“Strawberry shortcake is pretty damn good,” she says, and her smile widens. Like that, she looks younger. Her light brown eyes sparkle, and the grin makes her seem almost…
I blink, momentarily transported to another place. I swear an image of Penelope slips over Penny, and the two seem one and the same. It’s as if I’m in two lives at once—this one here with her, and a past life with a girl I was falling in love with in hardly any time at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever believed in love at first sight, and that’s not precisely what happened with the mystery woman from my past. But it was as close as I’ve ever come, because the last night with her, I knew I was falling. That was why what happened next was so goddamn miserable.
I straighten my shoulders, setting down the glass as I recall Tina’s advice. I fight like hell to stay in this moment.
“Was it love at first sight?” I ask, and just to make sure I don’t take a trip to a decade ago again, I add, “With your dog?”
Penny nods happily. “Shortcake insisted on being mine. When she came to the shelter, she stood on her hind legs, put her front paws on me, and wagged her tail. When I leaned down to say hello to her, she covered me in kisses.”
“She’s not one for beating around the bush, is she?”
“And it wasn’t just her sales pitch, either, to get me to take her home,” she says, radiating excitement. “She hasn’t changed one bit. She’s really like that. She’s incredibly affectionate, and she kisses me all the time.”
Before I can think better of it, I say, “And you like that? Being kissed all the time?”
This time, I’m thinking of her. The woman across from me.
Chapter Six
Penny
Perhaps the ice has already cracked. Maybe it happened when Delaney pointed out that Greta was likely the flirt, not Gabriel. Maybe it began to dissolve when I walked through the door tonight and saw him waiting for me—the image I’d longed for years ago. Or possibly, the ice is melting because this man across from me is a man I want to know. And to know again.
When he asks me about being kissed, my thoughts turn neon hot and electric.
And you like that? Being kissed all the time?
Fine, we’re talking about my dog. But we’re talking about lips and kisses. And no one has ever kissed me like Gabriel.
That day in Park Güell, when he breathed out kiss me, we became lost like that. Tangled up in each other, mouths searching, tongues finding, breath mingling.
“I could do this all day,” he said.
“And all night?”
“If you want me to, there’s nothing I’d rather do.” His voice was laced with desire.
“I want you to kiss me,” I said, boldness and desire overcoming me as I moved my mouth to his ear, whispering, “everywhere.” We didn’t stay in the park much longer. In fact, I think we set a land-speed record, grabbing the blanket and running to his room.
Somehow, I find the will to slam the blinds closed on that far-too-tantalizing memory, and try to remember what we were talking about before my mind ran loose. His job? Cooking? I’m not sure any longer, so I say, “Do you?”
He drums his fingers on the table. “Do I like being kissed?”
Oh God. My face flames red. I’m not even adding transitional thoughts anymore to my speech with him. I shake my head quickly, making a rolling gesture as if I’m cycling him back to the spot where I left off, though it was many moments ago when we’d talked about our jobs. “Do you love cooking?” I ask, the words coming out stilted because all I’m thinking about is kissing.
He laughs. “That was an interesting segue.”
I glance at my hands. Run my finger along the stem of the wine glass. Fold and unfold my napkin.
Mercifully, he doesn’t ask if I’m nervous or embarrassed. Though the answer is both, and I swear I’d like to grab a paper bag, drop it on my head, and have someone yank me away from the table. Smack some sense into me. Because this is the definition of foolish. I can’t fall into Gabriel’s orbit, and yet…that’s what I’m doing.
“Just as you love animals, I love to cook,” he says.
And there it is. An elegant simplicity to who we are. “That’s the best reason to do what you do,” I say, repeating his words because they ring true to me, too. “For love.”
“I believe, too, that it is easy to be misguided,” he says, pushing the cuff higher on his shirtsleeve. “To think maybe we want to do something else. But as you say, the answer is often here.” He points to his breastbone. “Did you always know you wanted to work in philanthropy?”
“I thought I wanted to be a—” I stop myself before I say banker. I don’t know if I’m ready to remove my armor yet. To reveal too much too soon. I swallow and correct myself. “I thought I wanted to work in business. But I knew after six months that it wasn’t for me. And you? Has the love affair with food been a forever kind of thing?”
He laughs lightly. “I’m lucky in that regard. From the time I was a young boy, learning how to cook an egg at my mother’s side, I knew the kitchen was my home.”
A pang of guilt stabs me, because I remember him telling me about his parents, his sister, his brother, and how they grew up with very little and someday he hoped to give them more. A confession starts to well up inside me, to fight its way out soon. When you asked me if we’d met, you were right. We did so much more than meet. Please tell me you remember everything like I do. And that you remember it fondly.