Page 5 of A Small Town Spring

“I’ll open the wine,” I say, grabbing the opener.

“And I’ll—” Pete stops, looks lost.

I laugh.“Lighten up.It’s a dinner party, not a sales pitch.”

“Right, right.”He smiles at me.“You’re the best, Kingston.”

“I know.”I whip the cork out of the bottle with a satisfying pop as Jack returns to the kitchen with guests in tow.

My gaze lands on the woman, who must be Ivy Miller.She’s probably early thirties, tall, almost as tall as my five-eleven, though a glance at her feet readjusts my estimate since she’s wearing suede boots with heels.Pete didn’t exaggerate—she’s beautiful, with regal posture, creamy brown skin, straight nose, full lips.Her close-clipped dark hair exposes the lines of her swan’s neck and her loose brown knit sweater shows off a well-defined collarbone.She could be a model.Designer jeans that hug her slim hips and chunky jewelry at her wrists and ears complete the look of relaxed elegance.I approve of her style—bohemian but in a polished way.

Jack’s making introductions, which I mostly tune out while I evaluate Ivy’s companion.Her boyfriend, who Pete referred to as Toby, stands a foot behind her, still halfway in the hallway.I have to step forward to get a good look.When I see his face, I find myself glancing away immediately, as if averting my eyes from the sun or a celebrity who happens to be eating a table away.Ivy is beautiful, but this man isstunning.

His complexion is light, not merely fair, but tinted with a kind of glowing light from within, as if he’d been painted in those egg white temperas favored by Raphael that make the subject look smooth and alive.But he’s not a painting, he’s a man, flesh and blood, his full mouth and his light eyes rivaling for my attention.They should be blue, to go with the buttery blond of his lightly curled hair, but they’re actually amber, like a cat’s eyes.It’s hard to say how old he is, but I’d guess at least thirty.His nose is perfectly proportional to the rest of him, uncaringly generous.

I blink and force myself to look away from his face to inspect the rest of him.He’s dressed casually, but not in the carelessly monied way that Ivy is.He’s wearing a plain white button-down that looks like he got it off the rack at an off-brand department store.He’s unbuttoned one button more than the weather calls for, added a shabby tweed sport coat on top, khaki slacks and brown loafers with… my stomach curdles at the sight: white athletic socks.

So the guy dresses worse than Jack.With a face like his, he could probably wear a wetsuit to Le Bernardin and not be turned away.

“...and this is our friend Kingston James,” Pete says.I edge closer so I can offer a hand to Ivy first.I do my signature move—gently turning her hand over and bowing over it instead of a straight handshake.“Charmed, Miss Miller,” I say.

She laughs lightly, “Pleased to meet you, Mr.James.”Her accent is faint, but there.

Toby puts his hand out for a shake, and I hesitate only a second before grasping it and pumping firmly.We make eye contact as he says, “I’m Toby Wheaton.How do you do?”

“Fine,” I say, my gaze sliding away, all of my usual clever rejoinders eluding my tongue as I register the warmth of his dry, strong hand.“I do fine.”

In my peripheral vision, I can see his smile.The crease of his cheeks makes the rosé in my stomach feel like a gin fizz.

“That’s… fine,” he says brightly, dropping my hand.Jack and Pete go about getting the newcomers drinks and I stand there, feeling like I’ve fallen down an elevator shaft.

Of course, the man I’d have this kind of reaction to—instant, electric, and undeniable—would already be taken.

Three

By the timewe all take our drinks and file into the seldom-used dining room, I’ve mostly recovered my equilibrium.Toby Wheaton may have struck my heart with an unexpected arrow of intrigue, but he’s just a man.A man with a girlfriend.And I promised Pete that I’d charm Ivy into board duty, or at least try.

But somehow I end up seated next to him, with Van on my left, and Ivy across the table in front of Van, with Pete on the end between them.Beck’s in front of me, and Jack’s across from Toby.Beck immediately serves the risotto and baked fish he pulled crispy hot out of the oven, while Jack passes a basket with crusty sourdough he picked up from Stacy Robinson, a local baker.A delicate baby greens salad completes the meal.

“This is lovely,” Toby says.He’s got an accent, too, familiar to me from my trips to the London Book Fair over the years.“Who made all of these wonderful things?”

“I made everything but the bread,” Beck says proudly.“That’s Stacy’s.She has a booth at the farmer’s market if you want to check it out.”

“I want to make a toast,” Pete says, the nerves he showed earlier seemingly gone.“To spring, which after a long winter has finally come to Rosedale.And to new friends,” he says, tipping his glass first to Ivy, then Toby.

“Hear, hear,” I add, as we clink glasses around the table.I tap mine against Toby’s last, and our eyes meet again.Again, I have the urge to look away immediately.But why?I’m no retiring wallflower.Still, there’s something about him that makes me feel too conspicuous to be my usual flamboyant self.

I’m so unsettled, I’ve apparently lost my appetite, too.I pick at my meal and try to follow the threads of conversation.

“I heard you’re working on a new commission,” Jack says, and at first, I think he’s talking to me, but his eyes are on Toby.

“Finishing one up, actually,” Toby answers.“Ivy had to pry me out of my studio today.I haven’t been anywhere in a week.”

“I’d apologize, except I know how important it is to get out of the creativity cave once in a while,” Jack says.“Can you tell us about the painting?”

“It’s of the Greystone Inn.They commissioned it for their hundred-year anniversary.I think they want to hang it in the lobby.”He doesn’t sound as if he’s bragging, more like he’s surprised at the prominent placement of his work.

“You accept commissions?”I ask.I wonder what his painting style is like.

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