I should be glad about that, but I’m a little sad to have lost what’s now only an echo of the feeling of his hand, warm and rough, callused palm and fingertips.
The guy tugs at the brim of his ball cap, lowering it so the shadows over his eyes deepen as he stares down at the ground. “This is definitely very weird,” he confirms. “Seeing you here, after seeing you in Scotland.”
“So you saw me, too.” I tip my head, peering up at him. A smile wins out that shouldn’t, but I can’t help but be pleased: I didn’t just notice him that night; he noticed me.
He peers up from beneath his ball cap and catches me smiling at him. His mouth is mostly hidden by the thick beard, but I think it tugs down in a frown. He clears his throat as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t busy that night. ’Course I saw you.”
I lift my eyebrows. “It was very busy that night. I had to shoulder my way to the bar.”
Oh, now he’s definitely frowning. And I’m enjoying it. I have no business enjoying it, but I am. “Not how I remember it,” he says.
“But you do remember it.” My smile deepens.
His eyes narrow.
I bite my lip so I won’t laugh.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. I’m flirting for the first time in over half a year with the last person I should—someone whose life is entwined with Christopher’s, which means indirectly, it’s entwined with mine.
I want to ask him why he was in Scotland that night, as much as I want him to ask me what I was doing there, too. I want to invite him in for a whiskey, like I saw him drinking back at the pub last December, and learn someone new and feel those butterflies, the thrill of a fresh start.
But as my heart starts to pound, and not in the good way, I’m reminded that I’m not ready. And even if I was, he’d be the last person I’d try again with. If I acted on this with him, if he was as interested as I think he might be—judging by the way he keeps trying not to look at everywhere my wet dress clings to my curves—and if it went sideways with someone who matters to Christopher, who’s an important part of his life, that would be a disaster.
I need to go. I need distance from this man. Now.
As if the universe is smiling down on my resolve, the rain stops, leaving us in sudden quiet and soft, nighttime darkness closing in around the lights that brighten the greenhouse.
“Well,” I finally say, reaching back for my hair and squeezing the water out of it. “Now that the rain’s done, I’ll be going. But feel free to stay here and regroup from the party chaos for as long as you like.” I wait a moment, thinking maybe he’ll respond, but he doesn’t. He just clears his throat and tugs his ball cap lower again.
I offer my hand. “It was nice to see you again . . .”
It takes him a moment before he finally extends his hand and wraps it around mine. I bite my lip, resisting the urge to melt into how good his touch feels.
He doesn’t offer his name. So I don’t offer mine. I suppose, when all’s said and done, that’s for the best. It’s easier to leave someone in the past without a name to knit them to your memory.