"Dessert?"

Simon wondered if Mary meant here, at the restaurant, or if she had other intentions. Certain parts of his body leapt to attention at her sultry voice. One of which was his heart.

Behind Mary, the New York skyline had shifted from pink to purple to deep blue through the floor to ceiling windows of the steak house as they ate, drank and talked. Asked to wait for a half an hour before they had a table ready, having no reservation a sin in this city, Simon worried about disappointing Mary. Feared another episode from her like at the Empire State Building earlier. Her rebuff had hurt, and he didn't want a reason for her to leave.

Instead, she'd suggested they try another place else or wait at the bar, order a glass of wine, talk. Seems her apology earlier over her actions, something out of the ordinary for Mary, had been authentic. He'd felt the sincerity of her words. Believed them. Hated hearing her call herself a bitch.

The word sounded like an insult from her lips and he wanted to reprimand the person or persons who ever made her think her strength was a characteristic she should be ashamed of. The woman before him was passionate, knew what she wanted, wasn't afraid to go after it and suffered the wounds of disheartenment when she didn't get it. She had high standards, good taste and fiercely protected those around her. And he loved her for each of these qualities. And more.

"Can't hurt, can it?" Mary's eyes lit up and Simon's heart did, in fact, hurt. The under-used organ going into overdrive at the sight of her excitement at spending more time with him. She'd missed the 8pm train. With dessert, she might miss the 9. Part of him wanted to remind her she should get going if she were to make it home tonight. The other part never wanted her to leave.

"Wanna share?"

Everything? A life? A bed? "Simon says yes." Despite what he desired, it had to be done. "Mary, the time. If you miss this train, you'll arrive in Washington too late to safely get home." He'd rather her be safe if she couldn't be with him.

"Oh." She turned away and stared at her reflection in the window. Her pale face distorted by the bright lights of the city. When she spoke, her voice was clipped and low. "What if I don't want to go home?"

He reached across the table, placed his hand on hers, and stroked her warm skin with his thumb. "You can have whatever you want."

For a long moment she didn't move, frozen in indecision maybe. Simon waited. He was good at it now, stuck in a stasis himself for so long it had become second nature. Always waiting for Mary.

He felt on a precipice. If she stayed here in New York with him tonight, things would change. No longer was she the woman who blew into his life for a round of sex in the back room of the bar, or the library at a wedding. He'd spent time with her, learned her likes and dislikes, seen her on good days and bad, watched her care for her sister, survive the jabs of his brother. Been in her life, not on the sidelines.

Tonight, if Mary spent the night with him, it wouldn't be a hormone induced whim. They wouldn't be strangers.

If she stayed.

Slowly she turned her hand over under his, thread her fingers through his and found his eyes. "Anything I want?"

Excitement mixed with anticipation surged through his veins. This was what he wanted, more than... "Anything."

"I'm thinking the crème brûlée."

Simon couldn't stop the burst of laughter that erupted from his throat. During the two courses they'd already eaten, they'd laughed often, Simon appreciating Mary's dry wit. Tried to match her barbs, her quick retorts. She was faster, smarter, sharper, but he got a few good lines in. Between the droll comebacks and flirty innuendos, they'd also talked. Real conversation.

The topic of her father turned the bubbly Mary to a reserved, guarded woman. He wanted to change the subject, but the gates unlocked and she opened up about the pressure she felt to meet his expectations. Drawing on the tactics he used with unruly customers, Simon suppressed the rage he felt at her father's unrealistic expectations forced upon Mary. Instead, he listened, offered support, tried to see her side.

"Crème brûlée it is." He caught the eye of the server, ordered the dessert and two spoons. "Another glass of wine?"

Mary shook her head. "Maybe later."

The server gone, their hands still connected, but in a comfortable embrace, Mary's lips pressed together.

"Out with it." One of the things he'd learned over the past few weeks was that look meant she wanted to ask something. Most likely unpleasant.

"Well, I was wondering how you know so much about wine?"

Simon shook his head. "You mean why would a man who slings beer and wings all day ever find the different tannins and variety of grapes of interest?"

"That's not—"

"It is. Don't deny it." Mary glanced down at the white tablecloth before her. He shook her hand gently. "It's okay. I want you to ask me. I want to tell you things."

The corner of her mouth twitched, and she lifted her eyes. "I want to know things."

There it was again. That pull, so strong when she was open and honest like this. When she was just Mary. No walls, no pretence, no expectations.

"My mom was amazing in the kitchen. After she died, I think I was searching for a way to be closer to her and food was something we had in common. I had the idea of moving to New York and opening a place like this." He looked around the restaurant, the simple modern décor in line with the pipe dreams he once had. "When I left my hometown, I overshot the Big Apple and landed in Bridgetown. The owner of the Waterfront Café needed help, and I needed a job."

Mary folded her other hand under her chin, rested her elbow on the table, listening.

"A part of me thought I could turn the Waterfront into a boutique dining experience." They smiled at each other, Simon knowing she was thinking the same thing as him. Not possible in Bridgetown. The patrons that made the café and bar their home were the burger and fries sort, not the foie gras and compote crowd. "But I still had this... I don't know, drive to try new foods. So, I started foraging for good eats in the area. And with fine food, often comes wine, complimenting each other. I took a few courses in Washington, got interested in the process and it bloomed from there."

"Have you been to Henry's?"

"In Alora? Yes. How do you know about that place? It's a hidden gem and you have to make reservations six months in advance."

The sly grin that spread across Mary's face made her look like she had a secret. "Do you know Sophie?" He nodded. Mary and Emily's friend. She'd been in the wedding party and often stayed with Finn and Emily at the lake house. "She's a caterer. Before she went out on her own, she used to work there. Still friends with the owners."

"Henry and Val?"

"Yes. You know them?"

He chuckled, marvelled at how small the world was, how close he'd been to Mary all this time. "We're in negotiations to open a second location together."

Mary's eyes bulged. "You're the silent investor?"

He tried not to puff out his chest with pride. He'd wowed Mary, and the feeling made his fingers tingle. "I am."

"One crème brûlée." The server positioned a glass dish filled with a light yellow substance, covered in a thick layer of burnt sugar. "And two spoons."

Simon handed Mary a spoon. "Would you do the honours?"

She plucked the utensil out of his hand and whacked it on the delicate dessert, cracking the brittle sugar crust into pieces. A tiny giggle escaped her lips. "I love dessert you can play with." Without waiting, she drove the tip of the spoon into the creamy center, scooped out a portion and, opening the lips he longed to taste, tucked the portion into her mouth. Simon salivated, envying the spoon.

He sat and watched as she ate two more bites. "Aren't you having any?"

"Far more interesting to watch you," he swallowed, "enjoy it."

Another scoop, a sliver of the caramelized sugar sticking to the custard, made its way on to Mary's spoon. This time, however, Simon watched as the concoction veered away from Mary toward him. She arched an eyebrow, inviting him to indulge.

Indulge he did, wrapping his lips around the offering in a slow and deliberate movement. The silky, sweet substance melted in his mouth, almost as delicious as the site of Mary's pupils dilating with his actions.

"I think we should get the bill."

Simon flagged down the server again, gave her his credit card, and asked her to rush. Picking up the other spoon, he jabbed it in the dessert, loaded it up and shoved the portion in his mouth. "What?" he said once he swallowed. "It's too good to leave."

Mary shook her head, pulled the half-eaten dish toward her, and began her own demolition mission. Simon managed to get another half a spoonful for himself before she was scraping up the last remnants of the best crème brûlée he'd ever had.

Check paid, they made their way to the elevator that would take them the ten stories down to the ground floor. As they waited, Mary thread her arm through Simon's, leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Thank you for dinner."

He didn't know why, but he got the suspicion there was more to that thank you than simple gratitude for the meal. He was probably reading far too much into the gesture, but he rather thought she was thanking him for denying her all those weeks ago in her bedroom, for making them wait to do what they were about to do until after they got to know each other. Despite it maybe being a fantasy, he wanted to believe it so much his throat ached.

The elevator doors opened to reveal the small foyer the hostess ruled, managing the ebb and flow of patrons to the restaurant. A mural of barely clothed human forms in front of geometric shapes, all in bold colours, dominated the wall behind her.

"It looks like a copy of an Henri Matisse." Simon didn't know the artist. "He was a contemporary of Picasso." That name he did recognize, and he could see the similarities. Unfortunately, what he had his eye on was not the beautiful artwork or the more beautiful woman on his arm. No, he was staring at the glass doorway, where the street was shimmering with the water currently pouring from the sky.

"It's raining." He looked at Mary's thin dress, open-toed shoes, lack of coat. Shrugging off his jacket, he held it out for her. "Here, put this on while I hail a cab."

She hesitated. "But you'll get soaked." The concern in her voice caused his throat to ache again. She cared.

"More important you don't get wet."

"No."

The word stung. Was she reconsidering coming back to the hotel with him? Would she leave? Before he could protest, she continued.

"We go together."

The tension released across his shoulders. She wasn't abandoning him.

"It's not far to the hotel." She slid her arms into his jacket, closing up the three useless buttons.

"You mean walk?" He glanced at the sodden streets. "But..."

"It'll be fine." Her hand grasped his arm. Then the eyebrow arched again, and a thrill tore up Simon's spine. "I'll race you." She dashed for the door, flung it open and bounded into the stormy night.

They ran hand in hand down the street, dodging pedestrians with umbrellas, street vendors and cracked pavement. In seconds, Simon's white shirt stuck to him, his socks damp from the warm water leaking into his loafers. They paused under a shop's awning; the green striped material offering a modicum of protection from the onslaught of weather.

Mary's fingers filtered through his hair, pushing the long strands out of his eyes. The rain washed away the false attributes she'd adorned in her endeavour to assimilate with some beauty standards he didn't understand. Her perfect curls didn't stand a chance against the torrent of water they'd run through and her hair, although wet, returned to the soft waves he preferred. Devoid of the makeup that hid her natural beauty, her skin glowed in the filtered light of a streetlamp. Her lips trembled and Simon resisted kissing them, opting to find her a warm, dry location instead. Barely.

The hotel's revolving door once again offered a moment of hush between worlds, their bubble. Except this time, they looked like drowned rats. They ignored the looks of fellow guests as they strolled across the lobby.

"Let me get you a towel." He stepped into the bathroom, pulled one of the fluffy white cloths off the counter and, turning back to her, spotted the robe hanging on the wall. "And we should get you out of that wet dress."

Barefoot, Mary stood by the window of his room, the backdrop of the city twinkling like stars around his personal goddess. She'd removed his drenched suit jacket, her pale pink dress darkened by water. Concern for her not getting a chill replaced the nervous jitters he'd felt in the hotel lobby, elevator and hallway. Draping the bathrobe over a chair, he took the towel and offered it to her. "Here."

She didn't move.

"Shall I?" With no objection on her part, Simon wrapped the towel around the dripping ends of her hair and pressed the water out of them. He worked his way up, massaging her scalp gently. In her reflection in the window, he watched her close her eyes, her lips part a fraction as she leaned into his touch. He licked his own lips, resisted kissing her neck, exposed as he brushed her hair up into the towel.

"That feels nice," she purred.

It felt amazing. To take care of Mary. To have her here the whole evening ahead of them. Each of their previous encounters always had an undetermined time limit, a ticking time bomb where Simon could only guess when the countdown would hit zero and she would disappear with no expectation of ever seeing her again. He wanted to stop time. And speed it up. But mostly take his time, soak up every single ounce of this night.