Chapter
TWELVE
“You’re in better shape and better health than most men half your age.” The doctor removed his stethoscope and made a note on Warren’s chart. “Great heart, blood pressure, lungs. We’ll have your bloodwork by tomorrow. All the training you’re doing has clearly served you well.”
“What about the dizziness?” Warren asked.
Dr. Anderson studied his chart, a frown creasing his forehead. “Could be nutrition related or just because you’ve taken your training to a whole other level. Possibly a vitamin deficiency. I’ll know more when I get your blood results. If everything is normal, I’ll refer you to an ENT. Otherwise keep doing what you’re doing, and send me a selfie when you’re at the top of the Matterhorn.”
Warren thanked him, dressed, and left the office—glad about the good report but still uneasy about his sudden attacks of vertigo. The Matterhorn route required climbing vertical rock faces, some with drops that led hundreds of feet to the glaciers below. Narrow ridge lines, constant exposure, an unstable, difficult descent. A climber had to be as sharp and focused as he or she had ever been in life. Warren had been working to his limits for a year in preparation for the challenge. Mentally, emotionally, physically—he was ready.
He couldn’t let a little dizziness dent his confidence. Dr. Anderson was right. Probably dehydration or a nutrition issue. He’d pay more attention to what he was eating and drinking.
He got into his car and used his tablet to send an email to Hans at Alpine Climbs, attaching a copy of the completed health form listing no medications or pre-existing conditions. Hans’s reply came a few seconds later:
Thanks—we’ll know before Xmas if we are green-lighted.
Reminding himself that the uncertainty of climbing was one of its appeals, Warren drove home and parked in the garage.
He went into his office, his gaze falling on his model workshop, which he hadn’t used in months. The long table was still covered with parts of an RAF fighter plane he hadn’t finished. He hadn’t had much of an urge to work on the models lately, not with his focus on the Matterhorn and retirement. He didn’t miss it much either. He liked putting models together, but he liked being out in the world more.
He liked the challenge of Julia more.
He passed the workshop and stopped at the built-in shelves loaded with books. He scrutinized the titles—everything from history books to novels. On the bottom shelf sat a row of paperbacks. He pulled one out—a worn yellow-edged children’s book. Little House on the Prairie.
He flipped the pages and took a folded sheet of paper out from between them. After sitting in a leather chair, he unfolded the paper. His heart hammered. How many years ago had he last read this letter? Twenty-eight?
Dear Warren,
I hope this reaches you. I’m writing from London, a little flat in Battersea. I’ve been here about three weeks and am looking for a job or maybe to enroll in art classes.
I want to apologize for what I said and did. Kissing you was a terrible thing to do. I don’t usually act that way, though I hope you know that. You were so nice. There were things you did that you didn’t have to do, and things you could have done that you didn’t.
Not to be weird, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. The kind of man you are, like one who wouldn’t ditch me because you were too cowardly to stand up to your father. Especially if you knew I was pregnant. Maybe it’s a good thing Sam bailed out on me because I don’t think we would’ve had a very good marriage if he could do that.
Anyway, I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And to thank you too because you’ve always reminded me that men who are kind of perfect are really out there. Maybe one day I’ll find one.
Sincerely,
Julia Bennett
Kind of perfect.
Even now, the phrase twisted through him like a corkscrew. She’d thought he’d been nice.
That night had been the first break, the start of the domino effect that apparently still hadn’t ended.
How was it that a few hours could still discolor a person’s life thirty years later? When were people allowed to stop feeling guilty and to admit that making mistakes was part of being human? Was there one person in the history of time who hadn’t felt or thought something wrong?
Julia’s quest for perfection meant that she couldn’t forgive herself. But if she knew he hadn’t been “kind of perfect”—far from it—she might find a way to allow herself a mistake.
He folded the letter and put it in the interior pocket of his suit jacket before heading back to his car. He drove to Julia’s studios, only to be informed by Marco that she’d gone home early. Which, unbeknownst to anyone else, likely meant that she was trying to stave off a migraine.
His insides clenched as he headed to her house. She’d never had very bad migraines until the onset of menopause, when they’d started getting increasingly severe. Despite his insistence that she see several different specialists, none had come up with a medication that worked.
He pulled into her driveway and approached the front door. He knocked instead of ringing the bell. The loud noise of the bell exacerbated her headaches.
No response. The faint sound of music came from inside. She’d never listen to music if she had a headache. Warren knocked again and turned the knob. The door opened.
He stepped inside, breathing in the scent of baking—cinnamon and sugar. Music filled the air—the dynamic, thumping beat of Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” accompanied by the singer’s rich voice…
Wait a second. That wasn’t Cher. That was—
Warren stopped in the kitchen doorway. A cake sat on the counter alongside a bowl of white frosting. And clad in yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a flour-covered apron, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, Julia danced around the kitchen, holding a spatula like a microphone and belting out the lyrics about regrets and lost love as if she were singing to a stadium full of people.
And holy shit… she could sing.
Warren couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wiggled her hips, flipped her hair, strutted in circles, and sang with everything she possessed. Her voice was strong, rich, rising and falling in time with the melody like a ship rolling over a sea.
She grabbed a spatula and loaded it with white frosting, then slapped it onto a cake. Still singing, she whirled around. Her gaze collided with his. She stopped, her eyes widening with shock and her skin flushed.
“What… what are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly.
“You didn’t hear me knock, so I came in. Sorry to interrupt.”
She suddenly seemed like a different woman than the one he’d known for so many years. How the hell had he never known she could sing like… like that?
Fear lanced through him, sharp and unexpected. His hands flexed and unflexed. He had a vague memory of Rebecca telling him Julia could sing, but it hadn’t registered much and he’d never heard her. If he hadn’t even known Julia could sing like a dream, what else didn’t he know about her? What was she hiding? What had she not told him?
As if reading his thoughts, Julia’s flush deepened. She moved toward the music player to hit the stop button. Warren was across the room before she could reach it, grabbing her around the waist. She startled. The song changed to Modern English’s “Melt with You.”
Warren pulled her against him and spun her around, grabbing her right hand with his left. He guided her into a slow dance, losing himself in her blue eyes and the lingering echo of her voice. He led her on several turns around the kitchen and was rewarded by her spontaneous laugh. She came to a halt near the sink, the smile still curving her mouth.
“You’re incredible, Jules.” He cupped his hands on either side of her face. “Why didn’t I know you could sing like that?”
“I haven’t sung in years.” She shook her head dismissively. “I just used to do it for fun.”
He rubbed his thumb over her lips, suppressing the thought that she’d stopped singing because of him. That she’d missed out.
He lowered his hand to the side of her throat. Her pulse beat rapid and hot against his palm.
“And the cake?” He tilted his head to the cake resting beside them.
“On my Before Fifty list.” She ran a hand down his chest. “Bake a carrot cake.”
Tenderness flared beneath his awe and desire. “You’re working on your list?”
“Not really. Well, sort of.” Faint embarrassment shone in her eyes. “It’s completely stupid, but I don’t like the fact that I didn’t finish what I started. So I’m… well, I guess I’ve been working on a few of them. With varying degrees of success.”
Christ, he loved her. She didn’t wallow in regrets or missed chances—she met them head-on and figured out a way to turn them to her advantage. Unable to resist the temptation, he lowered his mouth to hers. She sank into him, her breath heating his lips, her hands curling into the front of his shirt.
He grasped her wrists. She looked up, eyebrows lifting.
His heartbeat increased. He’d kept a secret for thirty years. Scared she’d hate him for it. But he wanted—needed—her to know the truth. If he was going to have any hope of convincing her they belonged together, he had to give her every part of himself.
He pulled the letter out of his pocket and handed it to her. A quizzical crease formed on her forehead. She unfolded the paper and read the first line.
“Oh my God.” She lifted her eyes to his, her breath escaping on a rush. “You kept it.”
“How could I not?”
“You never responded.”
“No. I wanted to forget it ever happened.”
A shadow of hurt appeared on her face, but she nodded and lowered her gaze back to the letter. A hundred emotions crossed her face as she read her thirty-year-old writing—regret, sorrow, bittersweet warmth.
“I’m glad I wrote this,” she finally said. “I meant every word.”
“Even though I wanted to forget…” He moved closer, his hand still on the side of her warm neck. “I told you I’ve never been able to.”
“Neither have I,” Julia admitted. “Even though I’ve always been ashamed of myself.”
“Me too.”
Her eyebrows drew together slightly. “What did you have to be ashamed about?”
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not perfect, Jules. I’ve never been perfect. I’m not kind of perfect or anything even close. I make mistakes all the time. I regret things I’ve done and things I didn’t do. And whatever you thought of me because of that night was wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I kissed you back.” Warren forced the confession past his tight throat, deflecting a sharp, painful spear of guilt. “I was a married man with young children, and when my wife’s sister kissed me, it was like… like fireworks. I felt that kiss down to my bones. And I should have pushed you away before your lips touched mine, but I didn’t.”
Confusion lit in her eyes. “I don’t remember that.”
“I do.”
“So you… you’ve been punishing yourself all this time because of that?” Julia rested her hand on his chest, the warmth of her palm burning through the material of his shirt. “Warren, that was just a physical reaction. I threw myself at you, for heaven’s sake. I started stripping. God. I don’t even know what I was thinking. So even if you… if you felt something, it wasn’t as if you took me up on my blatant offer. Heck, you spent hours searching for me because of Rebecca, because you told her you’d find me. You did nothing to betray your wife and family. Nothing.”
Warren swallowed past the tightness in his throat. He’d told himself that countless times over. Mostly he believed it. But a small part of him had always known he could have, should have, broken away from Julia faster than he had.
“Oh, Warren.” She laughed suddenly, a hollow, sad sound. “I’ve known men who have cheated on their wives for years with different women. Men who are alcoholics, abusers, addicted to porn or gambling. I’ve known wives who’ve stayed married because of the children or because they had no idea what else they would do with themselves. I’ve known people who are desperately unhappy in their partnerships. Do you have any idea how rare your and Rebecca’s marriage was? Everyone knew how much you loved each other, what great parents you were, how devoted you were to your family. Just because you didn’t shove a drunk girl away from you in an instant doesn’t dilute any of that. You’re still the most honorable man there is.”
“I’ve tried to be.”
“You are.” She put her hand on his jaw, distress lighting her blue eyes. “It was all my fault. I hate that this has been gnawing at you for all these years.”
“It’s been gnawing at you, too,” he reminded her. “You’d drawn an invisible line between us, one I always knew was there. It disappeared the instant I kissed you under the mistletoe, much as you’ve tried to pretend it didn’t. Rebecca has been stopping you too.”
Julia looked down, twisting a button on his shirt. “How do we let her go?”
“We don’t.” He brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “She’ll always be part of us. We both loved her. She’s the mother of my children. But Julia, she’s gone. We’re here. I’d like to think she’d want us both to have another shot at happiness.”
She studied the button on his shirt as if assessing its construction. Her long eyelashes made shadows on her cheekbones, and that little crease of thought wrinkled her smooth forehead.
“For years, I’ve been focused on my children, the company, the foundation, the town.” An ache pushed at him, but one of gratitude and hope rather than pain. “I’d never change any part of my past, but I’ve also spent a lot of time not doing things. I won’t do that anymore. Life is for the living.”
She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest. He settled his hand on the back of her neck. Pressed his lips to the top of her head.
How long had he loved her? He didn’t know when his feelings for her had shifted from affection and gratitude to outright love. Long before they’d had sex, he knew that much. Falling in love with Julia had been like the easing from summer into autumn when the air turns crisp and cool, the leaves change slowly into brilliant colors of red and gold, and the sky becomes a cloud-swept blue circle arching overhead.
Warren had lived long and well enough to know that not only was it possible to have more than one love in life, it was the greatest gift a person could be given.
And loving Julia—being in love with her—was like everything good about autumn wrapped into one. Comfort, crispness, warmth, a chill. Hot cider, the bite of frost, a football challenge, the glow of jack-o-lanterns through the dark, salted caramel, wild geese soaring over the sky, the crunch of leaves, mist curling through the woods, wind carving whitecaps on the ocean.
Loving Julia was change. Intense beauty. A touch of melancholy. Leaving behind and starting new. The indescribable joy of knowing he had lived as well as he possibly could, but that it was far from over. With her, he could see the bloom of endless springs.
“I need to finish frosting the cake,” she mumbled.
“I love you,” he said.
She lifted her head, her eyes blue moons of surprise and disbelief. “Don’t you try and distract me, Warren Stone.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. He pulled her closer, settling their lower bodies together.
“I’m not,” he assured her. “Do you know why Sugar Rush as a company has lasted for so long?”
She eyed him with suspicion, but didn’t try to move away. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m making a point,” he corrected. “When my great-great-grandfather started Stone Confectioners in the 1850s, he made a ton of mistakes. Wrong suppliers, unsuccessful recipes, poor advertising. But he kept going until he found one of his main customer bases in the Gold Rush miners. After he opened his first shop in San Francisco and realized he was making something of himself, he wrote a founding philosophy.
“He wanted the company to always focus on keeping customers happy, to never use low-quality chocolate and ingredients, to do good in the community, and to maintain integrity and respect in all relationships. And he was adamant about wanting to keep Stone Confectioners as a family-run company guided by those principles. If he were here today and saw the company, even with all our global growth and changes, I have no doubt he’d recognize that Sugar Rush is fundamentally the same company he started. More, that foundation is the reason we’ve been so successful. It’s the bedrock on which we’ve built a thriving, vibrant city.”
Julia was silent, clearly listening though her eyes were still narrow.
“And?” she finally said.
“It’s like us,” Warren explained. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, only now I finally have the guts to admit it. I love your fire and your ice. I love your loyalty, your dedication to this family, your perseverance, your drive. I love the way you call people on their bullshit. I love that you’re an ice queen one minute and a marshmallow the next. I love the noises you make in the back of your throat when I kiss you. I love your fucking perfect body and your sharp, take-no-prisoners mind and the fact that you secretly love watching Gossip Girl marathons in your ratty old flannel pajamas. While eating waffles.”
She opened her mouth to protest. He kept talking because no matter how hard she tried to deny it, he knew the truth of her secret passions.
“Do I wish I’d told you sooner?” he asked. “No. We have thirteen years of friendship and alliance behind us. We’ve been through rough times and come out of it together. We’ve been partners, allies, colleagues. Hell, we’ve been co-parents. And because we have an unshakable foundation, loving you is so damned easy. How can it not work when we have so much? I want to love you completely. I want us to… are you crying?”
“Of course not.” Julia sniffed, her eyes pooling with tears. “I’m just… oh, damn you, Warren Stone.”
She rested her forehead against his chest again and gave a choked laugh. “You’re the only man in the world who could turn a lecture on Sugar Rush corporate history into a declaration of love.”
“I’m pretty sure I made the declaration first.” He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Come on, Jules. Give us a chance. You’ve never been scared of anything or anyone in your life. Don’t be afraid of us.”
She didn’t look up, keeping her forehead against his chest so he couldn’t see her face. He stroked her back, absorbing the warm, soft feeling of her body pressed against his.
Finally, after the clock on the kitchen wall had ticked into eternity, Julia’s voice emerged, small and muffled against his shirt front.
“Okay.”
Warren’s heart spun like a Ferris wheel and lit up like the Fourth of July. He wanted to haul her into his arms, to whirl her around in a circle and then back her up against the wall and kiss her senseless.
Instead he lowered his head and forced his voice to sound calmly inquisitive.
“Sorry?” he said. “I didn’t catch that.”
She pinched his ass. “I said okay.”
“Okay… what?”
A laugh broke from her. She finally lifted her face from his chest and looked up at him. Tears streaked her cheeks, her skin was red and blotchy, and her eyes glowed. She was like a sunrise.
“I’ll give us a chance, you beautiful, stubborn man. But how did you know about the TV and the flannels?”
He smiled and chucked her under the chin. “I know you.”
“You’re wrong about the waffles.” She gave a little sniff. “No way do I sit around in flannels eating waffles, of all things.”
“My mistake.” He drew her closer, his thumb finding the pulse beating at the side of her neck. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. She murmured a little noise against his lips and pressed closer, sliding one hand to his back. The fireworks spread to his blood, little sparks flaring into whirlwinds. He flicked his tongue out to press against the seam of her lips. She opened, let him in. The warm, sweet taste of her—sugar and cinnamon—flooded into him. He cupped the sides of her neck, tilting her head to just the right angle. Though she was much smaller than him, she fit against him perfectly, all of her slender curves surrendering to the planes of his chest.
He lowered his hands to the backs of her thighs and lifted her against him. With a murmur of pleasure, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, not taking her lips from his. He strode to the bedroom and lowered her to the bed.
He levered himself over her, drinking in the sight of her flushed face, the smear of frosting on her cheek, her tousled blonde hair. Possessiveness and gratitude washed over him. He saw everything in her—the extraordinary businesswoman, the gypsy girl, the fierce, beloved aunt, the devoted sister. Above all, the woman he loved.
She lifted her hand to his face, stroked the five o’clock shadow on his jaw. He rose to straddle her thighs. She was still wearing the flour-dusted apron, which gave her a domestic look he liked. He tugged on the apron straps and reached beneath her to unfasten the strings at her back. “Had no idea you owned an apron.”
“I cook every now and then.” She wiggled underneath him to shed the apron, the movement of her body jolting him with heat.
“You don’t cook.” He slipped his hands over her tight blue T-shirt to her breasts. Ah, her nipples were hard already, budding up against his palms.
“I cook some things.” Her voice was starting to get breathless. “Just because I’ve never cooked for you doesn’t mean I don’t cook at all.”
“Yeah?” He pinched her nipples through her shirt. “What do you cook, then?”
“Um… dinner. Sometimes. Oh…” She arched her back and pressed her breasts into his palms.
“Hmm.” He pulled her T-shirt up and stroked the satin skin of her midriff up to her blue lace bra that was the exact same color as her shirt. His dick pushed against the front of his trousers.
“You’ll need to cook for me one night, then.” He flicked open the front clasp of her bra. “Maybe wearing nothing but your apron and stilettos.”
Though Julia attempted a frown, intrigue and a spark of excitement lit in her eyes. Just the thought of her strutting around the kitchen with her tits barely covered by the apron and her delectable round ass peeking out from beneath the apron strings… damned if that wasn’t enough to jerk his cock into full hardness.
He unbuckled his belt and dropped it to the floor, then unzipped his trousers and took out his dick. Julia’s hot gaze snapped to it, her lips parting. His blood went into a full boil. She rose to her elbows and licked her lips. He moved closer, nudging the head of his dick against her mouth. She opened and took him in.
Ah, fuck, yeah…
That was it, her hot gasp of breath, the soft yielding of her lips, the surrender of her body curving under his. Her warm, wet mouth enclosed his shaft like heaven. He gripped the sides of her head, forcing himself not to go too deep. She curled her fingers into his hips, working her lips and tongue over his cock with slow strokes that twisted pressure through his entire body.
She circled the base of his shaft with her hand and squeezed. He pushed forward, watching her perfect bow lips wrap around his cock. She made a muffled noise and slackened her throat muscles, encouraging him to thrust. He wanted to come in her mouth, to watch her swallow, see his seed coating her lips.
Instead he pressed the sides of her head in warning. She drew back to look up at him, her eyes glazed. He made a gesture with his hand. She hastened to shed the rest of her clothes, dropping them to the floor before scooting back on the bed.
He raked his gaze over the smooth, supple lines of her body, her tits topped with rosy nipples, the warm cleft between her legs. He stroked his hand over her breasts and belly, his jaw clenching when his fingers encountered her damp heat. She breathed his name, a tremble coursing through her.
“Warren, please.”
Her throaty plea fired his blood. He positioned himself between her legs, entering her with slow measured movements to ensure she’d feel every inch of his possession. Her breath rasped hot against his shoulder. The scent of her filled his head. His muscles tensed with restraint as he sank into her—hot, damp, welcoming.
“God, Warren… it’s like you’re doing it for the first time all over again… oh…”
He braced his hands on the bed, sinking as deep into her as he could go, his gaze locked on hers. Her pale cheeks were stained with pink, and her full mouth looked damp and well-kissed. Need glazed her blue eyes along with another emotion he could only define as pure and unadulterated trust.
She throbbed around him, her sweet body heaving with little gasps of need. Urgency coiled through him. He pulled back and surged forward, then repeated the movement with growing force until the rhythm of Julia’s throaty cries matched the pace of their bodies. She trembled under him, gripping his biceps, her breasts rubbing against his chest.
Mine. The word fired through his brain with every plunge into her. You’re mine.
Heat. She burned him. He clutched her hips, increasing the pace of his thrusts until she cried out and convulsed around him. He pushed into her, his muscles tensing as the coil wound tighter and tighter. He gave a rough shout. Julia’s body continued to grip his cock as he spilled himself into her, pleasure searing away all thought.
He rolled off her, chest heaving, and pulled her to his side. She curled against him like a soft, warm bird, her breath feathering over his shoulder. He wanted to go to sleep every night and wake up every morning with this woman tucked against him exactly like this.
A dream he hadn’t even known was there.
I love you.
Such a common phrase, almost overused. And yet when it was said to you by the one who’d owned your heart for years, suddenly it was the first time in all of history that a man had ever spoken those words to a woman.
I love you.
He loved her. As a friend, a partner, an ally, and now a lover. Warren had the same burning need for her as she did for him, felt the same sharp crackle of heat, desire, lust. He loved her because he knew her as well as she knew him, because they’d built a foundation—a life. Because they’d weathered storms both alone and together. She was his comfort, the person he turned to in both the dark and the light, his best friend, just as he was for her.
How could a romance between them possibly fail when everything about it was already such a success? They didn’t have to go through any ridiculous “getting to know you” phase or try to learn more about each other. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty, no wondering.
There was only knowledge, acceptance, and love.
As Julia lay alone in bed, drinking in the scents of coffee and bacon drifting from the kitchen, she almost didn’t recognize the emotion spiraling through her. She’d felt happy before, of course, plenty of times. When the boys or Hailey had a personal achievement, when Evan’s heart surgery was a success, when a Foundation event went well, when Tyler straightened up, when her business skyrocketed.
But this? This wasn’t connected to anything tangible. Her heart didn’t even know what to do with itself, fluttering rapidly in her chest like a hummingbird that had just discovered the sweetest, richest honeysuckle in the world.
This was a happiness that came from loving and being loved unconditionally. This was pure, like birdsong, a clear mountain stream, a new leaf.
This was joy.
She threw back the covers and grabbed her silk kimono, suddenly eager to see him even though they’d slept together all night. She hurried to splash water on her face and brush her teeth before going into the kitchen.
Her heart did an Olympic-sized hopscotch at the sight of him presiding over the pans sizzling on the kitchen stove. He wore trousers and a wrinkled dress shirt, open down the front to reveal his gorgeous chest. His thick hair, messy from her grip last night, fell over his forehead, and his profile was set with concentration as he studied the bacon to assess whether or not he should flip it over.
As if sensing her presence, he turned, his eyes warming.
“Morning, beautiful.” He extended an arm.
She got all melty inside. What if she could walk into her kitchen every morning and have this man greet her? She crossed the room to tuck herself against his side, absorbing the strong, solid feel of him.
He kissed the top of her head. “Coffee’s ready. Breakfast will be done in five minutes.”
Julia slipped away from him to pour herself a cup of coffee. She sipped the coffee and leaned against the counter, eyeing the high-end, professional double Belgian waffle iron plugged into the wall.
“Where did you get that?” she asked casually.
“Found it in the back of the cupboard.” He gave an innocent shrug. “Must have been there when you bought the house.”
“Must have.”
“I decided to try it out.”
He lifted a bowl filled with batter and ladled a portion onto the waffle maker. The delicious sizzle and aroma of hot baking elicited a rumble from Julia’s belly. She attempted not to groan in anticipation of the golden brown nirvana about to emerge from the waffle iron.
She sat at the kitchen table and unfolded the newspaper as Warren filled plates with bacon and eggs. The waffle iron beeped. He lifted the lid, revealing a perfect, steaming waffle. Julia’s mouth watered.
“Don’t suppose you want any.” Warren lifted the waffle with a spatula. “Seeing as how you don’t eat waffles, of all things.”
“I’ll give it a try.” Julia extended her plate. “I mean, I don’t want you to have gone to all this trouble for nothing.”
“Very charitable of you.”
She gave a little huff. He winked at her.
He slipped half the waffle onto her plate and the second half onto his. Julia took the butter and syrup from the fridge and promptly slathered her waffle with both. She cut off a generous forkful and stuck it in her mouth. The fluffy, crispy, buttery-sweet flavor filled her senses.
“Oh my God.” She groaned with pleasure. “This is incredible. What recipe did you use?”
“I dunno, just looked one up on the internet.” He took a bite of the waffle. “I’m a pancake man myself, but this is pretty good.”
“Pretty good? It’s a slice of heaven.”
“Just like you.”
Though she attempted to roll her eyes, he looked so pleased with himself over the compliment that she got all soft inside. Yes, the man could melt her like butter on this exquisite waffle.
Never before had she indulged in such a hearty morning-after breakfast with a man. She usually either sent them on their way the night before, or she made a quick egg-white omelet and hustled them out the door. Certainly she’d never spent well over an hour lingering with a man over waffles and coffee, skimming the newspaper and glancing up every now and then to find him watching her.
Of course, Warren wasn’t any man. He was the only man who knew her, looked out for her, loved her.
He rinsed their plates and put them in the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a towel before picking up the Before Fifty list she’d left on the counter.
“Looks like you’re making progress.” He indicated the blue checkmarks she’d placed beside several of the items.
“I’m just doing a few of them in my spare time.” She sipped her coffee and shrugged with nonchalance. “It’s not like I’m taking it seriously or anything.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Of course not. Why a red balloon?”
Julia took the list from him.
#19: Set a red balloon free.
“Oh.” Bittersweet sorrow twisted her heart. “Did Rebecca ever tell you about The Red Balloon? It’s a French short film, maybe half an hour, about a little boy in Paris who finds a red balloon that starts following him. Like a friend. Then these mean kids come along and destroy the balloon with a slingshot, and of course the boy is devastated. So were Rebecca and I, frankly. I’m pretty sure we both cried.
“But then hundreds of multicolored balloons rise up from all over the city and float over to the boy as he’s sitting there with his broken red balloon. He grabs the strings of the other balloons, and they fly him on a magical journey across the sky.”
“She never mentioned it to me.” Warren sounded mildly surprised, as if he’d assumed Rebecca had shared all her memories with him.
“We loved the movie. We talked about wanting to send a red balloon over the ocean on its own worldwide journey.”
He touched her hair, his eyes softening. “You never did?”
“No.” She shrugged, setting the list aside. “I guess we grew out of the idea. But obviously I remembered it when I was nineteen.”
“It would be an easy one to cross off your list,” Warren said. “We could do it right now.”
She looked up at him, her gaze roaming over the lines of his face—his wide mouth that did such beautiful things to her, his thick-lashed eyes and cut-glass cheekbones, the straight bridge of his nose.
The words pushed up from her heart, the center of her soul.
I love you.
Her throat closed over them.
The words still belonged to her sister. Every time Julia thought them, she heard Rebecca’s voice. What if Warren did, too?
“Thank you, but I should get to work.” She squeezed his arm. “One day.”
She rose to her feet, setting her mug in the sink before heading to the bedroom.
One day she would tell him. One day before it was too late.