Page 55 of Flirting with Forever

The train screeched into the station and Mary slid her hand out from John’s. He shoved his hands into his pockets as they filed off, side by side.

“Look, Mary, are you sure you want to do this? Brunch with my father? It’s pretty much guaranteed to be a weird time.”

She nodded resolutely as they came aboveground. “I’m starving,” she insisted with a smile.

John took a deep breath and led her into the restaurant.

JOHNAPPARENTLYSPOTTEDhis father in the far corner almost immediately, and Mary expected John to lead the way through the restaurant. Instead, he pointed the direction and walked slightly behind her, one hand at the small of her back. It surprised Mary that he did this. He’d never struck her as a small-of-your-back guy before.

Then again, a month ago, she wouldn’t have thought he was a sleep-on-the-neighbor’s-couch kind of guy either, yet he’d gladly given up his space to make her comfortable. Which, she supposed, was exactly what he was doing right now as well. He was guiding her through the restaurant as a gesture of kindness, solidarity, maybe even protection? John might not be the most tactful guy in the history of the world, but Mary had never been more certain that he deeply cared about her well-being.

John Whitford Sr. rose up from his seat, tucking his phone into his pocket when they approached. His newscaster smile, which Mary was familiar with from all the campaign posters, was firmly in place. Not a millimeter changed in his expression, yet Mary was certain that she was seeing surprise on his face. His eyes darted from Mary to John, to John’s hand at her back, to the bag on her hip. And then those eyes went back to Mary and just stayed there for a long second.

“Well, hello,” he said, stepping around the table and holding out a hand. Mary was insanely relieved when all he did was shake it; she’d been dreading a back-of-the-hand kiss. “This is a surprise.”

“This is Mary Trace. Mary, this is my father.”

“Please, call me Jack,” he said smoothly, adjusting his blue suit coat before he sat back down at the table.

“Nickname?” she asked, setting her bag down and sitting at the four-top.

“Only to those who know me best.” Jack winked.

Mary smiled a little woodenly. He was just so smarmy. Nothing like John in the least.

She looked up at John and saw he was still standing, staring down at the table in consternation. “There isn’t a third place setting. I’ll get the server.”

And leave her there with Jack? Without thinking, Mary reached up and tugged at John’s hand, her fingers automatically finding the warm part of his palm. “The server will be back in a moment,” she reassured him.

When they’d been at the bar and she’d been trying to shake off his friend Hogan, John had read her eye contact exquisitely. He did the same thing now, his eyes searching her face. He nodded curtly and plunked down in the chair next to her, across from his father.

Jack cleared his throat. “I would have made the reservation for three if I’d have known...”

John waved his hand through the air. “It was unexpected for us as well.”

Us. His hand on her back through the restaurant. John wasn’t doing a very good job of explaining to his father that they weren’t, in fact, together. The thought was giving Mary underboob sweat.

The restaurant was semi-fancy. It had golden lights and big-leafed ceiling fans spinning lazily. There was a river view out the back windows, and Mary’s eyes followed a barge as it plodded its way downstream, the city fanning out beyond it. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, or the hell of a thirty-six hours she’d had, or the memory of her hand laced with John’s, but Mary felt slightly dizzy.

She needed a second.

“I’m going to run to the restroom real quick.”

She smiled at both men, pushed her chair back and moved quickly, and she hoped, gracefully to the restroom. She grabbed a paper towel, wet it and stepped into an open stall. Mary slapped it over the back of her neck and took a deep breath.

What a strange world. On a normal Saturday morning, she’d just be opening up her shop right now. Instead, she’d slept at John’s house and was having brunch with his father. She looked for a second at her hands. Almost indulgently, she laced her own fingers together, the way she had with John on the train. He’d more than held her hand. He’d gripped her with one hand and sheltered her from the world with his other hand.

And touching was such a slippery slope, wasn’t it? Because only moments later, he’d put one of those warm, calm palms at the small of her back. And moments after that, she’d slid her hand back into his, guided him down to his chair.

This was getting out of hand.

It was confusing to sleep in a man’s bed and hold his hand and meet his father. And Mary wasn’t even letting herself think about the two hugs they’d shared in her kitchen. She hadn’t, even in the deepest parts of last night, allowed herself to mull over how it had felt to look up from her conversation with the detective to see John unexpectedly standing there, looking as curmudgeonly as always.

Talk about slippery slopes. Mary could practically feel herself clicking into skis, adjusting her goggles, pushing off down a black diamond.

“He said we’re in different stages of life,” she firmly reminded herself. “He doesn’t look you up and down. He’s not attracted to you.”

Deciding that she’d feel better after she ate, Mary washed her hands, glared some sense into herself in the mirror and headed back out to the dining room. As she approached, she saw John and Jack in some sort of heated discussion. John leaned forward across the table while Jack leaned lazily back, a smug expression on his face. They cut off the moment they saw her and Mary was one hundred percent positive that conversation had been about her. No doubt John defending the innocence of their friendship. She could only imagine what he’d said.

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