Page 43 of Don't Tell

He's on the tarmac, wearing dark trousers, with the shirt open at the collar, and no jacket. He's watching me come down, like he's been waiting for this moment to happen.

I reach the bottom of the stairs.

"Hi," I say. It's the only word I have.

"Hi." He smiles and takes my hand.

The restaurant is small with only eight tables, maybe nine. There’s a terrace facing the water, with whitewashed walls and a vase of yellow flowers on our table. We sit across from each other. He orders quickly, while I take my time with the menu, longer than I need to.

The bread comes first — still warm, faintly blistered from the oven. I eat more of it than I intend to.

"I can't believe I'm here with you," I say.

He looks at me. "Really? I believe it very much. I always knew we’d get here.”

“You sound a little too confident over there. Do you need me to shoot down your ego?”

He laughs. “It’s not a matter of my ego. It’s a matter of the heart. You’re very beautiful, Suzanne Jenkins.”

“I…I…uh… Thank you.”

“I don’t get a compliment back?”

I scoff. “Only when you deserve it.”

“What do I have to do to earn it? I’m very eager to please, Suzanne.”

I look at him.

He looks back.

I pick up my glass.

The food comes at that exact moment.

“Tell me… When did you start painting?”

“For as long as I can remember. Marguerite, my aunt…she got me my first materials and pretty much taught me everything I know.”

“No art school?”

“I wish. I couldn’t even afford it after my mom took my college fund. She must’ve thought it was really funny that I wanted to go to art school. My only option was to get a job to survive.”

“Your work shouldn’t be at the bottom of a cleaning cart, you know?”

I look at my plate. I know this. Renée tells me a version of it every time we talk, but Renée is my cousin who loves me dearly. I always think she's being biased, so I discount it. Cade doesn't love me, but he's telling me the same thing.

"You don’t have to say that, Cade. I'm fine where I am, and I don’t think you understand what it feels like to live with someone like my mom. She knows how to ruin a person's self-esteem.”

He scoffs and stabs at his plate. “You’d be surprised.” Before I can ask what that was about, he quickly fixes a smile on his face. “My company is captivating, isn’t it?” He gestures at my plate. “You’ve barely eaten anything.”

“I could say the same thing to you. You’ve been staring at my lips all night.” I bat my eyelashes. “Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Nightingale?”

His eyes darken. “I want to do more than that.”

I reach across and take a small roasted tomato from his plate. I hold it between my fingers. His eyes go to my hand. I bring it slowly to his mouth. He doesn't break his stare. He opens his mouth and takes it from my fingers, his lips warm just at the tips, he chews, looks at me and says nothing for a moment.

“Why don’t you?”