The Wrong Gentleman

He let me go as I wriggled out of his lap and began to set the food out. “I’m not swerving. I’ve just never thought about doing anything else. I’ve tried for a long time to avoid the peaks and the troughs. Slow and steady has been my goal. Being passionate about anything feels . . . dangerous.” I paused. In what way would I want my life to be different? I’d done what I’d set out to do when I left the home—I’d survived.

“What about back before your mother died? Did you know what you wanted to do then?”

I shrugged as I offered him a plate in an effort to distract him. All my hopes and dreams of my future died with my mother. Before she’d been killed, there were a thousand futures I fantasized about. When I got to the group home, the idea of being a lawyer—of bringing justice to the guilty—was the only thing I wanted to do. When I’d told one of the workers, she’d laughed at me, so I’d buried that last dream I’d had alongside my mother and every one of the futures I’d imagined for myself. But I tried not to focus on what I’d lost. “I do long for my own room for more than two months a year.” I grinned at Landon, wanting us to change the topic.

He paused and then took the plate I was offering. “Yeah, I get that. I enjoyed having a place to call home when I left the army.”

“You have your own place now?” I asked, before popping a grilled artichoke heart into my mouth.

“Yeah, in London.”

“On your own?”

He grinned. “Yeah—I’m thirty-two.”

“I know, but London’s expensive, right?”

He didn’t answer.

“Was I prying? I’m just trying to picture you there.”

“No, I was just thinking. I guess I like my own company a lot.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You and Harvey are good friends, but I noticed you don’t really talk about much.”

“Yeah, but we know each other because of what we’ve seen. What we’ve been through together.”

I pressed my index finger against the scar on his right shoulder. He pulled my hand away and kissed my fingertip.

Maybe we both had stories we didn’t share with everyone.

“Come on,” I said, wanting to lift the mood. “We need to find the perfect shell.” I glanced around at the pebbles interspersed with shells.

“We do?” he asked.

“Of course. To remember today. A souvenir, if you like. It can’t be too big, or too small. I like white ones.” I always ended each season with a couple of shells from my most-enjoyable days.

“Wow, you even have criteria for the shells you collect.”

I grinned. “It’s very strict.” I picked up a broken, mottled shell peeking out from under the blanket. “This one would never do. It’s broken, for a start, and the color is just a little sad. I want something to remind me of sunshine and laughter.”

“What about this one?” Landon asked, stretching to pick up another. “No breaks in this one.”

It wasn’t a bad choice. But it wouldn’t do for me. “It’s a little gaudy. But if you like it, keep it. Shell collecting is very personal.”

“Gaudy? How can a shell be gaudy?”

“You know, all the curly bits you have there. The pink color. I like something more like . . .” I looked around and found the perfect one. I held it up so he could see. “There are no breaks. It’s perfectly symmetrical, so white it’s almost blinding, and—”

“Tiny. It’s smaller than the pad of my thumb.”

“This is the only time a woman will tell you this and not be lying—size doesn’t matter.”

In a flash, he launched himself at me, pressed me to my back, and covered my body with his. “You have a problem with my size?”

He knew the answer to that. I shook my head. “You know that I don’t.”

“Right. I do know that. And if we weren’t in public, in broad daylight, I’d be reminding you that you don’t.”