Gwynneth Ever After Page 2
“Coffee would be nice,” she said, and held out her hand to him. “I’m Gwyn Jacobs.”
“Gareth Connor,” he replied, accepting her handshake.
Gwyn’s heart gave a mighty thud, knocking most of the air from her lungs. All right, so women like her did sit beside famous actors in obscure Ottawa theatres. She collected herself, withdrew her hand, and said with what she considered remarkable aplomb, “I thought I recognized you.”
“I wasn’t sure if you did or not.”
“I think it was more a case of not believing my own eyes,” she said, her voice wry. “Canterbury Theatre in Ottawa is a little out of the way for you, I’d think.”
He smiled and shrugged without giving a direct reply. “There’s a bistro across the street. Shall we?”
She held up her cell phone. “Give me two seconds to call my babysitter first. I need to let her know I’ll be late.”
Gareth Connor’s eyes flickered at the word babysitter, but he said nothing, merely moving a few steps off to wait for her.
Gwyn made a quick call to ask Kirsten to reheat yesterday’s leftover macaroni and cheese casserole for dinner – and to assure her she’d make it home sometime before the kids went to bed. Then, ending the connection, she took a deep breath and joined her coffee companion, the real live Gareth Connor, on the sidewalk.
Chapter 3
The warmth of the bistro wrapped around Gwyn the instant they stepped through the door, making her realize how cold the late afternoon had become. Shivering, she pulled her chin into her scarf. A few tables away, a waitress looked up, did a visible double-take, and nearly dropped a coffee cup into an equally startled customer’s lap. A murmur of excitement passed through the room.
Gwyn glanced sideways at Gareth, but he seemed oblivious to the sudden stir in the tiny restaurant.
“There’s a table over there,” he said, nodding toward the window.
His hand settled into the small of her back, guiding her through the bistro, past the whispers and stares marking their progress. At the table, she peeled off her gloves and tucked them into a pocket, then unbuttoned her coat. Gareth moved to slide it from her shoulders.
“Not yet, thanks,” she said. “I think I’ll warm up first.”
Gareth shed his own coat, hung it on the back of his chair and joined her at the table, which promptly shrank ten sizes. Facing her companion across the blue-and-white checked tablecloth, Gwyn tucked her hands into her lap and tried for a casual air.
When she couldn’t think of a single thing to say, however, she felt pretty sure her attempt failed miserably.
The silence at their table stretched. Just as it reached excruciating on the awkward scale, the waitress arrived with two cardboard menus and a steaming coffee pot.
“Just coffee for me, thanks,” Gwyn murmured.
“Are you sure?” Gareth asked. “If your kids are eating dinner without you…”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Far too many butterflies resided in her belly to allow the addition of food. Coffee alone could be a challenge.
The waitress took her time filling their cups and retrieving their menus. She made no effort to conceal her blatant appraisal of Gareth, excitement warring with disbelief in her eyes. Gwyn ducked her head to hide a smile. She knew exactly how the poor girl felt.
At last the waitress departed, still looking undecided about Gareth’s identity. Gwyn regarded her companion.
“Is it always like this when you go somewhere?”
Gareth shrugged. “Sometimes it’s worse,” he said. “You get used to it.”
Gwyn reached for the chrome-and-glass sugar dispenser and sprinkled a rough teaspoon’s worth into her coffee. She searched for a conversation topic.
“So, what in the world are you doing in Ottawa, Mr. Connor?”
Not overly clever as an opening, but better than another silence.
“Gareth,” he replied. “And I’m hiding.”
“Oh?” She smiled at the frank admission. “From anyone in particular?”
Gareth shook his head. “More like everyone in general. I have a cousin here, and when I needed a holiday, he suggested I visit him. Apparently you Canadians are very respectful of people’s privacy. Remarkably unobtrusive, he called you.”
“When we’re not hitting you with shoulder bags and dropping pencils at your feet, you mean.”
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that blended well with the cozy bistro surroundings and made Gwyn’s breath hitch a little.
“Something like that,” he agreed.
“How long are you here for?”
“A week or two. I’m – ” He hesitated, then shrugged. “It depends.”
“You picked a heck of a time of year to visit.”
Gareth stirred a teaspoon of sugar and some cream into his own coffee. “It’s not that bad, actually. You’re about three weeks closer to winter than we are at home, but otherwise the weather is similar.”
“You have the same indecisive weather gods? Lucky you.” Gwyn grimaced. “So far we’ve been scraping ice off the windshields one day and going without our jackets the next. But I shouldn’t complain too much. We might even have a green Christmas this year.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you’re speaking to my kids or the person who has to shovel the driveway.” She flashed him a grin. “If I had my way, it would snow on Christmas Eve and melt on Boxing Day. Although I suppose it could snow now,” she added thoughtfully, “if it would stick to the lawns and stay off the roads and sidewalks.”
Gareth laughed. “You don’t dream big, do you?”
“Me? Never.” She wrapped her hands around her own mug and lifted it to her lips, inhaling the pungent aroma then taking a sip. Hot and still faintly bitter, the dark liquid chased away the last of her chill. She set down the cup again and shrugged out of her coat.
“Do you do set design for a lot of plays at the theater?” Gareth asked, nodding out the window towards the building on the other side of the street.
“Not really - I just have trouble saying no to someone with a good story.” Gwyn picked up her mug again. “Sandy’s my best friend and I wanted to help out. The only people I know who actually frequent that place are the ones trying to have it preserved as a historical monument of some kind.”
“I take it you don’t think the theatre is worth preserving?”
She snorted. “Hardly. Don’t get me wrong, I love old buildings. My own house is over a hundred years old. But I don’t believe in saving a place just because it was built a specific number of years ago. The Canterbury was an eyesore when it went up, and it remains one now.”
“What about its architectural style?”
“Styles, plural. Whoever designed the place drew on about seven different ones that should never have been combined.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance be an architect, would you?”
“Am I that obvious? Sorry about that.” A sudden possibility occurred to her and she scrunched up her nose. “Crap. Let me guess. Your cousin is the head of the preservation committee and you’re in Ottawa to act as a spokesperson, aren’t you?”
Gareth shook his head, teeth gleaming against tanned skin. “You don’t have to apologize, and no, I’m not here for the sake of the building.”
“The play, then?” Gwyn raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I love Sandy dearly, and I’m thrilled her play ran as long as it did, but there’s no way you were there because of word-of-mouth.”
“Would you believe Sunday afternoon boredom? Sean – my cousin – is a cop. He’s on shift today and I got tired of looking at his apartment walls, so I went for a drive. When I saw the marquee, I decided to give it a try. I asked for a private box and ended up sitting beside you.”
“Where you were too busy picking up my pencils to be bored anymore.”
“Exactly.” Gareth’s dark eyes danced. “You were very entertaining.”
“All his life, but he spent summers in Wales with my family until he started university. We’re the only boys in the family, and there’s about five years between us, so he’s always been more of a kid brother than a cousin.”
“That must have been nice for you.”
“Not when I was fourteen and he wanted to follow me everywhere, but I appreciated it once I grew up. What about you? Does your family live here?”
“My parents both died a few years ago. I have a sister down in the States and a brother who’s working in South America somewhere. We’re not what you’d call close.”
“That has to be tough for you, with kids of your own.”
“It has its moments,” she admitted, “but for the most part the kids and I manage pretty well. I have an amazing sitter, whom they love, and a great bunch of friends who help out when I need it.”
Leaning back in his chair, he raised his hands and locked them behind his head, his sweater pulling tight across his chest. Gwyn tried hard not to notice, but just how well-developed did pectorals have to be before they became visible under…?
“How many do you have? Kids, I mean, not friends.”
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted, “but aren’t you Gareth Connor?”
Gwyn pulled her gaze from the chest she wasn’t staring at. The waitress had returned, blushing fiery red, shredding a paper napkin and gritting her teeth with fierce determination. Two other servers huddled open-mouthed by the cash register, watching the proceedings, and several restaurant patrons eavesdropped with no sign of embarrassment.
Gareth turned his attention to the young woman beside their table. “I am,” he said. “And you are - ?”
“St – St – Stephanie. Stephanie Williams. My friends call me Steff.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Steff,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Gwyn regarded Stephanie Williams with faint alarm. The poor girl looked like she might explode without any warning at all. Her knees actually buckled when Gareth reached to shake her hand.
The waitress shot her a quick look. “I don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she stammered, “but would you – could I – ?”
She gave up trying to speak and shoved the napkin toward Gareth. He took the remains of what looked to have been worried half to death by a terrier and smoothed it out on the tabletop.
“Do you have a pen?” he asked.
After multiple tries, Stephanie plucked a pen from her apron pocket with shaking fingers. Gareth scrawled something across the tattered paper and then handed pen and napkin back to the waitress. The girl fled without so much as a thank you.
“Sorry about that,” he said, turning his attention back to Gwyn. “Where were we?”
“Does that happen often?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Something else you get used to. You were going to tell me about your kids.”
“Pardon?”
“Your kids,” he reminded her. “How many do you have?”
“Oh. Three. Katie is seven, and Maggie and Nicholas are four.”
“Twins?” One dark eyebrow ascended.
She nodded and ran a finger around the rim of her coffee cup. That would make the poor guy wonder what he’d got himself into. First she was a klutz, and now she was a klutz with three young children. He had to be regretting the coffee invitation in a major way by now.
“They must keep you busy.”
“And then some,” she agreed. She glanced at her watch. The waitress’ intrusion had jarred her back to reality. As nice as this interlude had been…well, all good fantasies had to come to an end. She may as well put the poor man out of his misery, and at the same time catch an early enough bus to get home by the bedtime hour she’d promised Kirsten.
“I should get going, Mr. Con– ”
“Gareth,” he reminded her. He made no move to leave.
“Gareth,” she repeated, managing with great effort not to stumble over the name. She slid her coat up onto her shoulders and began pulling on one of her gloves. “I’m sure you have other plans, and I – ”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Gwyn’s movements faltered. She’d just given the man the easiest out he could ask for. Surely he recognized that. She finished tugging her glove over her fingers and peeked up through her lashes at him.
Gareth regarded her. “Forgive my bluntness, but are you married?”
“M-mar – no, I’m not.” She shook her head, trying to keep pace with the conversation’s sudden change in direction.
“Then have dinner with me.”
The glove slid from suddenly nerveless fingers and her mind ground to a standstill. She stared at him, incapable of response. Gareth’s mouth twitched and humor lit his dark gaze.
“Well? Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s an ‘I’m stunned,’” Gwyn replied honestly. Coffee was one thing, but dinner?
He tipped back his head and laughed, drawing the admiring gazes of the waitresses and several other women in the bistro. “You are refreshingly blunt, Gwyn Jacobs. What is Gwyn short for, anyway? Gwyneth? Gwyndolyn? Guinevere?”
“Gwynneth,” she said. “With two n’s.”
“It suits you. Now, Gwynneth with two n’s, why are you stunned?” He sat forward, folded his arms, and leaned on the table.
She frowned. “Why do you want to have dinner with me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The usual reasons. I enjoy your company.”
“You don’t know me well enough to enjoy my company,” she pointed out.
“Then I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Mr. – Gar – ” She stopped, drew a steadying breath, and continued. “Gareth, I’m a thirty-five-year-old mother of three – which, incidentally, is enough to make most men run screaming – and you could choose just about any woman in this city. Why me?”
Gareth considered her question for a minute before he spoke. “Because I’m not most men. And you’re not just any woman.”
Temptation was great. No, it was enormous.
But so was reality.
“Thank you, but I have to get home to my kids.” Be strong, Gwyn, it’s for the better.
“Tomorrow night, then.” He rested his chin in one hand and grinned coaxingly. “Sean starts nightshift and I’ll be bored out of my skull by myself. Won’t you take pity on a stranger in your town, Gwynneth with two n’s?”
She twisted her fingers in her lap, her ungloved hand clinging to the gloved one for dear life. Lord, and she’d thought the man potent in his movie roles. His lethally charming onscreen presence had nothing on the real thing.
“I thought you came here to hide from people,” she reminded him.
“I’ll settle for keeping a low profile. Well?”
“I can’t tomorrow night. The kids have Jiu Jitsu practice.”
“When do they finish?”
“Six. But I have a deadline – ”
“Work tonight, while you’re not having dinner with me.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “You’re very persistent, did you know that?”
“Mm. My mother calls it stubborn. I like persistent better. Well? Do we have a date?”
A date. The very word sent a quiver through her belly. She didn’t date, she reminded herself. She even had an entire list of reasons for not doing so. Unfortunately, her stalled brain couldn’t recall any of them at this particular moment. She tried to think of something – anything – that would make a plausible excuse. She looked into lazy dark eyes. Thank you very much, Gareth, she coached herself, but…
“We have a date.”
“Good. Come on, I’ll run you home.”
“You don’t have to do that, I’m fine with the bus…” Gwyn’s voice trailed off as Gareth rose and came around to pull out her chair and retrieve her fallen glove.
“I gave in on the dinner thing,
now it’s your turn to be gracious,” he said easily.
Still in a state of shock at her treacherous acceptance of a date, it wasn’t until she was seated in his car and he’d slid in beside her that she suddenly frowned.
“Wait a minute, you didn’t give in on the dinner thing. I did.”
“I wondered when you’d catch that.” Gareth turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear. He glanced over his shoulder to check for traffic, then slanted her a quick smile as he pulled away from the curb. “If it’s any consolation, though, you were very gracious.”
Chapter 4
Gareth slid his belt through its final loop, buckled it, and reached for the sport coat he’d dropped on the end of his bed. His cousin appeared in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame.
“Meeting Catherine?” Sean asked. “I thought she hadn’t returned your calls yet.”
“She hasn’t.” Gareth shrugged into the sport coat.
“Oh?”
“I have a date.”
“Ah. What happened to keeping a low profile while you’re in town?”
“I can’t stay cooped up in your apartment the whole time I’m here,” Gareth pointed out. “I’ve already been seen at the airport anyway. And at lunch with you today.”
“True, but there’s a difference between being seen in town and flaunting some new acquisition on your arm. Not to mention the risk that she’ll talk to the press. They always do.”
“Gwyn isn’t a new acquisition and she’s not the kind to talk to the press.”
“And you know this for a fact, do you? After knowing her for how long, exactly?”
Gareth turned to face the uniformed man in the doorway, eyeing him with exasperation. “Don’t you have someone to arrest or something?”
“I’m not on duty yet. And you’re changing the subject.”
“Very observant. Did they teach you that in detective school?”
Sean ignored the jibe. “How long have you known her?”
“None of your business.”
“Did you meet her on the plane?”