A Heart of Gold

Chapter 17

I had just enough time to shower and change into comfy clothes before Harry walked right into my kitchen with a bottle of my favorite wine and a hug that lifted me off of my feet.

The rain has let up so we sit and sip our chardonnay on my tiny back patio that is big enough for exactly three pots of flowers, two chairs and a small table in between.

Its cozy and private back here, thanks to the neighbor's high fence in the back and my overzealous clematis climbing up the side, its jumbled limbs fighting itself for space on the crowded trellis.

We both kick off our flip flops and sit in my wicker chairs facing each other. He pulls my feet into his lap and stretches his long legs out between us so that his heels rest on my seat past my hips and his toes touch the back of my chair.

I can tell that he's literally just run from his house- a white tank top and sweat shorts, and yet another wild Hawaiian print shirt thrown over the top. I trace the script that circles his ankles.

He waits for me to speak first, trying to asses my mood.

"You are a sight for sore eyes," I say.

"And you are gorgeous."

I blush.

"Do you want to talk about it some more? How 'bout your mum and dad?"

"I guess we all knew she'd meet someone, eventually. We never wanted to think about it, I suppose," I fiddle with the fray on the end of my shorts. "We just need time to adjust to the idea."

"You will always have a hole in your hearts where he belongs. And I think she will, too."

I exhale a little laugh, looking up at him through my lashes and giving him a weak smile. "Wha?" he asks gently with a quirked eyebrow and rubs the tops of my feet to coax out my response.

"That's exactly what my dad said."

He lifts his chin and eyebrows, and with a smug grin he looks down at me. "You have very smart men in your life."

"Oh, yes," I roll my eyes, "and so modest, too."

I stretch to poke his side with my toe but he catches it in his warm hands. He holds it still and uses his fist to roll his knuckles into the tight arch of my foot. A slow smile of satisfaction creeps across his face as he watches me close my eyes and settle my head on the back of my chair.

"Mmmm, you're sooo good." I mumble.

"My thoughts exactly." I open my eyes to find him leaning over me. He bends and softly presses his lips to mine, holding them there and I reach for his cheek.

He pulls back to smile at me and my lungs fill with butterflies.

Reaching down for the wine bottle, he asks, "Do you remember, when we first met, our conversation about my 'new direction?'" He leans forward to top off my glass and pecks my lips again before he sits back down.

"I do." I remember not being able to breathe while sitting next to him.

"I told you that I was worried about losing touch, with being real, remembering the struggles that people go through. And you, wisely," he winks at me, "asked me if I feel guilty for my success. If I felt a bit of survivor's guilt. Well, I think you have a touch of that, too, darling."

More of his superpowers.

"Is that why you drive yourself so hard?" It is intended to be a question but it leaves his mouth like a statement.

"Is that why you feel you can't enjoy yourself, be happy with what is good?" Another one.

Yes.