He occupied the back corner of a French restaurant
tucked into a Washington, DC suburb, watching the world go by one diner at a
time. Swirling the glass of Perrier in
his long, tanned fingers, he allowed his interest to focus on one particular
patron. Incredibly, she’d wandered in
about twenty minutes ago, accompanied by another woman.
At first he’d done a double-take. So many times over the last six years, he’d
seen her – or at least imagined that he’d seen her. In a dozen different cities at a dozen
different times, he’d trailed after her only to find that –once again – it was
his imagination.
He initially assumed this was yet another instance of overactive imagination, but the closer
he looked, the more familiar the woman seemed.
She and her friend had been talking animatedly ever since
they were seated, their lilting laughter drifting back into his secluded corner. He leaned back into the leather booth,
thanking the stroke of luck that seated her facing him. Because, now convinced that it was really her, he couldn’t tear
his eyes away.
A tiny sprite of a woman, she had a long coppery
braid and pert, upturned nose. Her full,
bowed mouth was a dusky shade of pink and freckles dusted across her porcelain
cheekbones. He couldn’t see them from
here, but he knew her eyes were the color of Irish whiskey.
And she was just as beautiful as he remembered.
That was a relief in and of itself. One couldn’t always be trusted to remember
things clearly after a night of indulgence.
But you didn’t
indulge.
No. He hadn’t
indulged. Not that way. The only thing he’d taken
advantage of was her sweet nature and a lot of alcohol.
In retrospect, he was glad. It would be haunting him, even now, if he had
taken that kind of liberty with the sweet little leprechaun. There was still a debt owed in her favor,
but it wasn’t because of some sleazy hookup with a drunk.
This girl – woman – didn’t deserve sleazy. She had a good heart, and he was determined
to repay his debt.
With interest.
