She kept her jacket tightly cinched, her shoes firm against her soles.
From the outside, all anyone would see was an empty, darkening classroom.
Even Martin.
Especially Martin.
When he quietly tapped at the door minutes later, she didn’t answer. Same when he tapped again around dinnertime, when they both usually left for the night.
He didn’t depart until much later than usual, and she snapped her blinds shut as soon as his footsteps faded down the hall. When he reached the parking lot and spotted her car, at least he wouldn’t be able to see her through the window. He’d know she was still there, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.
What shecoulddo, however: Protect him.
From her.
Her conversation with Keisha had served as a potent reminder: A relationship with him wouldn’t be truly private. Couldn’t be. Which meant it couldn’t happen.
Given that decision, the other woman was right. If Rose didn’t intend to lower her guard, she needed to impose some distance between her and Martin.
A man without his own armor could be hurt so easily.
And she had no intention of shedding hers. Not even for him.
Ten
Bea straightenedMartin’s silk tie outside the restaurant. “Looking good, Dad.”
“You’re just saying that because you gave me the tie for Valentine’s Day.” At the sight of those blond curls at her crown, he couldn’t help pressing a kiss to them. “Such a daughterly cliché. Didn’t you have some socks you could have shoved into a gift bag? Or a razor?”
He’d just been delighted she’d thought of him, especially while spending the week at her mom’s house. But telling her that would only make her roll her eyes.
“That kiss was your allotted mush for the night.” Giving the tie one last yank, she stepped back and scanned him with a critical teenage glance. “Ties might be a cliché, but you ruined your best one in the dunk tank, for some reason. And the blue brings out your eyes. Suck it up and appreciate my generosity.”
He eyed the ornate ironwork around Milano’s entrance. “Somehow, I think your generosity will be rewarded tonight. Manifold.”
“It’s my birthday. I deserve good food.” She heaved open the heavy wooden door. “I heard amazing things about this place. Apparently, I need to try the truffle risotto.”
Truffles? Jesus.
Why her classmates were talking about a restaurant like this, he’d never know. When he’d checked out the menu online, he’d failed to spot any prices, which was always, always a bad sign. As the old saying went: If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
But his girl was turning eighteen tonight, and she never asked for much. If she wanted truffle risotto, he’d eat a few more servings of cheesy mac and give her some damn truffle risotto. Next year, she’d probably be thousands of miles away and unable to empty his bank account in a single meal.
Her college applications had been mailed months ago. Other than Marysburg University, all her choices would require a significant amount of travel. Too much travel for frequent visits.
He swallowed past the thickness in his throat and followed her to the etched-glass table inside the restaurant’s entrance. After a quick glance at Milano’s lush, velvet curtains and tufted chairs, he revised his estimate of the night’s bill a hundred dollars higher.
Then his eye caught on a familiar tilt of the head, a familiar bitter-coffee shade of hair. Only he’d never seen Rose’s hair down before, except after the dunk tank. Never seen it ripple over her shoulders—bareshoulders, he noted with another hard swallow—in waves that shone in the candlelight.
“Krause. Reservation for two,” Bea informed the maître d’.
Rose was sitting at a round table beneath a crystal chandelier, cinched into what appeared to be the classiest black bustier in existence. The tops of her breasts gleamed pale, and they rippled in a hypnotic way when she laughed.
Wait. Why was she laughing? Was she on a date?
He forced his eyes away from her magnificence, only to see—thank goodness—an older couple at her table. Physically, they didn’t much resemble her, since both the man and woman were slight of build and several inches shorter than Rose, even seated. But the woman was wearing black from head to toe, her dress formed from a draped fabric that looked soft and delicate and expensive, even across the room. Her silver hair smoothed back into a flawless twist, one that looked very familiar. She was smiling at Rose with the sort of doting affection he’d seen in pictures of himself and Bea.
Obviously, these were Rose’s parents. He’d known she came from money, her knowledge of Little Debbie’s baking talents notwithstanding.
