The Art of Romance (32 page)

When the choir stood to sing the anthem just before the sermon, Caylor resisted the urge to look past the choir director’s right shoulder toward the back of the sanctuary. She wouldn’t have to adjust her gaze much—wouldn’t even have to change the angle of her head. But she put all of her discipline into practice and kept her focus on the waving hands of the director, even though he was two beats behind the organ and piano.

The pastor’s sermon on Jesus’ parable of the hidden treasure and the pearl of great price, one of Caylor’s favorite passages from scripture, managed to occupy and challenge her mind—most of it—for the remainder of the worship time.

Church ended. Caylor escaped to the safety of the choir room.

But why? Why didn’t she want to see him?

Um, it could have something to do with the fact she’d been having romantic—clean, wholesome, but romantic nonetheless—fantasies about him. And the fear that he might be able to see it in her eyes if they came within a few feet of each other. And the fear that she might actually follow through on Zarah and Flannery’s advice and ask him about the book covers.

“Caylor, dear.” Mrs. Morton’s sing-song voice cut through the low chatter of the other choir members hanging their robes and retrieving personal items and making lunch plans.

She summoned up a smile, preparing for the inevitable conversation—the same conversation they had every week. “Good morning, Mrs….”

No. This couldn’t be happening.

Beside the elderly woman stood Dylan, looking as uncomfortable as Caylor suddenly felt.

“I wanted to introduce you to this nice young man who’s visiting with us this morning.” Mrs. Morton propelled Dylan forward with her famous iron grip. Caylor’s arm twinged in sympathy.

“Actually, Mrs. Morton, Dylan and I already know each other.” But just to get her to release Dylan’s arm, Caylor extended her right hand. She forced herself to drag her gaze to his. “It’s good to see you.”

The silver rings he wore on his thumb and middle finger created a hard contrast to the soft strength of his hand. “It’s good to see you, too.”

She wouldn’t have been surprised to see blue bolts of electricity arcing between their hands as they pulled away from each other. “What brings you to Providence Chapel?”

“Dr. Wetzler suggested it when I mentioned to her I hadn’t found any of the larger churches in town to be a good fit for me.” Dylan moved his arms behind his back and rocked from heel to toe.

“Well, Providence Chapel is a wonderful place to worship. We have many activities for young people, a wonderful music program, and the pastor has a good wind in the pulpit.” Mrs. Morton’s husband had owned a car dealership for more than fifty years, and many people credited her sales skills with its early and continued success. “I’m certain Caylor would be more than happy to give you a tour of the building and tell you all about it.”

Caylor almost asked her if she’d been talking to Sassy but settled for acknowledging her knowing wink with a benign smile.

“I’ve got to be off, but you two stay and talk awhile.” The doyenne of the senior adult group bustled off—no doubt to tell the others she’d just accomplished matchmaking success.

“I would be pleased to show you around the church,” Caylor swung her purse strap up on her shoulder, “but I’ve got to run myself. If I’m late to Sassy’s birthday lunch, she’ll never let me forget it.”

“Lunch at Giovanni’s, right?”

Just hearing the restaurant name in Dylan’s mellow, rich voice was enough to send Caylor into a swoon. But she held herself together. “Right, up on Twentieth Avenue, between Grand and Division.”

“I’m heading that direction myself.” He rocked back and forth again. “Um…since we’d both have to drive right back past the church, and I know parking in that area of midtown is scarce, why don’t you just ride with me?”

She would ride with him anywhere.…No, wait, that was a reaction one of the silly heroines of one of her silly romance novels would have. He wasn’t Giovanni Vendelino, and she wasn’t Isabella Foscari. No matter how much she wanted them to be.

But the expression of innocent supplication on his handsome face proved to be her undoing. “That sounds like a good idea. Let me drop the rest of my stuff in my car so I don’t have to tote it around with me.”

He walked with her to the exit—drawing speculative looks from the few people still lingering in the foyer behind the sanctuary. Great. She’d be trying to stamp out rumors for weeks—months—to come.

Just before they got to the door, she indulged herself—she drew in a deep breath through her nose, tingling all over at the light, spicy scent of Dylan’s cologne. She wouldn’t mind smelling that every day. All day.

Stop. She had to stop doing this to herself.

“I’m parked over there.” Dylan pointed to the back corner of the lot.

“I’m right here under the tree.” She motioned toward the white SUV parked in the farthest aisle but only a few spaces back.

“I’ll swing around and pick you up.” He grinned at her and then took off across the lot in a long, loping stride.

Once again, Caylor reveled in allowing herself to appreciate his lean form, his broad shoulders—but not as broad as on the covers of the Mason books. A cold shiver shook her out of her unproductive admiration, and she hurried over to put her music and Bible on the passenger seat of her Escape.

Man, she’d missed talking to him and spending time with him. She paused, hand resting atop the supple leather cover of her Bible.

Could it be that she was truly falling for Dylan, the man, and not just for his handsome face?

No, that couldn’t happen. She’d committed herself to living with and taking care of Sassy. A relationship—especially the kind of lifelong relationship she was starting to allow herself to imagine with Dylan Bradley—was out of the question.

Cherry pie.

Dylan couldn’t get the smell out of his nose or the smile off his face. Unless his senses deceived him, Caylor smelled like cherry pie today. Yes, he definitely preferred the down-to-earth, homey fragrances Caylor wore to the fancy stuff Emerson Bernard favored.

He pulled into the spot next to her SUV, but before he could get out and open the door for her, she climbed in.

“Thanks for offering to drive. I hate trying to find parking in midtown.” She fastened her seat belt.

Dylan took in another slow, appreciative breath. “No problem. Parking here will never be as bad as in Philly.” He backed out and headed north toward central Nashville.

“I figured Philadelphia was one of those cities where people didn’t even bother with cars, since there’s good public transportation.” Caylor crossed her long legs, her knee almost touching the dashboard, though he knew the seat was as far back as it would go, due to Pax riding around with him occasionally.

“A lot of people depend solely on the transit system, but I guess I’m too much of a small-town boy—the thought of giving up the independence of my own vehicle almost made me sick.”

Her elbow, resting lightly on the padded top of the center console, was mere inches from his. He only had to shift, just a little, and they’d be touching.

“I thought it would drive me crazy to be dependent on public transportation—buses, undergrounds, taxis—when I was in the UK and Ireland, but it was amazing how fast I got used to it. I actually miss it sometimes, not having the maintenance headaches or stopping for gas in the middle of a thunderstorm or driving in rush-hour traffic. Though having to ride a bus with a bunch of drunken soccer fans through Dublin after a semifinal game for the World Cup—I was wishing for a car that night.”

Dylan chuckled and pulled to a stop at a red light. “You were probably safer on the bus than you would have been driving with all of the other drunk fans out on the road.” He glanced at her. “So, are you a soccer fan?”

“I tried to become one when I lived there, but it didn’t take. I was a big baseball fan when I was at Vanderbilt….” Her face reddened, and she turned to look out her window. After a brief moment, she turned back to look at him. “But I don’t really enjoy it much anymore.”

He could easily guess she’d been a baseball fan because she’d been dating a baseball player. But exes were apparently still off the table for casual conversation. Good.

“Since I started teaching at Robertson, though, I’ve become a big basketball fan. Our team always does well in our little conference, and because I’ve always had a few of the players in one class or another, it makes it more fun. I just don’t get to go as often as I’d like—especially when we’re ramping up for a drama production I’m involved in.”

“I wondered why I hadn’t seen you at any of the games. You’re right. They’re very good players.” There was so much other than sports he wanted to talk to her about. He wanted to fast-track everything—get through all of his therapy stuff, get to a place where he felt comfortable talking to everyone about everything—and move on with making Caylor fall as much in love with him as he was falling in love with her.

“The final set pieces look fantastic. I know the kids are grateful for your guidance and help.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing the production. It’s hard to believe something of this scale can be pulled together in just six weeks.” The residential area began to transition to a more commercial district as Granny White Pike turned into Twelfth Avenue South. The area had changed so much over the last few years. In addition to all of the new casual restaurants, coffee shops, and stores, it was geographically central to almost everything in Nashville. And only about five or ten minutes from Robertson—at least the part where Zarah Mitchell lived.

“Don’t let the production date fool you—Bridget and her students started working on this production last semester. The drama department is always working on at least three productions at once—the one that’s about to be on stage and the next two coming down the pipeline. The main roles were cast and began table-reads when they were still in rehearsals for the holiday variety show last fall. They split it up between the different professors as to who’s in charge of which production. Bridget usually does the spring musical. But since one of the other professors chose
The Music Man
for his production last fall, she had to go with Shakespeare.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.” Dylan designated more of his attention to navigating through the numbered and occasionally one-way streets as Caylor talked more about the drama department’s process.

He found an on-street parking space less than a block from the restaurant. This time he hopped out of the car and got around to the passenger door just as she turned to get out.

At first, she looked surprised, but then she smiled. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” He resisted the urge to put his arm around her and settle his hand possessively on the small of her back as they crossed the street.

“I heard a full-time position came open in your department,” Caylor said, transitioning the conversation. “Are you going to apply?”

“I’ve already interviewed for it.” He took the five steps at the entrance in two bounds and opened the door for her.

“I hope you get it. You’ll be such an asset to the school.”

So this was what it was like to have a woman see value in him—and not because it would be of any benefit or advantage to herself.

The hostess led them back to where a large table was already mostly filled with their families and a few other older couples—friends of Perty and Sassy Evans’s. He didn’t even care that Mother and Dad were here.

Pax stood and greeted Caylor with a handshake. Caylor’s sister, Sage, sat next to his brother, but neither seemed pleased by the arrangement. Dylan, though, was more than pleased to see that there were only two chairs left, and they were side by side across from their siblings.

Caylor set her purse on the chair beside one of the older men and went to where her grandmother sat in the middle of the table. “Happy birthday, Sassy. Sorry I had to leave the house so early this morning that I didn’t get to say it to you then.”

Mrs. Evans kissed Caylor’s cheeks. “I knew I’d get to see you eventually, so I wasn’t too fussed about it.”

Dylan waved from his position by their chairs. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Evans.”

“Thank you for coming, Dylan—and you have my permission to call me Sassy.” She grinned at him—and it was almost an exact replica of Caylor’s endearingly crooked smile.

Caylor returned to her seat—which Dylan held for her and waited until she was situated before sitting down himself and opening his menu.

He almost choked at the prices, knowing Gramps intended to pick up the bill for everyone.

“Good night—I’d forgotten how expensive this place is,” Caylor whispered. “That ravioli better be filled with diamonds and pearls for that price.”

Dylan stifled his laugh behind his menu and leaned a little closer. “And the pizza covered in rubies and opals?”

Caylor’s arm pressed against his. “Something like that. Oh…” The last syllable came out in an awed tone. “I just saw what I want. I totally shouldn’t eat it, but when am I ever going to see that again? Coffee-flavored french toast made with brioche and topped with blueberries and dark chocolate shavings.”