Page 10 of At First Smile

“What’s not to be keen about blind dates? All mine are blind,” I cut in, a wry grin forms on my face.

“Smartass.” His throaty laugh twines around us.

“Is she happy?”

“My mam?” He halts, twisting his face to me.

I nod.

“She says she is. Mam has her work. Her students. Her weekly book club meetings. Her friends.”

“She also has you boys.” I squeeze his arm. “So, Finn is a romantic. What does he do?”

“He got a degree in English like my mam. He’s a professor at the same university and writes.”

“What about Gillian?”

“He’s not a romantic,” Rowan deadpans.

I laugh and roll my eyes. “I take it Gillian’s not your favorite brother.”

“He’s the oldest.” His face shifts forward and resumes our hike.

Note to self, he did not argue my statement.

“Gillian’s a chef. He owns a traditional Irish pub in our hometown.”

“Wow. A professor and two businessmen. Your mom must be bursting with pride.”

He grunts.

“What’s Gillian’s pub called?” I step over a rock.

“Fiona’s. He named it for our mam.”

“Shameless man. No doubt naming his place after her secured his favorite son status,” I tease.

“My brothers need no tricks to secure that status,” he mutters. His statement is almost so quiet that it feels as if he’d not intended to say it aloud.

The questions tap at the back of my closed mouth.

What does that mean? Do you not share status as a favorite son?

Why? I don’t know the dynamics of siblings.

Despite my four stepdads, I’ve remained a blissfully solo child for my mother.

Trina and JoJo are as close as I have to sisters.

But there’s a sadness that radiates from Rowan.

I just want to smooth it away but fear my questions will only further wrinkle the emotions.

I rake my teeth against my lip. “Why’d you name your pub Axel’s?”

“My dad’s name was Axel.”

My heart squeezes. “You’re such a sweet man.”

Rowan’s muscles stiffen beneath my grip. His body’s rigidity seems to protest my soft proclamation.

I squeeze his arm and reiterate, “You’re a sweet man.”

He stops and pivots to face me. For a moment, our gazes tether. His as equally obscured in his ball cap as mine is beneath his hat on my head.

“Pen.” He takes my hand and threads our fingers together.

My pulse riots.

He then guides my hand to a grassy covered outcrop that stops at my chest level.

As if waking up, my eyes widen. We’re almost at the top.

The grassy ledge requires the hiker to use upper body strength to lift themselves to the top, and it stands between us and the riverbed above.

The purr of gushing water filters through the trees’ canopy.

“I can go first and pull you up or you can go first, and I’ll be here in case you”—he swallows thickly— “want me.”

My eyes flutter between Rowan and the ledge. It’s such a small thing, but it’s huge to me. My entire life people have focused on my needs. Not in the traditional sense that we all crave to have our needs met, but in the idea of me needing to be taken care of.

“I’ll go first.” I fold Cane Austen and pass her to Rowan. “Would you mind?”

“Got her.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I place my hands flat on the ledge’s silken grassy surface. I squat, then I jump, using the momentum to hoist myself up. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. The internal mantra repeats as I swing my legs up and scramble to the top.

“You got it,” Rowan cheers.

Secure on the ledge, I spin to face him, the lush grass rasps against my knees. “Want me to pull you up?” I wink, knowing there’s no way I’d be able to pull him up.

“Maybe next time.” He hands me Cane Austen and then, like it’s nothing, jumps onto the ledge beside me.

“Show off.”

With a lopsided grin, he stands and then bends to take my hand and lifts me to my feet beside him. “Just a little further.” He squeezes his fingers around mine.

The dirt path along the river is smooth, allowing us to suspend human guide.

My arm moves right to left, trailing Cane Austen against the path’s rocky edges, the song of the waterfall hums in my ears.

Patches of midafternoon sun break through the thinning grove of pine, birch, and maple trees.

After a bend in the path through a small clearing, we come to the river.

The once distant babble has become a steady rush.

Water ripples toward the cliff’s edge. A moss-covered bridge, constructed with misshapen stone and weathered wood, connects the river’s two banks.

“This is like something out of a Nicolas Sparks’ novel,” I quip.

A deep laugh bubbles from Rowan.

“Come on.” I take Rowan’s hand, tugging him along. His compliance allows a temporary delusion that I have the strength to move him.

The bridge’s center features a small observation deck perfect for viewing the falls.

A small, dark wooden bench outlines the oval-shaped deck.

Walking to the edge, I fold Cane Austen and place her on the bench and then proceed to step on it.

The observation deck’s stone wall provides enough barrier to keep me safe, but Rowan wraps his large hands around my waist, nonetheless.

My head twists, snapping my gaze to Rowan. Again, he says nothing. No comment about keeping me safe or me needing him. He just tips his head toward the waterfalls.

“Join me.” I bite my lip. “The view is better up here.”

As if in a silent debate, his head bobs between me, the falls, and back to me again.

Finally, he steps onto the bench and moves behind me.

His strong hands remain on my middle. Heat from his body licks across my skin.

I may combust from the gentle tug of his steady fingers against my shirt.

Scant inches separate his front from my back.

His large form hovering over me should feel intimidating.

The posture is borderline possessive, but not in the way my body craves to be claimed by this man.

There’s just enough distance between us to make me question any intention outside of protectiveness.

I clear my throat. “My Aunt Bea would have loved this. She’d probably have put it in one of her books.”

“She was a writer?”

“She wrote cozy mysteries. You know where the local innkeeper or baker becomes an unlikely detective. All her stories featured people others have underestimated. A lot of them were inspired by people she met or places she went.” I press my hand to my chest to quell grief’s sharp pang slicing into my heart.

“You think this would have inspired her?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a favorite of her books?”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “It’s totally vain, but she wrote a Young Adult series about a blind teenager who solves school-related mysteries. They even made a TV show out of it called– “

“ The Unseeing Private Eye ,” he interrupts.

“You know it?”

“Yeah.” His fingers absently trace along the hem of my tank top. “So, Nickel Fields was inspired by Pen Meadows.” The chuckle in his tone is distinct and rich.

“She was always terrible with character names.” I wipe my hand across my face, covering the laughter curving my mouth. “I’m surprised you know the books. You weren’t exactly the show’s target demographic.”

“What’s that mean?”

I make a nonsensical gesture with my hands. “I mean, you had to be an adult man when the show first aired. I was eighteen when the first season came out, so you were?—”

“How old do you think I am?” he scoffs.

“Seventy-two,” I say, fighting back a wry smile.

“Excuse me?”

“Okay, Seventy-nine.” I bat my eyes.

“Thirty-two, smartass.”

“I’m twenty-six.” I adjust the brim of Rowan’s hat on my head. “So, guess you’re not that much older.”

“Not that much older,” he murmurs.

His hands move from my waist to my arms. My skin sings with the caress of his callused fingers.

“I was living in Calgary. Didn’t really have much of a life outside of…work. I’d watched the show but also read the books. With an English professor mam, I’m a read the book first kind of guy. I always liked how brave Nickel was.”

I hold my breath for a moment.

“The world saw her one way, but she never allowed their definitions of who they thought she was control her. So many of us aren’t that strong.”

I let that breath out. “I like that you saw that. Most people just focus on Nickel’s blindness.”

“It’s part of who she was, but not all she was.” His fingers tap against my upper arms. “Though, I assume that was the point of your aunt’s books and the show. Anyone who only saw that are more blind than Nickel or…” he trails off, a quick intake of breath punctuating the silence between us.

“Me.” I lean into him, his muscles contract with my touch. “You’re right. It was the point of those books. All of her books, really. Aunt Bea wanted the world to look past what they see on the surface, beyond preconceived notions of what we think people are, to who they really are.”

“When did she die?”

Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes. “How did you know?”

“You use the past tense when talking about her.”

“You are the son of an English professor.”

He lets out a tiny chuckle.

“She died in November.”

“How?”

“Breast cancer.” My words wobble just a bit, but I carry on, “She’s why I was back in Buffalo.

The high school she and my dad attended renamed their library after her and honored her at their graduation ceremony.

I was there representing our family. My grandparents retired and moved to Greece ten years ago, so it’s a lot for them to travel internationally.

I also think it’s hard for them to go back to someplace where they once celebrated all the promise of the future for their children, both of whom are now dead. ”

His arms fold around me, tucking me against his firm chest. “What’s your favorite memory of her?”

I settle into his steady embrace, allowing his borrowed question to wash over me. “There are so many.”

“Our flight isn’t until tomorrow, so we have nothing but time.”