This chapter is subtitled "A Tale of Two Meetings". I do hope you enjoy it. ;)
Many hugs to my precious friends and critical eyes-KP, miscreant rose, and Cls2011. Love you all so much, and I appreciate your support. Also, to the precious thefoodofloveismusic who gave me feedback and a much-needed dose of encouragement during a stressful, draining week when this writer couldn't make sense of her own writing. Sending massive hugs to all four of you!
And to all of my readers-wow. I do believe my HG readers are some of my most passionate and encouraging, and I just adore all of you! Your constant supply of notes, reviews, messages and kind pm's boosts my spirit more than you know. :D
I don't own DA or Mary or Charles, or Cora for that matter. But Lucy-she is all mine. Enjoy!
This cannot be happening. But it is—right in front of her—right now—right after Charles turned her brain into a puddle of mush and confusion after another damned kiss.
Lucy. Here in her office. God, what is she supposed to do now?
"So nice to meet you, Lucy," Mary manages, donning her brightest smile. "How on earth did you find me?"
Lips that match her red keyhole dress smile back at her.
"I googled," Lucy admits, toying with her black patent clutch. "After I wheedled your last name out of my baby brother, that is, as well as your profession." She tugs a lock of nearly black hair behind her ear, staring back at Mary uncertainly. "I do hope I haven't crossed a line. We are all just so eager to meet the woman who has stolen Charles's heart."
Her chest constricts.
"I'm not certain I can own such a lofty claim," Mary returns, gesturing to a comfortable arm chair, giving Lucy permission to sit down across from her. "We've not been together all that long."
"I know," Lucy smiles with a flicker of her brows. "Which is one reason we're all so curious about you."
"Really?" Mary stalls, waiting for her mind to catch up with her circumstances.
"Yes," Lucy grins. "You see, Charles tends to think things through rather thoroughly before he acts—he's always been that way. But here he is, completely smitten with you, keeping you hidden away from us and all to himself. I think Mum may have an apoplexy if she isn't able to meet you soon."
Her cheeks now feels sunburned from too much internal heat. Shit.
"I'd be honored to meet your mother," Mary responds. "Although I'd be lying if I said the prospect didn't scare the hell out of me at this point."
Lucy laughs, a deep throaty sound that shoots straight to her eyes. She is clearly Charles's sister.
"She's promised to bypass the Spanish Inquisition," Lucy concedes, pulling a hum of approval from Mary. "And if we get too out of hand, just tell us to shut up. We won't mind."
She smiles ruefully.
"There is no way I'd tell your mother to shut up the first time I met her," Mary states, her assurance widening Lucy's grin. "Or ever, in fact. Perhaps my mother, if the situation warranted it, but never anyone else's."
Lucy's gaze is too thorough for comfort.
"Freda did. When Charles stepped out of the room for a few minutes and Mum continued to ask her about her family. I've never seen my mother so stunned in her entire life."
What kind of woman had Charles married, she wonders for at least the fiftieth time this week? And what on earth had possessed him to propose to Freda in the first place? The urge to hold his hand seizes her, as does the desire to stroke his hair and assure him that everything will be alright, to cradle his head to her breast and tell him that he will fully heal, to remind him that his life doesn't have to be defined by his ex and the destruction she left in her wake.
Just as he has been doing for her all these weeks, she realizes all too clearly. Her pulse accelerates again.
"Freda said that to your mum?"
"Oh, yes," Lucy nods. "More than once."
"Unbelievable," she breathes, watching Lucy's face relax in appreciation.
"Yes. She was. In every deplorable way you can imagine and then some."
No wonder Charles speaks of his ex-wife as little as possible. Something cold crawls up Mary's spine, making her feel oddly like a snowman with a temperature. Only she can't afford to melt down here—not in front of Charles's sister.
"Forgive me," Lucy gushes. "I'm sorry to bring up Freda when I've come to see you."
"Not at all," Mary assures her. "Charles has told me some things about their marriage, but Freda is not exactly a topic he enjoys talking about. I know very few details, actually."
"I wish I didn't know as many as I did," Lucy admits, shaking her head. "But at least she is out of his life. Mum, Sharon and I actually went out and celebrated when he told us they were divorcing. Does that sound terrible?"
You and Matthew are toxic together. Better to make a clean break of it, Mary. That way both of you can find someone better suited for you and be finally be happy. We'll go out and celebrate your new life once you realize that you are a complete person without him.
"No," she returns. "In fact, I think you and my sister Sybil would get along beautifully. She said something very similar to me once."
Brown eyes stare into her intently.
"Are you divorced, too?" Lucy inquires with a slight tilt of her head.
"No," Mary answers, giving in to her need to be blatantly honest in the midst of this deception. "But I was engaged not too long ago. It didn't end particularly well."
"Ah," Lucy acknowledges. "I'm sorry."
She waits for the wash of pain to smack her soundly, but it doesn't.
"Don't be. It was for the best."
Her lips tremble as the words are voiced, but there is no bitter residue left to remind her of what was lost. Instead, brown eyes fill her mind's eye, as do thoughts of white teeth and tanned skin. What in God's name is happening to her?
The answer makes her feel like a mass of quivering gelatin.
"So was mine," Lucy smiles. "Although I thought I would never live through it at the time."
"Neither did I," Mary confesses. "But somehow we did, didn't we?"
"Yes. We did."
"I suddenly feel the need to make a toast," Mary muses.
"To the survivors," Lucy joins in, smiling in approval, holding up an imaginary glass in Mary's direction.
"The survivors," Mary echoes, savoring her own words, allowing them to linger on her palate a moment longer than necessary.
"What happened?" Lucy asks, her gently probing look rather akin to her brother's.
"Are you sure you want to know?" Mary questions, her guard dropping bit by bit.
"I'm married to a doctor," Lucy responds with a laugh. "I have a strong stomach. Believe me, I can handle whatever you feel comfortable dishing out."
God—she's stunned to realize that she actually wants to talk about Matthew to this woman. How much more surreal can one day get?
"It's hard to say," Mary begins with a soft sigh. "We were moving in opposite directions, but instead of letting go of one another, we kept trying to drag the other one along, no matter how loudly we kicked or screamed in protest. We'd been together so long, I couldn't imagine being without him. He was just a part of my life, and I thought he always would be."
She stops, her mind in a remarkably peaceful state, the pang of missing Matthew now a dull throb rather than an acute sting. How had her state of mind changed so drastically behind her own back?
And when exactly had Charles managed to hijack her present out from under her?
"It was just time, I suppose. Matthew saw it before I did. I fought him as much as I could. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be."
Lucy's gaze softens.
"You'll fit right in with the Blake clan, then," she returns. "We're all stubborn to some degree, and rather opinionated to boot." She pauses at Mary's nod, inhaling audibly. "And I do understand—all too well."
"Your broken engagement," Mary put in. "Is it alright to ask?"
"I wouldn't have asked you about yours if I weren't willing to share mine," Lucy states, her eyes dropping quickly to her folded hands. "That would hardly be fair, now would it? Especially considering the fact that I've already barged into your office uninvited with the expressed purpose of satisfying my family's curiosity about you."
A grin breaks across her face, and for a moment she feels as if all they are playing at is real. Her mouth goes suddenly dry.
"My story is not quite as dramatic as yours, mind you," Lucy continues, drawing Mary's attention. "Just straight-forward and painful. It was over children, or my inability to have them, I should say. James decided one day that he had been mistaken when he told me that it didn't matter to him, that we could build a family by other means. And that was that."
A weighted hush falls over the office.
"But don't you have a son?" Mary inquires, remembering Charles going on about his nephews, certain that one of the four of them had been Lucy's.
"Edward," Lucy beams, her gaze returning to Mary's. "He became mine when I married his father. You see, I'm a Type I diabetic. My doctor has told me in no uncertain terms that I should never attempt to become pregnant, that the odds of me carrying to term are slim to none, but the damage pregnancy could inflict on my health…"
She breaks off, clearing her throat.
"I might be willing to risk it, honestly, but when your husband is a doctor himself and knows exactly what all can happen…" Lucy breathes, looking back at Mary head on. "Well, let's just say that Rob isn't willing to take any chances."
She pauses, quickly reclaiming what composure had slipped away.
"He loves you very much, then," Mary observes, craving the warmth of Charles's touch, the light of his smile, the zing of his wit. She craves too much of him, actually, addicted to the manner in which he makes her feel like she matters simply for who she is.
God, this is not good.
"He does," Lucy agrees, smiling again, "And I couldn't love a child I gave birth to any more than I love our little boy."
An image of a dark headed baby snuggled warm and safe in her arms hits her soundly, and Mary starts, not understanding just how such thoughts ambushed her out of nowhere.
"I have no doubt of that," Mary assures her, her ribs tightening. "And Charles certainly adores him,"
"Edward adores his Uncle Charlie," Lucy returns. "He's wonderful with children, you know."
"Is he?" she questions, attempting to sound unfazed when she is anything but.
"Yes," Lucy states. "But I didn't come here to put undue pressure on you, Mary, or to make you think that we all expect you and Charles to marry and have babies any time soon."
Mary quirks a brow in Lucy's direction.
"But do you?" she inquires flatly. "Have those expectations, I mean? My mother and sister are practically foaming at the mouth."
Lucy grins wickedly.
"I'd be lying if I said we didn't have high hopes. We all just want to see Charles happy. He deserves that."
She can still smell him on her skin if she concentrates. Damn.
"Yes," Mary nods. "He does."
They look at each other, making silent judgments that seem to be favorable on both counts.
"How did you meet?" Lucy questions, breaking the silence. "Charles told me that was a conversation for another day when I asked him."
"He must have a storehouse of those conversations," Mary puts in with a roll of her eyes. "We met at a bar, actually. And I daresay he is putting off telling you because the details aren't particularly flattering towards me."
Hazy images of meaty hands and slurred speech make her skin crawl, and her mind races ahead to the moment she awakened in his bed.
"He helped me out of a sticky situation," Mary continues. "Matthew had gotten married that day, you see."
Lucy breathes in loudly.
"Go on."
"I didn't handle it too well, I'm afraid," Mary confesses, dropping her eyes. "I took myself to a bar and drank until it didn't hurt anymore. Bad idea, by the way."
"I know," Lucy interjects. "The morning after is hell."
"God," Mary sighs, shaking her head at the memory. "Don't I know it. Anyway, another man was coming on to me and wouldn't take no for an answer. Charles stepped in, got rid of him and tried to give me a ride home. Unfortunately for him, I passed out in his front seat."
"How did he get you home?" Lucy asks, clearly startled by this juicy tidbit of information.
"He didn't," Mary admits. "He took me to his flat, carried me up the steps, actually, and put me in his bed."
"He didn't, I mean, you didn't…"
The other woman's eyes are so wide Mary fears they might pop out of their sockets.
"No," she interjects swiftly. "He slept on the sofa, a proper gentlemen in all respects. But I nearly belted him with my purse the next morning while trying to sneak out. Instead I nearly got sick all over his carpet. Not exactly the most promising of beginnings, I dare say."
Lucy nods in response.
"The first meeting doesn't have to go well for the relationship to thrive," she points out wryly. "I wanted to throttle Rob when we first met. He thought I was an overbearing witch, and I was certain that he was an arrogant ass who didn't appreciate what he had."
"What was that?" Mary asks. "What he had, I mean?"
"A baby," Lucy answers, her voice low and soft. "A beautiful newborn baby he barely knew how to hold. I was so jealous it hurt."
A baby. Just the thought of one makes her feel like she's trying to balance on quicksand.
"So things improved, I take it?" Mary queries, shaking her head and leaning forward.
"Tremendously," Lucy affirms. "But he is still an arrogant ass sometimes."
"Some character traits are just permanent," Mary notes.
"Yes," Lucy agrees. "Charles has always been a horrible tease, you know, ever since he was little. And that grin of his allowed him to get away with murder. God, I used to get so mad at him."
"It's the dimples," Mary muses, catching herself after the observation leaves her lips. "He still tries to use them."
"Of course he does," Lucy grins, shaking her head. "They're his ultimate weapon. Do they work on you?"
Her heart flutters precariously, that blasted grin making her ache in more places than one.
"Sometimes," Mary admits cautiously. "But sometimes they make me want to throttle him."
"So do Rob's," Lucy attest, her brow lifting mischievously. "Men."
"Precisely," Mary agrees.
"My theory is that men with dimples make the best lovers," Lucy adds, her brows lifting just so expectantly. "Would you agree?"
Mary swallows, inhaling to clear her mind as her body breaks out in a cold sweat.
"I have no argument to offer," she returns, her lip twitching treacherously as she watches Lucy's expression brighten in satisfaction. Her skin hums in remembrance of the trail he kissed down her neck, the tingles sparked by his teeth on her ear, the warmth of his palms as he held her upright in the shower. If Charles could do that to her when they were clothed and play acting, what in God's name would it be like to…
"It's funny, don't you think?" Lucy interjects, pulling Mary soundly back down to earth. "How sometimes what first appears to be a curse turns into the very thing that you need?"
Her breath catches, her eyes widening just slightly. She needs this man in too many ways for her own good, but she's already sucked in to him, caught in a trap of her own making. Shit. Now her mind is full nothing but Charles Blake. Escaping to her office hasn't helped in that arena one bit.
"It is," Mary responds obediently, wanting a strong drink with every fiber of her being. Damned pain meds.
"Can I treat you to lunch?" Lucy asks.
"Not today, I'm afraid," Mary responds with a bit of reluctance. "Charles cooked a substantial brunch for me before he brought me in to work. I don't think I'll be able to eat again until dinner."
"How about tomorrow then?" Lucy concedes. "I can bring lunch to you if you'd rather not bother with those." Her hand gestures towards the crutches, both women grimacing.
"That would be lovely," Mary replies, half of her looking forward to spending more time with Lucy as the other half dreads bearing up to scrutiny once again.
"Shall I bring it here or to your flat?" Lucy asks. "My treat, by the way."
She thinks through her evening, knowing dinner with her mother will probably tax the last of her reserves.
"My flat," Mary answers. "If it's not too much of a bother."
"Not at all," Lucy states, looking as though Christmas has just arrived early. "And tell that brother of mine to clear out and give us some space tomorrow. I'm looking forward to another lovely girl chat."
She stands then, extending her hand across Mary's desk and shaking it firmly.
"It was a real pleasure to meet you, Mary," Lucy smiles, and Mary cannot help but smile back at the woman, wishing this farce she and Charles had crafted would magically transform into reality.
"The pleasure was mine," Mary returns genuinely, watching as Lucy bites her bottom lip in a gesture that reminds her instantly of Charles. She turns and leaving her office, leaving Mary to sigh into the emptiness, acutely aware of the fact that she is finally alone.
And she hates how much that bothers her.
"Stop fidgeting," Mary snaps, squeezing his hand almost painfully. "My mother will be here at any moment, and you don't want her to think you have a nervous tick."
He tries to relax and tugs on his collar once again, finding himself more nervous at the prospect of meeting Cora Crawley than he rightfully should be.
"She's already seen my naked ass," he retorts, earning himself yet another eye-roll. "I highly doubt she'll notice if my fingers are a bit twitchy."
"She notices everything," Mary insists with a sigh, tugging on her loose fitting pants that cover her knee brace well. "Are you certain—"
"Yes," Charles interrupts. "Your brace is completely hidden, and you look marvelous. The answer hasn't changed in the past three minutes."
She looks extraordinary, he silently concedes, her fuchsia blazer adding a potent punch to the rest of her black ensemble.
"You don't look too bad, yourself," she murmurs, and he nudges her gently, careful to keep her securely balanced. "I've never seen you in a suit."
"Suits me, does it?" he quips, earning a small punch to his arm that makes him smile. "I thought it was time someone in your family actually saw me properly dressed. I know I wear towels well, but it's always nice to try something new."
She smiles at this, and he spots a tinge of pink tinting her cheeks.
"Just be thankful it was Sybil standing at my door that morning rather than Mama," Mary quips, and he rubs the back of his already over-heated neck. "She would have jerked the towel off."
"That makes me feel eminently better about meeting her," he retorts with a sigh. "Now I'm frightened she might ask for a table dance before dessert."
"She just might," Mary grins, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "And she tips well."
"So do I," he whispers, watching the blush creep down her neck, that glorious neck cruelly taunting him with its nearness, her alabaster skin teasing him with the need to savor with his mouth and tongue. Shit, the scent of her perfume about to drive him to his knees, and they haven't even been seated.
Dinner with Cora could be a long, uncomfortable affair.
"Keep your pants on," she chides. "At least until Mama arrives. Then we can see if all of your claims to fame have any bearing or consist of nothing but hot air."
"Come now, Mary," he breathes, rubbing his thumb down the inside of her palm. "You know I am far more substantial than hot air." She shoots him a look that reads somewhere between murder and a sound thrashing before he leans over and whispers directly into her ear. "On the other hand, hot air can be extremely erotic when employed in other areas."
Her mouth drops open, her breathing just barely audible, and the rise and fall of her chest is about to undo him in a very public place. God, this constant need to one-up the other will be the death of him.
"You're unbelievable," she murmurs, her crimson cheeks just begging to be kissed.
"That's what I'm hoping you'll say afterwards," he croons, chastising himself silently as his trousers continue to tighten in all the wrong places. Shit. He has no one to blame but himself.
"Now children," a smooth voice interrupts. "You mustn't discuss sex before we've had a chance to look at the menu. Why, you'll shock the maître d."
A tall balding man with a trim mustache steps forward, beaming at the elegantly attired brunette with a mix of adoration and awe.
"Mrs. Crawley," the maître d hums. "What a pleasure it is to see you this evening."
"Hello, Simon," Cora returns with a brilliant smile. "How are you?"
"Better now that you've arrived," Simon states, kissing Cora's hand as Mary rolls her eyes in Charles's direction. "Your presence never fails to brighten our humble establishment."
"Humble, my ass," Charles whispers to Mary discreetly, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.
"You remember Mary, don't you?" Cora continues, flashing her daughter a private glance of reprimand.
"But of course," Simon replies, bowing just so. "Welcome back, Ms. Crawley. Or have you married since I last saw you?"
He feels her grip tighten as Simon glances in his direction, and he extricates his hand gently, sliding an arm protectively around her waist.
"Not yet," Charles tosses in, amazed at how even his voice sounds. "But I hope to remedy that oversight soon."
He feel her sharp intake of breath as his fingers dance lightly over her waist.
"My, my," Cora responds, almost able to conceal her surprise. "Things are moving quickly, indeed. You're not pregnant, are you Mary?"
He watches her expression hover between shock and mortification as she flashes him a look that states he would be better off dead than when she deals with him later.
"Don't be silly, Mama," she manages somewhat breathlessly, her eyes darting from him back to her mother, avoiding Simon completely.
"Just madly in love," he grins, noting Cora's gaze flash from his face back to Mary's abdomen. "I've never met anyone quite like Mary, Mrs. Crawley. She's an extraordinary woman."
"Cora," the woman offers, sizing him up in a glance before offering him a smile of interest. "And you're right. There's no one like Mary."
"I'm standing right here," Mary puts in, and he leans over to kiss her cheek, the heat from her skin hitting him before his lips ever make contact. "And I'd like to sit down sometime tonight."
"Are you feeling light-headed, dear?" Cora questions quietly, her gaze taking in Mary's figure yet again.
"No," Mary bites back, digging her nails into his back. "My knee is aching."
"Follow me," Simon cuts in, escorting the trio into main restaurant, guiding them through an ornately furnished room to a table situated squarely in the middle.
"Slow down," she orders under her breath, holding on to his arm for dear life.
"You should have brought your crutches," he insists as they catch up to her mother, watching them from behind her chair with green eyes that remind him uncannily of Andromeda.
"Too much trouble," she hisses back as Simon pulls out the chair for her. "And isn't this what man slaves are for?"
He chuckles against her neck as he settles her gently into her seat.
"Just the tip of the iceberg, my darling," he hums, the slight shiver dancing down her spine draining all moisture from his mouth. "We man slaves are good for more than you realize."
"Please, you two," Cora admonishes with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Try to control yourselves until dessert. If you get carried away over bananas flambé, I suppose no one will mind too terribly much."
Charles sits, grinning back at Cora as he positions his chair.
"And how would you describe the desserts here, Cora?" he baits, hearing Mary's sigh beside him.
"Decadent," Cora tosses back, leaning forward. "Rich, indulgent, and meant to be savored. Dessert is the very reason I keep coming back for more."
"Sounds tempting," he states, gazing at the drink list, his collar yet again uncomfortably tight.
"I've found the key to overcoming temptation is simply to give in to it," Cora states, licking wine colored lips. "Much easier and far more satisfying than always depriving oneself, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Blake?"
"Charles," he insists. "And there is something to be said for both discipline and indulgence, I would argue."
"Mary has always loved a good argument," Cora teases, her gaze moving back to her daughter. "Of course, I'm certain you've already discovered how she likes to take charge."
"Bring me something with vodka," Mary instructs the waiter before the poor man can get a word in edgewise. "And make it strong."
"Are you sure that's wise, Mary?" Cora cuts in with a lift up her brows. "Perhaps you should stick with water."
"I'm not pregnant, Mama," Mary insists, kicking his shin under the table. "And make it a Moscow Mule," she adds to the waiter, rubbing her temples. "Extra tart."
"Fitting," Charles murmurs in her direction, certain he would have quite the bruise on his shin as she kicks him yet again.
"I'll have what she's having," Cora states saucily, throwing a discreet wink directly at Charles. "It's obviously potent and irresistible."
"Control yourself, Mama," Mary instructs, matching her mother stare for stare. "I'm not feeling generous enough to share."
"Gin and tonic," Charles voices, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "In fact, bring me two."
Cora picks up her water glass, toasting him wordlessly from across the table as Mary makes an almost indiscernible noise beside him.
"It's nice to actually see your face, Charles," Cora croons meaningfully, and he feels an uncomfortable heat prickle up his neck. "I'm not certain the picture Mary sent actually did you justice. Next time you should take care to photograph several angles, my dear," she continues, her focus moving to an unamused Mary. "It offers one a more complete picture."
"Some things are better kept to oneself," Mary muses, taking a sip of her water.
"I wish you'd thought of that before you sent the damned thing," he breathes, eliciting an appreciative sound from Cora.
"Don't worry, Charles," Cora assures him. "I've seen my share of men's assets. I don't shock easily."
"You don't shock at all," Mary amended.
"Does anyone in your family?" Charles inquires, picking up his water glass.
"No," Cora answers. "But Mary is the most conservative by far."
"Someone has to rein you and Sybil in," Mary explains.
"See what I mean?" Cora notes with a wave of her hand, accepting her drink from the waiter with a smile of thanks. "So tell me, Charles, what exactly do you do in life besides roam about naked in my daughter's flat?"
He nearly chokes on his water. God, he cannot stop coughing, and Mary pats him on the back, finally resorting to a smack applied with more force than necessary.
"Thank you, darling," he manages, taking another sip of water, attempting to right his voice.
"Of course," Mary returns with a smile that makes him nervous. "I know how you enjoy a good pounding."
"I simply can't turn it down when you offer," he hums, daring a swig of his gin and tonic before reaching under the table to squeeze her knee. She nearly yelps.
"I'm in publishing," he answers, still feeling his throat constrict as he swallows repeatedly.
"A man of words, then," Cora reasons.
"You might say that," Charles returns with a tilt of his head.
"Too many words, sometimes," Mary adds, earning herself an unexpected stroke up her thigh that makes her shiver. Her eyes narrow slightly in his direction, openly declaring war.
"Don't tell me you're all words and no action, Charles," Cora insists, picking up her menu. "That's a rather dull combination."
"I agree, actually," he states, taking another sip of his drink. "Why Mary and I were just discussing the pros and cons of hot air just before you arrived."
"How interesting," Cora muses, her voice the texture of fine brandy. "And what did you conclude? About hot air, I mean?"
"That he's full of it," Mary quips, allowing a slender finger to trace a circle through his pants onto his hip. He shoots her a glance she meets head on, looking all too pleased with herself at the jerk of his thigh.
"Ah," Cora replies, allowing the word to linger on her tongue. "The question then is does he know how to use it?"
He feels Mary stiffen under the table and encloses her hand within his. God, her fingers are freezing, and he gathers them into his palm, feeling her digits relax into his warmth.
"Sometimes," Mary retorts, flipping him a look too complex to analyze. "But he's teachable."
He tugs their joined hands up to his mouth, languidly kissing a knuckle he knows to be sensitive, watching her squirm in her seat.
"Very teachable, it would seem," Cora hums.
"I'm a dedicated pupil," he murmurs directly to Mary, their eyes locking with an intensity that sends him reeling. She swallows, he stares, their breathing moving into a peaceful yet charged synchronicity interrupted by the arrival of their salads.
"So I've noticed," Cora states, all teasing now absent from her tone as she studies them in the same manner he knows that his mother would. God—he now feels like a boy of twelve trying to explain away his first crush on a girl completely out of his league. His stomach falls as her chin quivers almost imperceptibly, his world spinning out of control as the cold reality washes over him anew.
For Mary is far out of his league. And he's far too in love with her to save himself from certain disaster.
Thoughts?