken him a year to restore his reputation at Savant. Making a play for its newest author while on this tour would be beyond stupid.

  His phone rang. It had to be his mom or Lauren—everyone else texted. For once he welcomed the interruption, because it brought an end to that unpleasant topic. “I’m sorry. Family call. Do you mind if I make sure it’s nothing urgent?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thanks.” He answered the call, tucking his chin and whisper-talking. “Lauren, if you and Mom aren’t bleeding out, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait! Mom’s freaking on me. I can’t help her bake for the church fair Saturday because I forgot about the stupid thing and made other plans. Besides, I’m not the baker, you are. Can you reason with her, please? Tell her it’s okay to buy slice-and-bake dough this one time.”

  This type of “emergency” wasn’t anything new or unexpected, but something about Peyton staring at him from across the table made him acutely aware of how ridiculous the interruption was. “Lauren, I’m with my client. This can wait.”

  “You know Mom starts getting weird when you aren’t around. If you don’t calm her down, she’ll have a stroke.”

  His relentless sister would keep at him until he caved. Given their mom’s temperament, that stroke comment wasn’t too far off the mark, either.

  “Fine. I’ll call her in an hour. Goodbye.” He hung up and slipped the phone in his pocket. “Sorry.”

  “Everything okay?”

  He nodded, unwilling to relay the details of the absurd exchange. Of course, had he been home, he’d have been happy to bake with his mother. Baking was the only thing he’d ever found in life that gave him the exact result he expected, as long as he followed the rules. A soothing hobby in an otherwise unpredictable and often unsympathetic world.

  An eager smile returned to her face. “So how did it all get resolved . . . with the coworker chick? Tell me she ended up the loser in the long run.”

  He felt the grimace take over his face before he could stop it. It seemed he would not get away with brushing Peyton off. “I got transferred to the Epistle imprint to work on nonfiction. Lots of biographies by old men. But I did work my way up to the head PR spot in that imprint, so it worked out. Danielle has continued crawling over others’ backs to climb the ladder at Rebus.”

  She laughed, low and sultry, and her eyes glowed like liquid fire. “What a shame you didn’t stick with Savant and get to make her life a misery by flaunting better girlfriends in her face. Or perhaps I should be glad. Otherwise I might be sitting here with someone else.”

  “Clearly, that would’ve been my loss.” Even he heard the hunger in his tone.

  Like when they’d been on the airplane, another charged silence gripped them. He wasn’t so obtuse that he couldn’t feel the mutual attraction hanging in the air, surrounding them like a thundercloud ready to burst. Temptation pulsed with each heartbeat.

  Before either said more, the waiter appeared with two steaming plates of pasta that smelled nothing like bottled Ragú. “Buon appetito.”

  “Grazie,” Peyton replied as she picked up her fork. She then shot Mitch a sassy look. “Prepare to lick every last bit of that sauce from your plate.”

  She expertly twirled a forkful of spaghetti and placed it in her mouth, closing her eyes while uttering a moan of approval that made his groin pulse. Seconds later, she opened her eyes and watched him as if eager to gauge his reaction.

  He did his best to mimic her technique, unprepared for the tang of salty pork, acidic tomato
, and sweet onion flavors awakening his taste buds. His brows knit in surprise and he nodded. “Mmm.”

  “Told you.” She smiled, forking up more pasta. “At least when it comes to food, I can always be trusted.”

  He set down his fork and studied her. A tic in her cheek told him that she knew she’d slipped up. He should let it go, but he couldn’t—not after he recalled her earlier concern about questions she might not want to answer. “That implies that you can’t always be trusted. Now I’m curious . . .”

  Chapter Six

  Peyton didn’t often slip up that way, which proved how out of practice with casual conversation she’d become. Now she’d have to offer Mitch some explanation. She’d been careful to cut passages about Claire and Todd from the memoir because she hadn’t wanted to cause Claire additional pain or embarrassment by making their rift known beyond the boundaries of Sanctuary Sound.

  “Sorry,” Mitch said, apparently reading her discomfort with the same precision he did almost everything else. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s fine.” She couldn’t quite say why she wanted to blurt the whole ugly mess except that maybe, in some way, if they were ever to become real friends, she wouldn’t have to worry that she’d hidden a crucial piece of history from him. Honesty at the expense of her dignity—quite a trade-off. “I opened the door, didn’t I?”

  “Not intentionally.” He tried and failed to twirl his pasta right, making her itch to teach him, except she doubted that he’d like that. In her experience, men didn’t much appreciate lessons from a date—or, since this wasn’t a date, from a woman.

  She gulped her wine and set down the empty glass. “You might as well know the whole truth, in case someone else finds out and brings it up.”

  His mouth fell open and he sat back. “That bad?”

  She nodded. “The supershort version is that I stole my best friend’s boyfriend.”