A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (31)

Ricki took a deep breath, realizing that she, once again, had embarrassed herself in a fraught social situation. She turned around to leave.

“But do you think it’s tragic or romantic?” he asked.

She looked back, frankly stunned that he’d listened. And cared enough to respond. “What did you say?”

“The story. Is it tragic or romantic?”

“To… to me, it’s romantic. Wildly romantic.”

“I think it’s tragic,” he said, burrowing a little into his scarf. “Abandoning your love because you know your love will hurt them? Sounds like torture.”

“Sounds like you know from experience.” Ricki met his eyes.

He nodded at her. “I really should go now.”

Yet he still didn’t budge. Why was this so hard? Ricki felt a powerful physical pull drawing her toward him. Did he feel it? It was inescapable. Every time she tried to leave, she couldn’t. Well, she didn’t want to. And it was clear that he didn’t, either.

Maybe this was an enchanted garden. Maybe it was just leap year weirdness. Resigned, she sat down on a wrought-iron bench under an apple tree.

“What kind of artist are you?” she asked.

“Musician.” The tension eased in his face, as if he were relieved she gave him a reason to stay.

“A musician who fake-meditates in public gardens.”

He chewed at his bottom lip and eventually joined her on the opposite side of the bench. “I’m a city person, but I need to be around green things sometimes. It’s almost soundproof here. You can’t really hear the cars or the people. None of that city caterwauling. Just the birds, and the trickle of the pond.”

Caterwauling? Such an outdated word.

“Country sounds are louder than city ones sometimes,” she said.

She saw him notice her dirt-encrusted fingernails on her lap. Quickly, she wiped her hands together. “Sometimes I like to ground myself by feeling the earth. I don’t know, it feels like an ancient human ritual. Like cozying up to a fire for warmth or balancing a baby on your hip.”

He leaned back against the bench, tilting his face up to the sky. “Marveling at the moon.”

She looked upward. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you opened a flower shop? Because plants feel elemental and powerful, older than us?”

The breath went out of Ricki. No one had ever asked. Or gotten it, without her telling them.

“Yes. And I also love delicate, soft things. A beautifully composed song. Handwritten notes. A gorgeous meal. Cultivating beauty energizes me.”

The trees shifted in the icy wind, moonlight spilling through the branches.

“You’re an aesthete,” he said.

“I guess I am,” she said, beaming. It was enormously flattering to have a fascinating stranger see this in her. “Aesthete. It’s one of my favorite words.”

He didn’t smile, but she saw his eyes sparkle.

“What kind of musician are you?” she asked, loosening up. “Let me guess. You look like a producer. Mumble rap? K-pop? Brooklyn drill?”

And then there it was. The barest shadow of a smile. She detected a small dimple and instantly felt her cheeks flush. Jesus. That smile was potent, special, the kind of smile that should be saved for formal occasions. Like your finest jewelry.

“Out of all the genres, why those?” he asked. “And Chicago drill is superior to Brooklyn.”

“You’ve obviously made a good living in music if you’re able to invest thousands into anonymous painters. Impressive at our age. It’s so hard to be both creatively fulfilled and financially secure.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “Is creativity more important to you than security?”

“I want both,” she said assertively. “I want it all.”

His lips curved upward slowly. “You’ll get it.”

Ricki was entranced by his quiet, solemn intensity. His deep, rich voice. Her thighs were fucking liquid, and she didn’t even know his name.

This man could quite possibly ruin my life, thought Ricki. Go. Now.

“On that note,” she said, standing up. “I really should get home. Good talk, Garden Gentleman Slash Mysterious Benefactor.”

“Who?”

“Long story.”

He stood up, too, and with almost courtly formality dipped his head and said, “Evening, ma’am.”

For the first time, Ricki noticed the slow, syrupy stretch of his vowels. There were definite New York–ish inflections, but she also heard touches of an almost Low Country drawl. Wherever he was from, his voice was unbearably charming.

She waved goodbye awkwardly and then hurried away down the path. She was halfway to the street exit when she heard him call out to her.

“One last thing.”

She stopped in her tracks. He walked over from the bench, pausing about five feet in front of her. Casually, he leaned his shoulder against a gnarled oak tree and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Richard Wilde the Second. Ricki.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. “Now I know who to file a restraining order against.”

“My stalking days are over,” she said, eyes sparkling. “What’s yours?”