The Brevity of Roses Read Online Free

time would be to shop for the trendier clothes her friends urged her to choose. Ditch the classics was how they put it. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock, well past time to leave here. What excuse did she have to linger?
    At that moment, the sun broke through and a ray filtered through her wine glass casting a bright pool of pale gold on the tablecloth. She slid her hand over to the light and smiled when her index finger appeared to become a magic wand with glowing tip. As if she could wave her hand through the air and transform her life. As if she could envision that life. As if she dared.
    Well, why not?
    She surrendered with a sigh. She drank the last of her wine, turned away from the window, and picked up her magazine again. They had not even served the man his lunch yet. How could she leave?
    Unlike her friends, Meredith seldom encouraged desiring looks from men, and though she attracted her share of them, she just never imagined herself on the giving end. She simply did not stare at strange men. Yet it was hard to ignore this man with his beautiful skin, like fine tea-dyed silk, and hair, as black as any she had ever seen, curling down to his shoulders, and if he chanced to look up from the book he now read, she was certain his eyes would seem as deep and dark as temple pools on a moonless night. Oh, and his mouth—
    Startled by the server’s approach to her table, she snapped, “What?”
    “Excuse me,” he said, “but would you like me to bring you another glass of the pinot grigio?”
    “Oh.” She smiled, repentant. “Yes, please.”
    Now, what had she been thinking? Oh, yes, his mouth. She marveled at her silliness. One would think she spent her days reading romance novels rather than anthropology journals. All right then, look at him that way. What could his ancestry be—Indian, Greek possibly, or Middle Eastern … ah-h … a Persian Prince?
    Oh, my.
    Eyes closed, she breathed in, held it, then exhaled slowly through her nose. She opened her eyes and focused on his book, which she recognized and thought little of, but was glad he seemed too absorbed in to notice her scrutiny. What concerned her was the presence of those three young women at the table next to his—fringe members of her social circle—who had noticed her fascination. She caught their glances, their quiet laughter. They judged her pathetic. And why not? Even though her friends joked that she had piped the water supply to her house directly from the fountain of youth, clearly, she was too old for this man. Yet, there she sat.
    “Can I get you anything else?” asked the server when he returned with the wine.
    “Not just now,” she said. In a few minutes, she would order coffee, and then dessert, both perfectly good reasons to prolong her stay. Besides, if she drank this third glass of wine, she would have to sit here a while before attempting to drive home. With her schedule settled, she gave way to imagining who this mysterious man might be. Possibly a lonely traveler who would welcome her as a tour guide—an interpreter even—though she had grown rusty in most of the languages she knew, and if he spoke Farsi, well to be honest, she was never fluent in that to begin—
    Good lord! She had progressed to full-blown fantasy. It was time to order that coffee. Strong coffee. A double espresso.
    Oh!
    Meredith found herself looking straight into his eyes. Frozen in mid-stare, she watched him speak briefly with the server, then push his chair back, pick up his book, drop it in his leather messenger bag and— Oh, my lord! —head directly toward her table. Another blush warmed her face and she prayed he would blame the wine.
    “You have watched me since I arrived,” he said. He had only a slight accent—more a formality than accent really.
    “I … I’m … I’m sorry …”
    A smile sparked in his eyes a second before it spread to his lips. “May I join you?” he asked.
    Motioning for him to sit, she took another