She couldn’t, even if she’d wished to, when they’d known each other from childhood, when they’d been friends long before they’d become lovers.

“It’s only dinner.”

She hesitated still, a flood of painful memories coming to the fore.

“If I annoy you, leave at any time. The inn is crowded with people. You’re perfectly safe. You’d be safe even without the others,” he gently added.

She was no longer an innocent, if she’d ever been, her years with her husband the ultimate in harsh reality. Surely she could handle a simple dinner with Simon. “I am hungry. Just friends, now.”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Fine.” His grin was boyish, achingly familiar. “Sit here by the fire,” he offered, pulling up a chair for her, “and I’ll bespeak us some dinner. Do you still like white clarets?”

“Anything will do.”

“If you have a choice.”

“A white claret would be very nice.”

He not only bespoke dinner, but also a private parlor with a cozy fire on the hearth, silver candlesticks on the table, a host of wine bottles displayed on the sideboard, along with a sumptuous array of food. As he escorted her into the small paneled room that had been heated to a balmy summer temperature, she looked up at him with a tight smile. “You’re still persuasive, I see.”

The landlady remembered my father,“ he blandly replied, showing her to a table set before the fire.

She cast him a suspicious glance. “And that’s why we’re the only ones with a private dining room?”

The innocence of his smile couldn’t have been improved on by cherubs on high. “Apparently she liked him a lot.”