Faking It to Making It

She’d been so sure she loved Nate—until he’d convinced her otherwise. And yet days later it still felt like love, it still hurt like love, burned like love and yet she still couldn’t be sure.

Saskia took a deep breath, then said, “I met a man—”

“On my site?”

Saskia nodded. “I met a man, dated him, fell in love—and screwed it all up.”

“Happens every day.”

“Heartening.”

“Mmm. You know what else happens every day? People realise the errors of their ways and make up for it.”

“How?”

“Any which way they damn well can.”

“You’re good at this. Are you married? I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“No, I think that’s a fair question, considering what I peddle. I was married. Many years ago. To a bear of a man with a big prickly beard and a laugh that stopped time. He passed away too young. And I’ve never found it again. Maybe because I had my one chance, or maybe because I’ve never put myself out there.”

Saskia looked at the woman. Beneath her class and elegance and her sharp tongue she nursed a broken heart.

“My father lived with a broken heart,” Saskia said, “his whole life. I always thought it rather romantic. And thus spent my whole childhood trying to make up for it, getting nothing in return. I thought that was love, but now I wonder if I haven’t been completely reactionary—treating every relationship as an ‘I’ll show you, you mean bastard.’ As if even one of them loved me it would prove, to a dead man, that I was right and he was wrong.”

“Understandable,” Marlee said.

“Yeah—‘understandable’ has pretty much driven me my whole life. But it hasn’t helped me sleep much the past few days.”

“In my experience nothing beats a warm pair of male arms for that.” Marlee patted her on the hand and went to get the coffee.

Marlee was right—each person reacted as they chose to react and each had to live with the consequences.

As she thought about her choices to date and their consequences, and Nate—out there, loved and not knowing it. For her there was no choice.

“I want love,” she said out loud. Then louder, arms out to the world, as if she’d been born again, “I’m Saskia Bloom and I want to love and be loved.”

Marlee hovered in the doorway, her smile soft before it spread into a grin. “Now, this poor fellow we quite purposely have neglected to mention, is he a man of unparalleled excellence? Is he a man of manners and charm and fantastic genes? Is he a possibility partner for life?”

She’d never looked for a partner.

Sharing herself, leaning on him, taking his advice, listening to him—none of that had much come into it. Until Nate. That strong, blind, charming, heartbreaking, stubborn, oak of a man had never let her get away with steering on her own. He’d imposed himself as much on the relationship as she had. In equal measure.

As if the curtains had been parted and the light let in, suddenly a whole new possibility opened up to her—the possibility of a life not for him but with him.

It felt like a brave new world. Was she brave enough to see it through? If any man had made her feel safe enough to try it was Nate. Vulnerable enough to love it was Nate. Happy enough to let him take care of her as much as she took care of him it was Nate.

She didn’t need Marlee to give her hope. She had more than enough to push her from the chair, give Marlee a hug and a kiss, and walk...no, run from the room.

It was just after ten on the first Saturday in spring. She had a date.

ELEVEN

That was a hundred-dollar blow-dry wasted, Saskia thought as she wobbled down the stone steps that led to Blairgowrie Beach, one hand on her hair, trying to keep the once slick waves from turning wild in the whipping wind.

As for the dress—foxy, floaty, seriously va-va-voom and chosen to blow Nate’s socks off—it suddenly felt too fantastical, too sexy, too lacking in fabric for a beach wedding on a blustery spring day. Not surprising since she’d bought the thing when high on burgeoning love.

Goosebumps danced up and down her arms. But there was no going back now. She was there on a mission. She was a strong woman, a business-owner, a home-owner, a DIY decorator who had laid her own bathroom tiles. She had a tattoo and had swum with sharks. She could tell a man she loved him even if there was no certainty she’d hear the same back.

Holding herself together—just—she scanned the crowd scattered along the narrow beachfront.