Saint & Sinner - A Second Chance Romance

I started the engine, rolled the window down, and stuck my tongue out at her before pulling away.

“Willow!” she shouted at the top of her lungs in the street.

I waved at her through the rear-view mirror, and continued on my way towards the restaurant.

14

Caleb

I arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early. I could have gone in and had a drink, but I felt too restless to sit down. I paced the ground next to the valet, who discreetly kept throwing me strange glances.

We’d agreed to meet at 7:30pm, and it was now exactly fifteen minutes past. If it had been anyone else I would have already walked off, irritated to have lost that time, but when it came to Willow, twelve years had been nothing. What was another hour or even two?

When we were young she was always late. Even then I didn’t mind waiting. I remembered her worried little face as she ran towards me. Breathlessly, she would apologize, “I’m sorry I’m late, Caleb. I was (insert reason, usually reading) and the time just flew away from me.”

“Caleb?” I heard her voice call out to me, and turned around towards the street. I thought she would arrive and use the valet parking service like I had. Instead, she was heading towards me on foot, in a light, pale pink dress that billowed in the soft evening breeze.

Her hair was not as straight as it had been the last time, and it took me back to the past. Back then, she used to have light waves and curly ends, and I could vividly remember my fingers gently sifting through the golden strands. It saddened me that it would be a while again before I was allowed that privilege with her. I went forward, and met her; she was slightly out of breath.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I was at the shop and the time just flew away from me.”

I was speechless at the nostalgia that hit me in the guts. Everything had changed and yet nothing had.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “Someone walked over my grave.”

Her eyes widened.

“Shall we?” I asked, my hand beckoning for her to walk on.

She nodded and went ahead of me. I watched as her petite body, balanced on high pink heels, swayed to the unhurried, seductive pace of her walk. A fire flared in my loins and I hardened immediately at the sight. I could watch her forever. She wasn’t mine yet, but I couldn’t help the fierce pride of possession roaring inside me.

I was determined to make her mine again.

I reached over and pushed open the door for her. Maybe she was one of those women who wanted to open their own doors, but fuck it, until she told me otherwise, I was going to treat her like the princess she was. I had asked for a secluded table and we were given one in an intimate corner.

This place itself was particularly cozy with white blossoms on the walls, candles on the tables. Soft, romantic music filled the air.

“I can smell roses,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

I took a deep breath and indeed there was a subtle scent of roses in the air. “Hmmm.”

“I’ve never been to this restaurant.”

I smiled at her. “Neither have I.”

She smiled back as we settled in and I felt my heart stop. I had to look away to regain my senses. This woman had absolutely no idea of the hold she had on me. I tried not to stare too hard as she picked up the menu and looked at it. In the light of the golden candlelight her skin seemed to glow like marble. A small willow tree necklace gleamed between the soft skin of her collarbones. I stared at it. She had saved it. She saw me staring and touched the necklace, self-consciously. “It’s just an old trinket, but I’m insanely attached to it.” Our eyes met. Her teeth sank into her plump bottom lip and I felt my cock jerk.

“Would you like something to drink?” I croaked.

She nodded and tucked her hair behind her ears. She was nervous. It was an old habit of hers. Whenever she didn’t feel confident she did that.

“A glass of wine would be nice. The …” As she moved her finger down the list, I signaled to the waiter and he began to head over to us.

“The Skinnygirl Moscato will do,” she concluded.

Thankfully, the waiter arrived so I placed her order and then mine, simply opting for a bottle of the Moscato wine she’d ordered. Spending the last twelve years in prison meant I knew nothing about fine wines or great dishes.

“I have to drive home,” she murmured, “so I’m having to limit myself to only one glass.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured. “If necessary I can always send someone to bring your car to you in the morning.”