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“Here it is.” Ophelia moved her arm in a sweeping motion. “This is Saint Stephen's Green. Unfortunately, it’s closed. I forgot they lock the park up at night.”
I looked through the gates at the bushes and grassy lawn—or what I could see of it—and the gravel path. “Wow.”
“Yes.”
“It’s green.”
“Very.”
“Even in the dark, in the middle of winter, it’s green.”
“Indeed.”
“Impressive.” I inspected Ophelia’s profile, adding, “And aptly named,” completely deadpan. She fought a smile. She’d been fighting smiles during most of our adventure this evening and she hadn’t laughed since we’d left the pub.
Finishing her pint with the world’s smallest sips, she’d offered to take me on a tour of her city after I admitted that I’d never gone sightseeing during any of my visits. I know, lame.
Presently, it was cold and dark. I was legit a complete stranger to her and we were arguably the only sober people on the streets of Dublin except for the guitarist busking across the road from the park. Whoever it was, they were good. She didn’t seem at all put off by the fact that I was a stranger, but she hadn’t allowed herself a full smile either.
Interesting. I wondered if she was nervous.
This woman with sad eyes had a grin that reminded me of sunlight peeking through rain clouds, and a laugh just as melodic and alluring as her singing voice. I was not deterred. I would ease her fears. Oh yes, I would make her laugh. Before the night was over, I would have her gasping for air, even if I had to resort to stories about my Aunt Clara’s potato salad.
“I applaud the name, Saint Stephen’s Green.” I turned to face her. “And, come to think of it, I like it when places are named literally, reflecting the location.”
She quirked an eyebrow, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Why?”
“Then there are no surprises. Take Central Park in New York. No surprises there. You know what to expect and it delivers on both its centralness and its parkness.”
A small smile hooked her mouth to the side, and I looked at her lips. They were nice lips, pink, full, a little pouty, and white puffs of air paired with her words as she spoke, “Yes. Sometimes the name can promise one thing, but reality is very different.”
“Like where? Give me an example.”
“Like . . .” she glanced over my shoulder as she thought about it, which meant I could study her pretty face. Intelligent eyes beneath dark lashes, oval face, pink cheeks, tendrils of blonde, curly hair peeking out from beneath her knit hat and framing her face. Yep. No denying it. She’s extremely pretty.
I’d noticed in the pub, she was the kind of pretty that was impossible to ignore. But the richness and emotive quality to her voice, and the palpable sadness she carried, had eclipsed any thoughts of her attractiveness at the time.
“Like Brussels.” She focused on me again, lifting her shoulders, bringing me back to the present. “Where are the brussels sprouts? If you go to a place called Brussels, I would think it should be covered in brussels sprouts. Right?”
What a goof.
“Have you been to Brussels?” I wasn’t going to fight my smile, it felt too good and her accent was fucking adorable. ‘Think’ was ‘tink’ and I wanted her to hear her ‘toughts’ all night.
Ophelia turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “No. But I’ve seen pictures, and nary a brussels sprout in sight. False advertising if you ask me.”
Grinning at her goofiness, I decided once and for all she had no idea who I was. Or, if she did know, she didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time I spent any time with someone who didn’t know me as Broderick Addams, record producer to rock stars and pop royalty rather than just Broderick, some dude.
It was nice to be just some dude again. Really nice.
“Anyways.” Ophelia turned slowly, her steps unhurried as she walked along the periphery of the park, inviting me to join with the tilt of her head. “I know where I’m taking you next, but we don’t have much time.”
Catching up to her, I let my arm brush against her shoulder. Her shoulder then brushed against my arm, and this was my version of acting irresponsibly. Other than our initial handshake, every touch thereafter had been way out of my norm. I wasn’t big on initiating contact, especially not with women—any woman—I’d just met. Growing up in Mississippi, I’d lost my acc
ent, but I’d never lost my awareness of where I’d come from and what I looked like.
The world saw me as a big, scary black man. Meanwhile, here I am, shopping on Pottery Barn for faux fur bathrobes and table linens. There were few things I enjoyed more in life than a beautifully set table. Add candles and a centerpiece and I was in heaven. I will sit at a table and eat shitty food if there’s a silver napkin ring, no lie. Don’t get me started on Martha Stewart Living, domestic porn at its finest.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, not moving away from the subtle warmth of her body. In fact, I swayed closer, my arm brushing her shoulder again. I should’ve stepped away. I would, but not yet.
