Sallinger, Elene: Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

That he was even having this conversation was unusual for him. He tended to be a loner. His life hadn’t been the kind that lent itself to forming lasting friendships. His one friend, Marco, was back in his home state of Maryland. They kept in touch by email and phone, but Connor was basically alone here in Vermont. So, hanging out in coffee bars debating the merits of the French Impressionists over the surrealist art of which Bridget was a fan was not a part of his usual repertoire.

She put down her coffee mug and tilted her head in the most adorable way as she considered him. He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t used to being under scrutiny. He preferred being the observer and, right now, he felt naked under her gaze. Like she was seeing something beyond the surface and he wasn’t sure if it was meeting with her approval or not. Most surprisingly, he found that it mattered if she approved.

‘You’re very passionate about this.’

A smartass rejoinder of “You haven’t seen what I’m passionate about” jumped to his lips, but he held back. This wasn’t the time for corny pick-up lines. Frankly, she was too classy a woman for pick-up lines in general.

‘I am.’ He cupped his own mug and stared down into the black brew as if it would grant him the anchor he needed when he suddenly felt so off kilter under her regard. ‘Art is the one area of my life that I’m completely at peace with. Watching an image come to life under my hands is like seeing a piece of my soul take form.’ He avoided her eyes as he took a sip of the now cold coffee. He snorted. ‘Corny, huh?’

‘No.’

His eyes shot to hers. There was no humour in them; he saw interest and empathy, but not humour.

‘That’s beautiful, actually. The only time I’m ever completely at peace is when I’m running. I get lost in the music and the run and I stop worrying. So I think it’s wonderful you have that calling and that passion.’

She’d leaned forward as she spoke, the vehemence in her voice adding an urgency that drew him like a magnet. When she placed her hand over his, a ribbon of heat trailed through his body. He didn’t think she realised she’d touched him because she jerked her hand back like she’d burned herself as soon as she noticed.

Throughout their date, she’d kept herself under rigid control. His attempts at flirtation had met with a wall, but he sensed it was discomfort not disinterest. He’d seen her flush, seen her pulse jump, seen her nipples harden, but she stayed cool and remote. He wanted to get under her skin and find out what was making her pull back. She was a woman in her prime and the riddle she presented was one he wanted to solve.

‘You in there?’

‘Sorry, my mind wandered.’

His pulse leaped as she smiled and said, ‘I asked if you’ve always been an artist.’

He looked away from her as his heart squeezed in his chest. This was not something he discussed. In general, it was something he tried to not even think about. It didn’t matter that 15 years had passed. He felt the pain like it was yesterday.

Obviously, sensing his distress, she touched his wrist and said, ‘Forget I asked. You don’t have to answer that.’

It was her touch that loosened his lips. She knew she was holding his wrist; she squeezed it gently, connecting with him. In that moment, he knew he’d bare his soul if it would keep her touching him.

Covering her hand with his own, he told her his story.

‘So, even though I have no formal training, I’ve always loved art. It’s been with me since I was a child. I like to think that they’d be proud.’ He was staring into his empty mug.

She didn’t know what moved her more, his story or his touch. Being the only survivor of a car crash that killed his parents was bad enough, but having it happen as a child, on the night you received an award for winning an art contest, was just a cruel twist of fate. His grandparents sounded like lovely people, taking him in, giving him a home and a family, but their death when he was a teenager was just another kick in the nuts. But the thing that pulled at her heart the most was him being thrown into foster care. The family sounded as if they’d treated him more like an extra set of hands, someone to help around the house like a servant. He didn’t seem bitter, but it said a lot that he’d left on his 18th birthday and hadn’t spoken to them since.

‘I bet they would. Have you ever shown your work?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re a photographer? That must be pretty fulfilling.’

‘Photography is its own pleasure, but it is nothing like painting.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke. He seemed uncomfortable talking about this and she wondered how much it must hurt to have something you loved so deeply tied to such a tragic event.

Her hand was now clasped in his and she found she enjoyed holding his hand. There was a casual intimacy to it that she’d never experienced before, but that – after a few tense moments initially – she found she liked.

Just like she liked him.

She was uncomfortably aware of him, but she liked being with him and talking to him. She found she didn’t want the date to end, but end it must. A quick glance at her watch informed her she had just half an hour to get back to campus and prepare for her next class.

‘Do you have to?’

She grinned, knowing what he was asking. ‘Yes, I do. I have a class to teach.’

‘What if I said I wanted to see you again?’

She surprised herself by saying, ‘I’d say the right offer might sway me.’

‘How about a picnic? This weekend. I know a great spot. I’ve been wanting to get out there and snap some photos and paint. I’d love for you to be there. Hell, if you’d let me, I’d love to paint you.’

He took her hand again and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. The movement was both hypnotic and erotic and she felt it deep in her body.

Before she could chicken out, she agreed, giving him her number and entering his into her phone. Walking out together, she held out her hand for him to shake. Rather than shake it, he took it in his palm and kissed the back of her hand.

‘Till Saturday. I’ll pick you up at one. Text me your address.’

‘No!’ Her voice was sharper than she’d intended and his eyebrows shot up. ‘Sorry.’ She rushed to fill in the shocked silence. ‘I don’t allow men I’ve just met to come to my home. Even to pick me up. How about I meet you here and I’ll follow you.’

‘You’re not even going to ride with me?’

‘No. Not this time. I don’t know you well enough.’

Curious grey eyes searched her face. She faced him resolutely despite the flush creeping along her skin and her desire to hide from the dawning knowledge in his eyes. Her own were burning, and the longer he studied her, the more scared she became that she’d burst into tears.

She opened her mouth to call the whole thing off only to be stopped short when he quietly said, ‘OK. I’ll meet you on Saturday, but not here. Let’s meet at the library. It’s closer to the end of town and we’ll be headed out that way anyway.’

‘No, here.’

Again, with the scrutiny.

‘Here so that your friend sees us together and there’s a trail back to me if anything happens to you?’

She almost squirmed at his insight, but she refused to back down and said only, ‘Yup.’

‘OK. I’ll see you here on Saturday. One o’clock.’

Another quick kiss was dropped on the hand he’d never relinquished and then he tossed his backpack up on his shoulder, winked at her, and walked away.

She flopped on the bench outside the café as hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She really should just cancel. All the fun and camaraderie had been sucked out of their date at the reminder of her inability to simply be with a man in an unreserved fashion. He probably thought she was some kind of paranoid freak.