Page 181 of The Havenport Collection

Sylvie

W e trudged up to my apartment, trying to get warm. It was positively frigid outside, but I was too excited to care about the frostbite that was currently forming on my toes. Wyatt and I had spent the last hour running around town securing the ingredients for a perfect first date. I was so nervous.

We climbed the stairs to my studio apartment above the garage, our arms laden with goodies from our scavenger hunt.

“I love it,” he said, shrugging off his heavy coat. “It’s so you. Cozy and warm but fun.” He pointed to the vintage cat clock on the wall. “Completely Sylvie.”

“Do you want to make a fire while I get cooking? There’s a pile of wood and matches by the fireplace.”

Wyatt carefully and methodically stacked logs in the small fireplace while I chopped garlic and tomatoes to simmer in white wine.

Within minutes, the fire was roaring. Figures.

Of course Wyatt was great at fire building.

He oozed mountain-man masculinity. If I didn’t watch myself, I’d be swooning in my kitchen. I refocused my efforts on dinner.

After a few minutes, he walked over and put his arms around me. I loved the feel of him. The pure strength and power. He gave affection so freely, always touching me and kissing me, showing me how much he liked me. Every touch made me dizzy.

“This smells amazing,” he said, gently kissing my neck.

I needed to get him away from my erogenous zones or I’d start stripping my clothes off. “Thanks. Dinner will be ready soon. Wanna open the wine?” I needed a healthy distance between us so I didn’t jump his bones too soon and scare the poor guy off.

I carried plates over to the coffee table, and Wyatt brought the wine bottle.

“This is a feast of Havenport’s finest. Here we have the world’s best garlic bread from Nonna’s kitchen. Matteo makes it for me with extra garlic. And these are fresh caught mussels simmered with fresh vine-ripened tomatoes, garlic, and white wine.”

We tucked in, eating our mussels and dipping the heavenly bread in the buttery, garlicky sauce.

“This is incredible.”

“I wanted to do something special. And I take my duties as your town tour guide very seriously.”

He leaned over and kissed me gently. He tasted like butter and garlic, and I suppressed the urge to lick him.

I pulled back. “Save some room because I have a really special dessert.”

“Was that the clandestine diner visit? I could have sworn you were selling state secrets.”

“Very funny. But you won’t be laughing when you taste Joe’s award-winning cranberry rhubarb pie.

It won a bunch of awards in the nineties, and Jackie and Joe got sick of all the tourists begging for it and stopped making it altogether.

Joe will occasionally make one in secret—it’s a town legend.

If people knew I had one right now, they would be beating down the door. ”

Wyatt threw his head back and chuckled. “This town is crazy; I love it.”

We cleared up dinner and Wyatt insisted on doing the dishes, which gave me an excellent opportunity to ogle his forearms as he scrubbed the pots.

I loved his strength, his bulk. In addition to being physically different from the skinny musicians I had dated before, he was also warm, affectionate, and protective.

Qualities that were decidedly lacking in several of my exes.

We curled up in front of the fire with our wine while he told me funny stories about growing up in rural Maine. It was the best date I had ever been on. We laughed and talked, and I savored every single moment.

“What about you? Tell me about your family.”

I shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up here. My parents are accountants, and I have two older sisters. One is the principal of the elementary school, and the other is an accountant in Boston. They are all nice enough but don’t really get me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m kind of the black sheep of the family.

They were totally confused when I wanted to go to music school.

They were proud that I got into Berklee but didn’t really understand why I wasn’t studying something practical.

” I shifted on the couch. I was getting uncomfortable.

I hated talking about my family. Not because they were monsters or anything, but because it always made me feel bad about myself.

I knew I had let them down, and they were embarrassed that I was just a music teacher.

My oldest sister was on the partner track at her firm in Boston, and I was gigging on weekends and living in a glorified garage.

“Do they realize how talented you are?” he asked defensively. I wanted to hug him. I loved that he was on my team already.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. They encouraged me as a kid, paid for lessons and camps and everything. I think they just see music as a fulfilling hobby rather than as a career.”

“And you feel the same way? Is that why you’re moving?”

“Sort of. I’ve been doing things my way for years, and my dad helped set me up with this interview.” I hated talking about this. I could feel my stomach clench. “I just reached a point where I felt like I should change things up. Try something new, you know?”

I drank my wine to avoid talking about this any longer. My career, or lack thereof, was a total embarrassment to my family, and in their eyes, I was finally getting my life together.

“And you never wanted to make a career out of songwriting?”

I had been dreading this question. “I can’t. I’m not good enough.”

“Says who?”

“I went to music school, and I have lots of contacts in the industry. My stuff’s not good enough.”

His eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you played any of it for anyone?”

“A while ago.” That was a lie. The last time I shared a song I had written was four years ago when I recorded a demo of some of my songs.

I shared it with my boyfriend at the time, who was working at an indie record label, and he completely trashed them.

Called my songs juvenile and derivative.

I can still remember how he had sneered at me.

In retrospect, he was a pretentious ass, but at the time it crushed me.

I was twenty-three and just getting my bearings.

If my own boyfriend was that harsh, I could only imagine the rejection and hurt the industry would inflict on me.

It seemed safer to just write for myself.

“Do you still write often?”

“Almost every day. I just can’t stop writing. It’s how I process my emotions. It’s how I express myself. That will never change, regardless of what I do for work.”

“Can you play some for me?”

I tensed, unsure how to answer that question. “I’m not really in the mood,” I said, hoping to change the topic of conversation.

He placed his hand over mine gently and stared into my eyes. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

I pulled my hand away, not ready to process the things I was feeling in this moment. I needed to change the subject and quickly.

I played with my hair. “Did I do okay, planning our first official date?” I was rambling and I’m sure he knew it, but this evening had turned out to be far more intimate than I had planned. “It was a lot of garlic for a first date,” I trilled nervously.

Wyatt reached for my hand again and drew it up to his lips. “This was the best date I’ve ever been on in my life.”

“You are too sweet.”

“I’m serious. I just want to spend time with you, Sylvie. The unofficial foodie tour of Havenport was a nice bonus, but I just want to be with you.”

I nodded, unable to speak. His honesty was irresistibly sexy.

He ran his hands through his thick hair nervously. “Listen. I know you’re leaving, and I know you don’t want anything serious. But I just want to be with you until you leave.”

I looked up into his handsome, honest face. “I want that too, Wyatt.”