had not kissed a woman other than Lisa since he was nineteen. The feel of Shelley’s mouth under his was both familiar and different at the same time. The thought of Lisa was both poignant and fleeting—then his mind was filled only with Shelley and how much he wanted to keep on kissing her. She tasted of cinnamon and apple with a fresh tang of mint as her tongue tangled with his.
As she kissed him back this kiss became unique, special like nothing he had ever experienced. Shelley. Beautiful Shelley. It was all about her.
Her mouth was soft and warm and generous, their hands still linked on the table between them. It started as a gentle, exploratory kiss but very soon escalated into something more passionate as she kissed him back with equal ardour.
They strained towards each other—awkward on bar stools but she didn’t seem to care and he certainly didn’t—he just wanted to be as close to her as he could possibly be.
But she was the one to break the kiss, her face flushed, her eyes bright.
‘That was a surprise, Declan,’ she said. He could see a pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. ‘Of the nice kind. Very nice, actually.’
He took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his breathing.
‘Much more than nice,’ he said.
His thoughts were filled with Shelley. But he felt disloyal that he hadn’t given thought to his late wife. Yet from nowhere came the insistent message: Lisa would approve. If he had been the first to go, would he have expected her to lead such a desperately lonely life?
But he wasn’t ready to move on to someone else—might not ever be ready.
‘You know this can’t lead to anywhere,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘I have nothing to give you. Nothing. It...it all drained away when—’
Shelley put her finger on his mouth to silence him.
Her face was flushed, her voice throaty when she finally spoke. ‘It was just a kiss. A very nice kiss but just a kiss. Does it have to lead anywhere?’
‘I guess not,’ he said, somewhat taken aback. Shelley was so different from the predatory women on the hunt for the wealthy widower.
It hadn’t entered his head that Shelley might not be interested in him.
‘Men are more trouble than they’re worth.’ Her earlier words echoed through his brain.
Her mouth was pouty and swollen from his kiss—which made him just want to kiss her again.
‘I’m aware you might not be ready for...for anything serious.’ Her stumble made him realise that perhaps she wasn’t as indifferent to him as it might appear. ‘And I don’t want to risk opening myself to...heartbreak. I’ve just got over an almighty dose of that.’
He hadn’t been planning on heartbreak. In fact that was just what he wanted to avoid. Not just for himself but for her too.
‘The guy in Melbourne?’
She nodded. ‘He was dishonest and he—well, he was a liar and completely untrustworthy and... Never mind, you don’t want to hear the details.’
She was right. He didn’t want to hear about her with another man. But was he ready to win her for himself?
‘It’s been two years, Declan. Lisa would not expect you to grieve for ever.’ Now it was his mother’s words borrowing his brain.
‘I have plans,’ Shelley continued. ‘I don’t want heartbreak and angst and all that stuff that seems to come with relationships—or they do for me anyway—to get in the way of achieving my goals.’
‘Plans?’ he said. Goals? He realised he might be guilty of underestimating Shelley. Had he given a thought to her life beyond his garden and her unwitting role as muse?
‘Serious goals I’ve put on the back burner for years—derailed by relationships gone wrong.’
‘I’d like to hear those goals.’
‘Let me start,’ she said. ‘I want to visit some of the great gardens in Europe. Gardens that have had such an influence on the way people design gardens even here on the other side of the world. Some say the English perennial border isn’t suited to most parts of this country—I’d love to see it at home in England. Then there’s Monet’s garden at Giverny, near Paris—who doesn’t want to see that?’
Declan could think of far more interesting things than a garden to see in France but he was too stunned to interrupt her flow of words.
‘And the Gardens of the Alhambra in Spain.’ She smiled. ‘Lots of fountains.’
He cleared his throat. ‘When do you go?’
‘As soon as your garden is done. Four more weeks, according to our agreement. Then I’ll be flying off to Europe.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Who knows? I’m booking an open-return ticket. My father was born in England and I can stay for as long as I like. What I really, really want to do is work as a horticulturalist in the gardens of one of the grand stately homes in England.’ Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘I apply for every job I see—they advertise through agencies on the internet—and I’m hoping one of them will stick.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ he said lamely.
He realised that since he had nearly kissed her in his garden when he had unwound her hair, the thought had been quietly ticking away in the back of his mind that one day, if he was ever able to move on, Shelley might be the one. It was a shock to find she had no intention of being here, of giving him time to come to terms with the change her presence in his life might entail.
‘So, you see, you’re a grieving widower—and I totally understand that, I can’t imagine how dreadful it’s been for you—and I don’t do meaningless flings.’
She leaned across and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Even it had impact, sending want coursing through him.
‘So, lovely as that kiss was, I don’t think we should do it again.’
Declan was too speechless to respond.
Shelley got up from her stool. ‘I have to get going to meet my sister. I can pick up the pie dish when you’re done with.’
‘Let me see you out,’ he said, getting up to follow her.
She put up her hand to halt him. ‘No need.’
She strolled out, and suddenly the room seemed very, very empty indeed.
* * *
Shelley stood outside the house near the fountain, lit up by the sensor lights that had come on automatically when she had stumbled out of Declan’s back door. She hoped the cool evening air would bring her to her senses. She shivered and tugged her cream sweater tightly around her shoulders. Her mouth ached from both the effort of continual smiling and appearing nonchalant—and the unaccustomed dissembling. She wasn’t a liar. Yet she had lied and lied and lied to Declan.
‘It was just a kiss’ was the first lie. She touched her fingers to her mouth, shuddering as she remembered the powerful effect of his lips on hers, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth, the desire that had ignited and raced through her body. It was so much more than a mere pressing of two mouths together. Of awakened passion.
But the biggest lie of all was that she didn’t want him kissing her again. There was nothing she wanted more than to be in his arms and kissing him. More than kissing him.
But the lies had been necessary. Because they were overwhelmed by the one big truth. She didn’t want to risk heartbreak. And everything Declan did, what he said, pointed to massive heartbreak down the line if she let down the guard on her emotions.
Her wounds from Steve