Her Man Friday(67)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Schuyler had never had the opportunity to learn how to do those things. No one had ever taken the time to teach him. And something inside Caroline responded to that lost quality about him. Certainly he was no child. And certainly she was drawn to him in a way that went far beyond her role as an educator. But she could no more resist trying to reach inside him to teach him about himself than she could resist performing the same gesture for one of her students.

And last night, at some point in the evening, as they’d shared a small table in the corner of a deli, bathed in the flickering red and green light of the neon Killian’s sign, she’d made him laugh, a genuine, heartfelt laugh, and had broken through the first layer.

But there hadn’t been time for more. By then, it was after midnight, and Caroline had needed to get home. So Schuyler had instructed his driver to drop her back at the school to retrieve her car, and then the two men had followed her home to make sure she arrived safely. Schuyler had walked her to her front door, even though she’d assured him such chivalry was unnecessary.

Chivalry, he’d assured her right back, had had nothing to do with it. Then they’d stood there awkwardly for some moments without speaking. And then he’d lifted a hand to a strand of her hair that had come loose from its knot, had wound it lightly around his finger, and had told her, very, very softly, goodnight.

He hadn’t looked back as he’d made his way down the hallway to the stairs, and she had been certain she had seen the last of him. Even though she’d wanted with all her heart to spend a few more minutes with him—just long enough to see if she could notch another chink or two in his facade—she had thought for sure he wouldn’t allow it.

But now here he was, of his own free will, and there was no way she would let him off that easily again.

"Had I known you were coming," she said, trying to pick up the thread of their conversation, "I would have been better prepared." She had thought she was talking about dinner, but somehow, the words came out suggesting something else entirely.

He seemed to understand that fully, because his gaze never strayed from her face as he responded, "Yes, well, that makes two of us."

She bent to pick up the roaster from the floor and settled it once again on the counter. Although it was black and unremarkable, it was all she had that would hold such an enormous bouquet. She could trim the stems and treat the roaster like a massive rose bowl, and when she was finished, it would make for a lovely centerpiece. She hoped. She withdrew a pair of shears from one drawer and began to snip the stems, one by one, nearly overcome by the sweet aroma of the blossoms, nearly overcome by the man who had brought them.

And she wished she knew what to say.

"They really are quite lovely," she began.

"Yes, they are," he concurred.

"And I appreciate your bringing them," she added lamely. "No one has brought me flowers for a long time."

"Haven’t they?"

She shook her head and focused on the task she was performing, because she was much too frightened to meet his gaze. "No."

"Has there been no one since your husband?"

Her fingers faltered in their task, and she nearly snipped off her fingertip. "Ah, no," she said, still trying not to look at him. "No, there hasn’t been. There was no one before him, either," she added quickly. For some reason, she needed for Schuyler to know that. She didn’t know why it should make such a difference—or even if it would make a difference where he was concerned—but it was important that he understand how seriously she took something like physical intimacy.

But all he offered in response was, "I see."

She did finally glance up at that. "Do you?" she asked, meeting his gaze levelly. "Do you really?"

He nodded. "Yes, I do. And I think…"

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. It’s just not surprising, that’s all."

"Does it make a difference?" she asked.

He seemed puzzled. "A difference in what?"

"In your reasons for being here."

He seemed to give that some thought, then told her, "No. It doesn’t. My reasons for coming here are quite simple, actually."

"And just what would those reasons be?"

Neither his gaze nor his voice faltered the slightest bit as he told her, "I came to see you, Caroline. Because I missed you."

Her heart hummed at the way he offered up the admission so plainly, so succinctly. "You just saw me last night."

"Yes, and it was a long, long time ago."

This time her heart skipped a beat or two at his assertion, and she wondered just how seriously she should take what he said. He was a charming, handsome, wealthy man, she reminded herself. He was in no way the kind of man with whom she should involve herself. He couldn’t possibly take seriously anything that might develop between them. There would be nothing lasting, nothing permanent with him. So why did she find herself so drawn to him?

For a long moment, they only gazed at each other in thoughtful silence, then Caroline returned her attention to the pile of roses on her counter. One by one, she lifted, snipped, arranged, until the roaster was full of the fragrant blossoms. At no time did she or Schuyler speak to each other. He only sat down on one of the high stools lined up along the counter and watched, very intently, every move she made.

When she was finished, she filled a watering can and emptied it into the roaster, then held the final product aloft in two hands. "There," she said, satisfied with her handiwork. "What do you think?"

"I think it’s beautiful," he told her. "You have a way with flowers."

She smiled, then made her way to the kitchen table in the dining area that sat catty-corner to the living area. "Thanks," she said as she situated the bouquet carefully in the middle.

"Just like you have a way with kids," he added.

She made a few additional adjustments to the arrangement, then turned around to face him. "Thanks," she said again.

He rose from the stool and covered the few steps between them, then lifted his hand to run his thumb lightly over her cheek. "Just like you have a way with disillusioned, lonely billionaires," he added softly.

She had to tip her head back to look at him, because he stood a good half foot taller than she when she was in her stocking feet. She wanted to say something in response to his statement, but feared that whatever came out would simply be too revealing, too suggestive, too dangerous. So she said nothing at all, only lifted her hand to circle his wrist with loose fingers. Beneath her thumb, his pulse was pounding, something that was totally at odds with the cool, collected image he presented. She took heart in knowing that he was no more immune to the heat and awareness burning up the air between them than she was.