“I ain’t never!”
“Oh, do have a look, Geoffrey, won’t you?”
“Fine, fine.” The next instant, the tablecloth lifted, and the flushed face of an inebriated middle-aged fellow peered upside-down into the shadows. Red-rimmed eyes blinked blearilystraight at Nigel, then turned to look at Luna as well. He squeezed his eyelids, shook his head, looked again, then blustered a gin-tinged gust of air before sitting upright once more. “Yup. S’ghosts all right.”
“Oh, you dolt, come away from there! Itcan’tbe good luck to sit at the bride and groom’s table. Not after such a do at the ceremony.”
“All right, Suzette, but I don’t think s’ghosts gonna hurt no one . . .”
The knees were removed along with the shiny-shoed feet. Whatever had beenthunkeddown on the table was reclaimed and carried away, leaving Nigel on the floor with Luna atop him, staring stupidly at one another. Nigel tried to catch a struggling breath. Her soft curls tickled his cheeks, her lovely scent intoxicating in his nose.
“I’m sorry about that,” he murmured.
“Sorry?” she echoed. “For what?”
But how could he answer? His mind simply wouldn’t present something for which he could justly apologize. Not while his body screamed with awareness of the shape of hers pressed against him. His hands rested at her waist, firmly planted but fully conscious of all the delicious curves they might travel under permissive circumstances. Which these certainly were not. But his imagination sought to carry him away with it regardless.
Still, she did not push away. Not yet. She lay atop him, her limp curls falling over her shoulders to frame their faces in soft curtains, her breath warm as it mingled with his, her lips parted so invitingly. Nigel could not help the way his gaze slid once more to focus on those lips. Was it possible that fragile moment between them might be reclaimed? Or forged into something new?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, “for this . . .”
And he lifted his head, beginning a lunge to claim her mouth. To seal the painful gap between them and, along with it, to seal his own fate.
But Luna retreated abruptly. One hand firmly pressed to the front of his apron, she rolled off his chest, and though Nigel’s fingers momentarily tightened, he could not keep her against her will. Forcing himself to let go, he watched her sit up and turn away from him, those soft, curtaining curls falling across her cheek, shielding her from his gaze. “Green Mother save me!” she said rather loudly after a moment. “I’m getting a crick in my spine under here, aren’t you? Surely the coast must be clear by now.”
Nigel’s hand reached out and very nearly took hold of her arm. He stopped himself, however. His fingers curled into a fist of restraint, while she lifted the edge of the tablecloth and peered out into the crowded room. “Yes,” she declared, her chin set in a determined line. “It looks as clear as it’ll ever be. Help me gather these violets, won’t you, Mr. Grimm?”
Luna’s heart pounded against her breastbone as she scrambled out from under the table. Her knees caught and pulled at the end of her long green apron, but she yanked it out of the way, taking care not to crush the violets hastily stuffed into her pockets, and continued crawling as fast as she could, right across the parquet floor to the far wall. There she sat upright and leaned her back against the wainscoting.
Mr. Grimm followed in her wake. But she wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze focused absolutely anywhere else. On Mrs. Lambert, seated at a nearby table, raising a wine flute and loudly demanding a refill. On her mousy husband, diving to intercept the oncoming waiter. On Tom Doorhandler, who’d apparently decided not to pass up the opportunity of a free luncheon, and sat glumly consoling himself over a sumptuous plate of lambchops. And on the spurned Duke of Woolfwood, who even now danced with Miss Tuttlemouse in her purple bridesmaid’s dress, both of them looking rather pleased with the situation.
And all the while, the crooner sang on:
“If only you’d see, beneath layers of time,
The love that I carry, a bittersweet rhyme.
But dreams slip away as night turns to dawn,
And I’m left here to mourn what was never my song.”
Luna swallowed hard. She couldn’t believe there was a time she’d actuallylikedthat stupid song.
Mr. Grimm leaned against the wall beside her. She cast him a swift sideways glance, taking note of the violets stuffed in his pockets, others cradled in one hand, and one tucked behind his ear. He caught her gaze but did not hold it, facing forward again swiftly and blinking several times. “Shall we go?” he suggested.
Luna nodded.
They both got cautiously to their feet. Keeping their backs to the wall, they sidled around the edges of the room, and absolutely no one paid them any attention, not even the harried wait staff. Really, Luna considered, there was no reason why they should have spent any amount of time hidden under the table. It was just foolishness really. Ducking her head, she followed Mr. Grimm to the exit and stepped with him into the passage outside the banquet hall. It was still fairly noisy, but there was at least some reprieve from all the voices and the band.
It felt oddly cold, somehow. Almost as jarring as stepping out of time into that bubble-wrap reality. As though the reality they’d enjoyed together under the table in close proximity was somehow fuller, richer. Now, with the distance between them resumed once more, everything felt not quite right.
But this was how it had to be. And there was no use in pretending otherwise.
Mr. Grimm led the way to the service stairs and held the door for Luna, ever the gentleman. Luna stepped through, and they descended together in sustained silence. All the while, Luna tried to pretend she wasn’t burningly aware of the placeon her waist where he had gripped her, drawing her into him. And she told herself she did not still smell his sandalwood-and-cinnamon scent in her nostrils. She’d spent these last four weeks fighting the urge to remember what it felt like to be sheltered in his arms, to feel his strength and protection wrapped around her. She’d spent these last four weeks preparing for the inevitability of this coming Wednesday and that one-way, nonrefundable train ticket. Four weeks of careful, concentrated distancing.
Was it all undone now?
Still silent, they returned to the parking garage and the van waiting in its designated place. Mr. Grimm unlocked it, opened the passenger door, holding it politely for Luna. She hesitated. Then, with a quick step forward, she scooped violets out of her pockets and placed them on the van seat.
