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She suggested a seafood restaurant on the waterfront, pleased to be able to show off her beloved hometown to Hugo and his friend. Charleston had always been home, and though she longed to see more of the world, until that happened, she would appreciate the beauty of this city, with its complex history and distinct charm.
Lancelot placed a gentle hand on her back as they entered the restaurant, and Hugo pulled out her chair when they reached their table outside on the deck. When their server came by, she ordered a fried green tomatoes starter, enjoying the looks on both men’s faces.
“Green tomatoes?” Lancelot asked. “Doesn’t that mean they’re not ripe?”
Sylvia laughed. “Trust me.”
He shrugged good-naturedly. Lancelot struck her as the type of guy who never got too worked up about things. The type to just roll with the punches. Though given the size of his muscles, she was fairly sure if someone were so foolish as to punch the man, he’d simply shrug and then deck them with one powerful blow.
Hugo, perusing the wine list, sighed.
“I suppose it’s going to be hard to find a wine here to compete with what you drink in France,” she said.
Hugo glanced at her and smiled. No, smile wasn’t the right word. The left side of his mouth kicked up, and if not for the merriment dancing in his eyes, the expression might have been a smirk. “I am required by law to discredit all non-French wines.”
When she’d first met him, she’d thought of Dr. Hugo Marchand as a character from a Georgette Heyer novel—the reformed rake who would sweep her off her feet and do wicked things to her. Then he’d started lecturing, saying the most interesting and insightful things, and her feelings had morphed from heroine swooning at the sight of an unacceptable-but-oh-so-handsome man, to that of an acolyte, waiting on the scholar to reveal the secrets of the universe.
Lancelot took the wine list from Hugo and handed it to Sylvia. “Maybe you should suggest something you know is good. We don’t need a repeat of the chippie incident.”
“Chippie incident?” Sylvia asked.
Hugo tsked. “Lancelot had a craving for fish and chips. He located a British pub here in Charleston, but it was not, as you say, authentic. The meal didn’t end well.”
Sylvia laughed, then glanced at the list. “Chardonnay sound safe?”
She could tell from his face Hugo was a red man, but she preferred white with seafood.
“That will be fine,” Hugo said.
“Your brother is an interesting bloke,” Lancelot observed.
“That’s a nice way of describing him.” Sylvia adored Oscar, but seeing his house—the fact that it seemed more like a computer factory or mad scientist laboratory than a home—could be startling, if not downright alarming.
The waiter returned and they placed their orders.
A slight breeze moved the still air around them, blowing a strand of hair across her face. Lancelot reached over to brush it back, tucking it behind her ear. It was an innocent touch, but it packed a punch. Her skin tingled where his fingers had grazed, and while it was cool by the water, Sylvia suddenly felt very warm.
Luckily, Hugo wasn’t watching.
Luckily? Why had she thought of it like that?
Because she didn’t want Hugo to think she preferred Lancelot. Didn’t want Hugo to stop looking at her with a gaze that burned with the heat of a banked fire.
Hugo looked out over the water. Sylvia followed his gaze, watching a boat with two fishermen sail by, the two men waving at them as they passed.
Sylvia waved back.
“Do you know them?” Lancelot asked.
She shook her head. “No. Do you only wave at people you know?”
Lancelot rubbed his jaw, clearly considering that. The action drew her attention to his face—his strong cheekbones and the day’s worth of stubble there. He truly was a beautiful man, especially now as the last vestiges of sun skimmed the water, painting the surface in dark blues, pinks, and gold. The dying light had the same effect on Lancelot’s hair, pulling out so many different shades, everything from amber to toffee. He wore it long, the end of it curling at his shoulders. Sylvia wanted to reach across the table to touch it, to discover if it was soft like silk or coarser like twine. She even lifted her hand to do so, recalling how Lancelot hadn’t resisted that same urge when it came to tucking her hair back.
She placed her hand back in her lap when he started speaking.
“Let’s just say where I grew up, people are more guarded, less likely to engage a stranger. I think it’s the weather,” Lancelot mused.
“What?” she asked with a soft laugh. “The weather?”
