Their meals arrive and they eat in silence for long moments, each withdrawing into themselves again after the emotional exchange between them. They neither of them find it easy to open up and revealing such deep feelings comes at a great cost to both of them. It was necessary, however, and she hopes that he heard what she was trying to tell him – that her feelings for George were never this strong and that what she had with him, she believes now, would not have lasted. She's too restless a soul to be content living a simple, elegant, mediocre life in obscurity with a nice man, no matter what she told Malcolm at the safehouse. She was happy, but she doesn't think it would have lasted. Not once Nico had hit puberty and started spending all his time with his friends. Not knowing that somewhere in London there was a man she'd not been able to forget, a complicated, irascible, exasperating, yet adorable man who might be waiting for her too, and a chance, however slim, that they might finish what they'd started. She knows that, had she never returned to Britain, missing the opportunity to be with Harry fully – exile or no – would have been her greatest regret in life.
"About this picnic then," she says once she's recovered her equilibrium and sated some of her hunger.
He lifts his eyes to her face and gives her a delightful half-smile. "I thought we agreed to have one in the spring, Ruth, or must I remove my shirt entirely?"
She giggles in surprise, but doesn't let his words deter her. "We're having one next week at my place."
He arches his eyebrows. "A picnic? At your place?"
"Indoors," she clarifies. "Not ideal, I know, but since you won't budge and come to the beach with me..." She grins at him, enjoying teasing him.
"I never said that," he objects, "but if we go to the beach in December, Ruth, I'll be so tightly wrapped in my coat and scarf, it would defeat the purpose of the exercise." His eyes are twinkling at her deliciously and she can't help wanting to kiss him.
"And that is why we're having one at mine," she repeats patiently.
He purses his lips adorably, resting his left elbow on the table and waving his fork around as he speaks. "Let me get this straight. You're inviting me round to your place for dinner – or is it lunch?"
"Whichever suits."
"Right. So you're inviting me round for, let's say, dinner to sit on your floor-"
"A picnic rug."
"A picnic rug on your floor, to eat, when there is a perfectly serviceable table in your kitchen?"
"Yes." She smiles at him. "Go on, Harry, it'll be fun."
"Fun? You mean like taking a dip in the sea at Christmas kind of fun?"
She laughs. He really is wonderful when he's being sarcastic like this. "Exactly."
He makes a harrumphing kind of noise and puts his fork down, picking up his napkin to wipe his mouth – and temporarily succeeding in distracting her completely as her eyes linger there and her mind gets lost in thoughts of those lips and all the wonderful things they could do to her – before resting his forearms on the table and leaning towards her. "I think it's important that we get one thing straight right now, Ruth," he says seriously, making her attention snap back to the present and her heart skip several beats in apprehension. "There are only two things that I'm prepared to do on the floor... and then only when a bed is not available."
He had her going for a moment there, and as he reaches for his wine, she blinks at him, struggling not to show her annoyance or the heat coursing through her body at the salacious images filling her mind again. "Are you always this difficult?" He's taking a sip of his drink, watching her with a smug kind of look in his eyes that tells her she hasn't fooled him. Her words make him arch an eyebrow, but before he can swallow and reply, she's answered her own question. "Forget I asked. Of course you are. You're Harry Pearce."
"Now that's not fair, Ruth," he protests. "You're the one who keeps changing the parameters. As I recall, it was dancing on the beach that started this whole thing. You're the one who changed it to a picnic – to which, I'd like to point out, I have no objection... in the right season and the right setting. And, for the record, I also have no objection to dancing with you in your living room after dinner, tonight or any other night of your choosing."
Her gaze has softened, her heart expanding with love for him as she watches him defend himself, everything about him – his voice, his movements, his sexy lips, and gorgeous eyes – endearing him to her and she wants to kiss him now, more than ever. She takes a sip of her wine and smiles at him. "Dancing, eh?"
"Well, more of a slow shuffle really," he clarifies.
"That's my favourite kind of dance," she replies and sees his face relax into a smile.
"About those things you're willing to do on the floor," she says, watching with satisfaction as the smile slips from his lips in surprise. "One of them is sleeping, right?"
"Yes." His eyes twinkle at her, his lips quivering with amusement.
"Right. Just checking." And with that, she turns back to her food, feeling rather pleased with herself, especially when she realises he's still silently watching her whilst taking sips of his wine.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he enquires after a few moments, lifting the wine bottle and refilling her glass, his gaze on the swirling liquid though she's sure he's watching her reaction closely though his peripheral vision.
"The food? It's delicious."
"Being a minx," he clarifies as he rights the bottle and his eyes slip to her face.
"Someone has to keep you on your toes."
He chuckles and turns his attention to his own glass, refilling that too as he says, "You do remember what I do for a living, don't you?"
She frowns, chewing slowly for a few moments, pretending to think about it while he puts the bottle down and lifts his glass again, watching her. "Pushing papers around all day, wasn't it?"
"And disciplining insolent employees."
She laughs, eyes sparkling at him as she nods. "I remember."
She watches with unease as he drops his gaze for a moment, surprised by his reaction. She hadn't intended to spoil the mood or make him feel bad.
"You accused me of having a heart of stone," he murmurs, taking a rather large mouthful of wine and lifting the bottle to top it up again though it really doesn't need it.
"I was wrong about that," is her honest reply, and as he looks at her again, she gives him an apologetic smile.
His body stills completely for a moment, then he nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing, his hand releasing the glass that he was about to lift again, fingers tracing patterns around the base of it instead for a few moments before he raises his gaze to hers.
"I thought I did," he confesses softly, his eyes holding hers. "But then you came along."
She feels tears prick her eyes and a lump rise in her throat at his quiet admission, and though part of her wants to open up to him too, rise from the table and fall into his arms, there is another part of her – the fearful, intensely private part – that won't let her, so she takes refuge in humour again. "Just in the nick of time," she says.
"Quite possibly, yes," he agrees, chuckling softly.
"Glad to have been of service."
As if on cue, at the word service, their waiter walks into the room and, for a mad moment, Ruth wonders if he'd been spying on them, but she quickly dismisses the thought.
"How are we doing?" he asks, looking from one to the other. "Is there anything more I can get you?"
"No, thanks," Ruth replies. "Everything's wonderful."
"Good, good. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to call me." He hesitates for a moment as if waiting for a reply, but he seems to realise one won't be forthcoming any time soon and leaves them to stare into each other's eyes in peace, the words from so long ago echoing between them.
Something wonderful that was never said.