The stress resonated off of him. I could feel it. I didn’t know what to say. What came out was: “He probably just needs time.”
“It’s been a year and a half.” Dax laughed angrily.
“More time?” I shrugged and offered a sympathetic look.
He stared at me for several seconds, then changed the subject. “Wren is an interesting name.”
“It means little bird. My mother picked it out.”
“Little bird.” He nodded. “It fits you.”
My cheeks burned. His eyes lingered on mine, causing me to fidget with the buttons on my sweater. I felt like I was on an eternal job interview with him. At the same time, he was so attractive it was almost painful. I wasn’t used to feeling like this—so obviously flustered that I was certain it must have showed on my face. I never wanted to stop looking at him, and at the same time, I wanted to run. It was a strange contradiction. And it seemed so wrong to be lusting after some poor dead woman’s husband.
“So…” he said. “The first time you were here, you said you’re saving for a trip to Europe?”
“Yes. That’s the plan.”
“Good for you. I wish I had traveled more for leisure before I got tied down.”
When he looked away, I examined his profile. He had the perfect nose and just the right amount of chin scruff. But like Rafe, his eyes held a sadness that made me yearn to wipe it away. “Are you okay, Dax?”
He turned to me suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you asking?”
“Does no one ever ask you that question?”
He sighed, running his finger along the rim of his mug. “I don’t have anything to complain about. I’m alive. I’m wealthy. I have the means to hire help. There are plenty of people who’ve lost their spouses and don’t have that privilege.”
“That’s true, but money can’t buy happiness. It can’t bring your wife back.” I paused. “It helps to talk sometimes. I get the impression that you don’t open up about all of this very often. You just go through the motions.”
His mouth curved into a slight smile. “You get that impression…because I’m wound so tight?”
“Frankly?” I arched my brow. “Yes. You have to learn to let go somehow, find some joy in each day for no one other than yourself. It doesn’t matter how successful you are if there’s no joy in your life. Otherwise, what’s the point? You could have all the money in the world, but it doesn’t matter if you’re miserable.”
“What’s the point…” he muttered. “I’ve definitely asked myself that question from time to time lately.” He stared down into his cup a moment. “What do you do for joy, Wren?”
“It doesn’t have to be anything elaborate. Sometimes it’s just breathing the air outside on a fall day and being alone with your thoughts. Or enjoying a cup of tea with a virtual stranger whom you find intriguing and a little frightening at the same time.”
His eyes widened. “I frighten you?”
“I should clarify. I’m more frightened by the way I seem to keep making an ass of myself around you.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway, as far as bringing joy into your life, it doesn’t matter what you’re doing as long as you’re being mindful in the process—not letting your mind go to that place where it bombards you with toxic things that take you out of the present.”
“You have a good outlook. Can you bottle some of it for me in a pretty little jar?”
“I would, but I might break it.” I winked.
He bent his head back. “Ah, yes. That’s very true.”
Our eyes locked, and I felt my knees quiver. Yeah. That’s your cue to leave. I stood up and placed my mug on the counter—gently. “Well, this tea was very good. But I’d better let you get back to your evening.”
He got up from his chair. “You don’t have to go.”
“I really should.”
Dax nodded and followed me to the foyer. Sensing him behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stiffened. I lifted my portable table and placed my bag of supplies over my shoulder before heading to the door. I’d just turned the doorknob when he called my name.
“Wren...”
I turned. “Yes?”
“Thank you for your question—when you asked if I was okay. Thank you for caring enough to ask. Most people don’t. And thank you, too, for your insight. I’m sorry the massage didn’t work out—again.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I guess it’s not meant to be.”
“I may try again sometime,” he said.
“Maybe third time will be the charm?” I grinned. “Who knows what else I might break.”
He chuckled. “I’ll have to bubblewrap the glassware before you come.”
The prospect of seeing him again gave me goose bumps. I hoped to God he scheduled something, because I’d never have the balls to reach out to him if he didn’t. And then I might never see him again. Even though I barely knew him, the thought of that didn’t sit right with me.