The intercom buzzed and Louis’s disembodied voice shattered the moment. “Mr. Peyton, I’ve got Tokyo on the line for you.”
Silently cursing his assistant, his company, and all his responsibilities, Trey struggled to keep his voice level and professional. “Give me just a minute.”
Sandy tugged her hand gently free of his and picked up her briefcase. “You’re busy. I need to get back to work myself.”
“I’ll finish going over the details later today.” At the very least, he was going to secure another wedding planning meeting with her.
She hesitated. “Why don’t we discuss it over dinner. At my house.” Her lips curved a little. “Less chance of interruption.”
The boy wanted to whoop. The businessman insisted he should say no. That he should do whatever was necessary to get this back on more professional footing.
Trey was tired of being the businessman. “What time?”
“Seven?”
“I’ll bring some wine.”
“Seven,” she repeated, and slipped out his door.
He found himself grinning as he answered the phone. “Moshi moshi?”
~*~
Sandy angsted over what to do for dinner. What to make. What tone to set. What she actually wanted. God, it had been so long since she’d let herself even think about what she wanted. She’d invited Trey on impulse, her nerves still jumping from the look in his eyes as he’d taken her hand. Definitely not business on his mind. That look had given her hope. Though of what she wasn’t sure.
He’d been so closed off during dinner. Sandy knew she’d hurt him. Deeply. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t really blame him for avoiding her. But, then, why had he come back at all? Why had he chosen to do business here, knowing she was mayor? Norah was persuasive, certainly, but even she wasn’t that good. Maybe he just wanted resolution.
Well, she could give him that. Adele was right. He needed to know what really happened all those years ago.
In the end, she opted for casual. His professional accomplishments aside, he was still Trey. Once upon a time, they’d been comfortable together, and it surprised her how much she wanted to be comfortable with him again. She’d missed their friendship all these years, missed the long conversations and the way he could make her laugh. And she couldn’t deny a deep curiosity about how their lives might have turned out if there hadn’t been the barrier of her foolish marriage to her high school sweetheart. Because they’d both felt more than friendship. She didn’t know what she felt now. Still attracted, that was for damn sure, and that was…intriguing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been attracted to a man, the last time she’d wanted to make the effort.
She changed clothes three times, while the pork chops were simmering and the carrots were roasting. When she started fussing with her hair, she cursed herself as an idiot and deliberately headed back to the kitchen to start the rice. Unable to sit still, and needing to do something other than stare into a mirror and wonder how she could erase the last thirty years from her face, she set the table, pulling out placemats and cloth napkins, and filling a pitcher with late blooming flowers from her garden.
When the doorbell rang, her heart leapt. Pressing a hand against her chest, she muttered, “It’s just dinner.” But it felt like more as she opened the door and found Trey on the other side, a bottle of wine and a bouquet of irises in his hands. A messenger bag was slung over one shoulder.
“Hi.” Oh hell. Why didn’t she sound more confident? She wasn’t a shy woman.
Trey’s gaze skimmed down her, lingering at her feet. His lips quirked. “I dig the purple toes.”
She looked down and realized she was barefoot. Crap. She’d meant to put some kind of shoes back on. Being barefoot felt somehow more intimate. Well, you wanted casual. “Please, come in.”
“Something smells amazing.”
“Pork chops with mushroom gravy.”
He held the bottle of wine up. “Sauvignon blanc should be perfect. These are for you.”
She accepted the flowers, not bothering to resist the urge to bury her face in their sweet scent. When was the last time a man other than her son had brought her flowers? Decades. And these had not been picked up at the last second from McSweeny’s Market. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
He trailed her back to the kitchen. “Ah, already have flowers, I see.”
“From my garden.” It seemed somehow important to make it clear that there was no one else in the picture.
“So, Cam comes by his green thumb honestly.”
Relieved he understood, she retrieved some scissors and began cutting stems, tucking each iris into the pitcher. “He does. He designed an absolute showpiece in the back and put it in for me a few years ago.” When she’d been so sick from chemotherapy, she could barely leave the house. “So, I can usually have fresh flowers about ten months out of the year.”
“He did an amazing job with the rooftop gardens at the hotel. I’ll have to come back in daylight sometime to see the full effect here.”