"Why does everyone act so surprised by that?"
She laughed, let him lead her to the table, let him serve her roast chicken with roasted vegetables and herbs from his garden. The food was delicious. The wine was better. But she barely tasted any of it, too aware of him across the table, too consumed by the knowledge of what was coming.
"Tell me something," she said, echoing his question from the meadow.
"What do you want to know?"
"Why me?" She set down her fork. "Of all the people in this town—and I've seen how people look at you—why me?"
He considered the question seriously, the way he considered everything she said.
"Because you didn't look at me like everyone else does," he said finally. "Everyone else sees the satyr. The charm. The entertainment. You saw through all of that on day one and decided you wanted nothing to do with it."
"That's not exactly flattering."
"It was exactly what I needed." He reached across the table, took her hand. "I've spent my life being what people expected me to be. And then there was you, seeing right through the performance and demanding something real. It terrified me.And it made me want to be real for you. To show you the parts of myself I'd hidden from everyone else."
"The music," she said softly.
His fingers tightened on hers. "Yes. The music."
She knew there was more to that story—something painful, something he wasn't ready to share yet. She didn't push.
"I'm glad you showed me," she said instead. "I'm glad you trusted me."
"I'm glad you let me."
They sat in the candlelit warmth, holding hands across the table, and the last of her walls dissolved.
"I don't want any more dinner," she said.
"No?"
"No."
He came around the table and pulled her to her feet with hands that were steady but warm.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed her—properly this time, deeply, with none of the careful restraint he'd been maintaining all week. His hands found her waist, her back, the curve of her hip, and she pressed into him and let herself feel everything.
"Bedroom," she managed.
"Bossy."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's an observation."
She laughed against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, and then he was lifting her and carrying her through a doorway she barely noticed, setting her down next to a bed scattered with what might have been flower petals.
"Did you—are those rose petals?"
"Too much?"
"Just enough."
