Judge Not: Book One in the Rivertown Romance Series

By Denise Gwen

When Henry meets Charlotte, and when Charlotte meets Henry, the two lost souls will connect with one another in a way that neither one of them ever imagined possible. As their red-hot love ignites the frozen streets of Cincinnati, Charlotte and Henry's love story will warm your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005387082

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

One

Charlotte considered herself lucky in at least one respect; her next-door neighbor happened to own a pair of crutches. He’d been more than happy to give them to her, and she accepted the crutches with gratitude. This meant she wouldn’t have to spend two hundred dollars—money she clearly did not have—on crutches.

It also meant she could treat herself to dinner.

And was it the after-effect of the two weeks of anti-depressants following her stay at the sanatorium, or something else entirely, making her feel the deep and abiding need to eat a nice meal in a fancy restaurant? She’d planned to take a soothing bath, maybe order some Chinese take-out from the place around the corner and spend the remainder of the evening watching television. But no, she considered herself a new woman as she stepped inside DaVinci’s.

Freshly bathed, lotioned, and oiled, she felt indeed a new creature as the host escorted her to a snug section deep inside the restaurant, to a booth set against a wall. She couldn’t possibly have been shown to a cozier, more comfortable spot, which, for the next hour, would be her private sanctuary. Everything at this table, at this tiny universe, appeared completely in order; everything tidy and nicely arranged, with a white linen tablecloth, sterling silverware, an aromatic candle in the center, and crystal-cut wineglasses.

Despite the car accident, despite her obvious discomfort, and her clumsiness with the crutches, she relaxed. For the next hour, perhaps two, she could pretend her life was happy and everything good, and so she felt curiously sane and very human as she flashed the waiter a smile.

May I get you something to drink while you’re perusing the menu?

Yes, water with lemon.

Very good, Madame. May I offer you Perrier or Evian?

She considered.

Wow, this place is fancy.

Then again, this was supposed to be a treat.

Yes, please. I think I’d prefer Perrier.

Very well. And would you like to see the wine list?

Oh, sure. I mean, yes, please.

She reviewed it with a cursory glance. There was no way she could possibly pronounce all those French words. She decided to play it safe. Is there a house white?

Yes, Madame, we have a lovely Pinot Grigot.

She nodded. A glass.

Very well.

The waiter hurried off, and she leaned back against the soft leather banquette to think and reflect. She could very easily wile away the entire evening, lingering over her meal. When she spoke to her aunt tomorrow, as she did on the first Monday of every month at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, she could truthfully say she’d taken herself out to dinner with some of the money her aunt sent her, and she’d enjoyed herself thoroughly.

Judging by how well she was doing, Charlotte decided she wouldn’t mention the sanatorium, nor the car accident immediately following, requiring a quick return to the same hospital—talk about irony—to set and cast her broken right leg. Her aunt worried enough over her; no need to justify her fears. She’d only rush all the way out to Cincinnati and drag Charlotte back home to Wisconsin. No need for that. Not yet, in any event, Charlotte thought with a wry chuckle.

The waiter reappeared, bearing her drinks on a silver platter; a glass of white wine, a glass of ice, and a tiny bottle of Perrier.

Oh, how lovely, she murmured as he set the items down before her with a grand flourish.

He straightened and stood at attention. Are you ready to order, Madame?

She hesitated, staring with confusion at the menu.

To her surprise, the waiter gazed kindly at her and a sudden welling of tears rose up in her eyes. She saw a real human being, not the crisply efficient waiter who’d been tending to her earlier. Did he perhaps pity her, recognize her vulnerability?

I’ll give you some more time.

The moment his back turned, she reached discreetly into her handbag and plucked out the prescription bottle of Paxil. She popped a pink, round pill into her mouth and washed it down with a swallow of wine. There. She could also truthfully say she was taking her meds.

From across the room, she caught her waiter’s eye. He nodded at her, and she smiled with pleasure. He returned to her table, and she giggled as he performed a quick dance step. Wow, are you talented.

He smiled modestly. "I’m thinking of trying out for Dancing with the Stars."

She beamed at him. She wasn’t the only one with dreams yet unfulfilled. I hope you get on the show.

In the meantime, he said, assuming his previous grave demeanor. What may I bring you?

She snapped the menu shut. I’d like the shrimp and lobster fettuccine, please.

Salad?

No, thank you.

She settled back to wait. She’d arrived at seven-thirty, and although the restaurant still appeared full, it’d just reached the crisis point a popular restaurant attains, even on a Sunday evening. Each table filled, but with pockets of empty tables growing larger as happy, contented diners drifted out to engage in the remainder of their evening, it’d reached its tipping point.

Into this growing island of empty tables, the host escorted a distinguished yet handsome gentleman her way, and her breath caught. He was too handsome, too attractive, too affluent, to be dining alone. Yet, he sat very much by himself, without the benefit of company.

What was it about people eating alone that made them appear so much more unbearably lonely than other people under normal circumstances? Also clearly unaccustomed to eating by himself, he didn’t think to bring a book, to make it look as if it were his choice to eat a solitary meal in an elegant restaurant on a Sunday evening.

Keeping her face directed toward the candlelight, she watched through hooded eyelids as the man removed his trench coat and sat down at the booth directly opposite to her. He was, she noticed, beautifully dressed, in a wool suit, a Brooks Brothers crisp button-down shirt, and a bright red tie. What a handsome man.

Red tie. Hmm, that looks familiar. Where did I see a red tie?

If he were to lift his eyes, they’d see each other across the distant expanse separating them. A frisson of fear shot up her spine. Despite the man’s obvious attractiveness, she did not desire a meeting. Save for her interactions with her waiter, she secretly loathed the idea of making human contact this evening.

She forced a smile as her waiter appeared, bearing her dinner on a gleaming silver tray. She hadn’t eaten a bite of food all day long, and her belly rumbled with hunger. How did she manage to go without food all day? Oh, right, she’d been in the hospital all day long, waiting to be discharged, and as it turned out, she’d been too upset to eat.

The aroma of melted parmesan cheese and cream sauce assailed her nostrils, and she plunged her fork into the bowl. She twirled the noodles around the prongs, twirling up bits of lobster and shrimp, and popped the forkful of food into her mouth.

Oh, my God. How delicious.

She stuck the fork back into the bowl and glanced up.

Dangerous eyes. Oh, you’re making dangerous eyes.

She gazed directly into the man’s eyes.

She started in surprise. He sat quietly, his menu face down on the table. He’d been watching her. Why? What must he be thinking?

Feeling strangely guilty, as if she’d been caught doing something naughty, she smiled, abashed, and ducked her head. She glanced up again to notice him still gazing at her, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She turned her face away, embarrassed. When she cast her gaze, half-fearfully, back at him, he was placing his order. He turned his head to his left to speak to the waiter, and she studied his profile. And that’s when, with a sudden thunderclap of understanding, it struck her.

They’d shared a taxicab home from the hospital. He paid her fare, even though her stop-off was further away than his.

She’d left the hospital—for the second time—just a few hours earlier. How could she fail to recognize the man who’d shared a cab back to the city with her?

No mistaking that strong chin, the aquiline nose. And handsome, in that rugged, worn-down-at-the-corners kind of features a man acquires as he approaches his forties. Really, to be honest, he was gorgeous. How could she fail to recognize him the moment she saw him?

Well, it’d been dark in the cab, and besides, she’d been upset and feeling very sorry for herself. They’d engaged in cursory conversation, of course, the polite chitchat of strangers. Because it was the obvious and easy thing to talk about, he asked how she broke her leg. She told him she’d just gotten it set into a cast, but she left out the part about the taxicab accident that caused the broken leg. She knew she must’ve appeared close-mouthed concerning her condition, and he’d been discreet enough not to pry. She’d shared nothing, as a matter of fact, and she certainly didn’t explain the reason why she’d been in a cab in the first place—her release from the sanatorium.

And he told her, what? What did he tell her?

The waiter left. This time, the man kept his gaze studiously on the linen tablecloth. While he pretended not to notice her, she studied him closely. God, he was such an attractive man.

Perhaps this man was forty, but it was hard to say. In the ambient lighting, the distinguished yet handsome gentleman seated opposite to her could either pass for forty or perhaps even fifty, but he carried himself with the build of a much-younger man. And in this ambient, generous lighting, she knew instinctively how she appeared to him. She appeared young, which at twenty-eight, she knew technically was true, but which in her heart seemed an utter falsehood. She felt old. Ancient. But she knew she looked young and pretty, in the artless, attractive way young women appear to distinguished yet handsome older men. And she also appeared healthy. Which was, quite frankly, an amazing lie, but then again, the lighting was so very good.

Then she recalled a snippet of their earlier conversation. He’d been to the hospital, to the emergency room, to check in on an old friend of his. Had the old friend been ill? No, that didn’t sound right. Then it hit her; the old friend—a Judge, she recalled—was at the emergency room with his wife. Apparently, she’d collapsed during dinner. The doctors thought it might be a stroke. That’s right, now she remembered. He was with the friend who was with his wife.

What an amazing thing, what an amazing coincidence, finding themselves in the same restaurant at almost the same time, eating dinner. If she knew him better, if she were more comfortable with the idea, she might have asked him to join her. Then again, she’d nearly finished her meal.

She lifted her hand to signal for the waiter, but before she could fully extend her fingers, the restaurant’s sommelier approached. He carried a bottle of white wine and two wine glasses. The label looked expensive, and she reared back in horror as he approached her table.

There must be some mistake, she murmured, gazing apprehensively at the bottle as the sommelier placed it onto the linen-covered table. I didn’t order a bottle. I ordered only a glass.

Madame, the sommelier said, the gentleman at the next table ordered this for you.

Oh.

May I open the bottle, Madame? The sommelier proffered the cork end of the bottle. A hot flush radiated through her body.

Oh, my.

She forced her gaze upwards and into the eyes of the distinguished-yet-handsome gentleman seated across from her; a gentleman who was beautifully dressed and possibly in his early fifties but more likely in his mid-forties, depending on the ambient lighting, and who gazed right back at her with a look of quiet meaning.

Two

How is it a pretty girl like you is dining alone here on a Sunday evening?

Charlotte squinted up at him and winced. Shortly after the bottle of wine arrived, she’d gestured for the man to come to her table. He walked to her table but remained standing. Why wouldn’t he sit?

He grinned. That’s quite a line, isn’t it?

Yes, indeed, it is.

They laughed, and a little of the tension hovering in the air dissipated. I don’t recall if I introduced myself to you in the taxicab, but I’m Henry Rutherford. Still standing, he reached across the table to shake her hand.

With some difficulty, due to the crutches she’d propped up against the right side of the table, she extended her hand. Charlotte Perry.

Clumsily, he half-grabbed her fingers and squeezed them. Poor man. A successful businessman, as he no doubt was, must have been expecting a full-palmed handshake. Instead, here she sat, twit of the world, offering him a limp, flaccid hand. Thoroughly shameful. Didn’t people judge others by the firmness and quality of their handshakes? Didn’t it mean something awful, terrible even, when a person couldn’t give another human being a full-bodied handshake? Oh, she was ashamed of herself all right, ashamed.

But then a curious thing happened. Henry stopped squeezing her fingers. He flicked a quick glance at her, at the crutches, then twisted his hand around in such a way he held her fingers in his. He drew her hand in a little closer, then bent down and gently kissed the top of it. Just like a gentleman in Victorian times would do.

Tears swam in her eyes as he finally released her. She returned her hand firmly to her lap.

He stood there for another moment, then cleared his throat. May I sit down?

Oh yes, yes, of course, she said with a gasp, blinking back the tears. Please, sit down.

Pleased to meet you, Miss Perry. For the second time this evening.

The same here, Mr. Rutherford. And thank you.

He cocked his head, not understanding.

Thank you, she repeated, gesturing at the bottle of wine and the wine glasses. For all this. And I know I said it back in the cab but thank you again for covering the fare.

He nodded gravely. Entirely my pleasure.

She reached forward with a trembling hand, picked up her wine glass, and sipped.

She thought she’d escaped detection. She thought she’d managed to conceal her emotions, but Mr. Rutherford—Henry, rather—studied her for a moment. He took note, he appeared to perform an internal calculation, and he pitied.

He must know something about hurt, yes, surely, he must know.

So, she said with a cautious smile. What brings you here on a Sunday evening? When you finished your work at the office, did you feel like sitting down to a nice, comforting meal?

A waiter appeared, holding Henry’s dinner on a sterling silver platter. He’d ordered the same thing she had, the seafood Alfredo. As the waiter set the plate down in front of him, Henry flashed her a sheepish smile. What can I say? It looked good.

You’ll like it. It’s delicious.

He took up a forkful of fettuccine and speared it into his mouth. Mmmm, this is good. He swallowed, then dabbed at his mouth. I guess the short answer is, I didn’t feel like heating anything up for dinner tonight. He looked suddenly rueful. Especially after leaving the hospital.

I can relate to that.

Of course. He smiled. And I’m very fortunate you decided not to stay home tonight, too. He paused a moment, as if considering his words, then continued, I enjoyed our conversation in the taxi. I’m glad I got the chance to talk to you again.

Charlotte forced herself to concentrate on the glass of white wine. She could no longer pretend she didn’t feel any attraction for him. He spoke with such intimacy in his voice, such subtlety, she shivered inwardly as the waves of his desire wafted across the table, caressing her cheeks. No, she wasn’t imagining it, as she kept staring into his bright green eyes. What in the world was this handsome, charming man doing all alone? Her gaze cut discreetly to his left hand. No, sure enough, no ring on the ring finger, and no indentation of a wedding band hastily removed prior to visiting her table. No, the man was certainly unmarried. But why? Surely, he didn’t belong to the ranks of aging Lotharios, men who imagined themselves as modern-day James Bonds, wooing and bedding women and then dumping them?

She recalled something a law school friend of hers once said about those kinds of men, the ones who liked to love ‘em and leave ‘em. What would her dear friend Anne Marie say about the handsome-yet-unattached Henry Rutherford? Would Anne Marie cast Henry in that category? How else to explain his so-obvious unmarried state?

As she ruminated, Henry quietly ate his dinner, watching her through hooded eyelids.

She sighed and pushed her nearly full wine glass away.

Now it’s my turn, he said in a low voice. What made you decide to brave the bitter cold and venture out here tonight?

Hm, she mused, pensive. It’s kind of complicated, but I did seriously consider ordering Chinese take-out.

Eating Chinese take-out is fun only if you have someone to share it with.

She stirred uncomfortably in her seat. Again, she sensed the subtle undercurrent of desire, of meaning in his voice. Surely, he knew he was flirting?

Not that she minded, oh no.

And yet, she sensed a pressing need to share with him a little more of her history. She hadn’t told anyone, not even her beloved aunt. But why unload all her troubles on this nice man? In a word, because she liked him. And she wanted to be honest with him. Or as honest as she dared. I felt too lonely to order take-out, she admitted. I wanted to be with other humans.

Yes.

Growing brave, she inhaled and plunged in. I’d been feeling kind of down lately. Oh, what the hell. I was depressed. Really, really depressed.

He traced his finger along the rim of the wine glass. We all feel low from time to time, but then we get better.

I used to think that too. But I just couldn’t get rid of the bad feelings, you know? Her voice sounded shaky, uneven. She wondered if he really understood how bad she’d felt. A heavy blanket of weariness weighed down upon her shoulders. She’d felt utterly useless.

Yeah, I can understand that.

I’m not saying this to brag, but my folks brought me up with a good work ethic. Hardly anything keeps me from working hard.

His green eyes gleamed. I’m glad to hear that.

But one morning, I just, I simply could not drag myself out of bed. She smiled bleakly. I shut off the alarm and slept for another eight hours. Ended up sleeping straight through my shift at Starbucks.

A moment’s uneasiness, then his features cleared. You were exhausted. You needed the extra sleep.

I got so lonely. Her voice hitched. I just felt so useless and completely unnecessary to the world.

Henry gazed at her fully for a long moment, then murmured, I see.

When I got up, when I finally crawled out of bed, I called the suicide hotline, and they suggested I admit myself.

To a hospital?

T-t-to a sanatorium.

Henry studied her with astonishment. You didn’t really plan on killing yourself, did you?

No, but I didn’t know who else to call.

No family?

She shook her head, a definite negative.

That’s so sad.

So, I admitted myself, she continued, and stayed there for two weeks.

Did it help?

Yes, oh yes. The doctor put me on an antidepressant.

Okay, so what about these? he asked, gesturing at the crutches. Did you break your leg during your convalescence?

She laughed. Oh, those. I didn’t tell you this in the taxi. I guess I was a little too embarrassed to say anything about it. On the way home from the sanatorium, my taxi got sideswiped by a bus.

You know, Henry said softly, I thought there was something you weren’t telling me.

So, I ended right back in the same hospital I just got discharged from, only this time I’m in the emergency room. She laughed helplessly. Nothing else to do but laugh. I think someone’s trying to tell me I’m not ready to go home yet.

Henry grinned. Evidently.

Their eyes met. Heat flamed in his gaze. He desired her, but, really, how interested could a man like him be in a nut case like her? She reflected on it and decided she’d misread him. He was just being nice, a nice, kind man. He’d done her an enormous favor already by paying her all this attention. She certainly appreciated it, but his regard would go no further than this table.

And that was okay, she realized, as she gazed into his beautiful green eyes. More than okay. She’d been released from the hospital less than twenty-four hours ago and already an attractive man was paying attention to her. It was okay.

She would be just fine.

The waiter swooped in. Would Madame care for a coffee, or to peruse our dessert menu?

I think you should have dessert, Henry said with full authority.

All right then, she agreed. I will. Er, rather, I shall.

Good grammar.

Anything, anything, to delay the end of the meal, when they would shake hands once again and go their separate ways. She wanted to linger over coffee, continue this conversation with the handsome, green-eyed man. Yes, she’d sip coffee until midnight, if that’s what it took.

Three

Henry forked up the last of the crème brulèe and sat back with an expansive air. So, tell me, when did you graduate from law school?

Charlotte set down her coffee cup. This past May.

And you still don’t have a real lawyer-type job yet?

No, she said, ducking her head with embarrassment.

It’s not your fault, he grumbled. Your school’s placement department isn’t doing its job.

She smiled faintly. In all fairness, some of my former classmates are already working as first-year associates at some of the ivory tower law firms. But they did the smart thing and clerked during the summer breaks between our first and second years of school.

You didn’t?

She gazed steadily at him. I really regret missing out on those clerking opportunities, but I went home to Wisconsin during the summer, took care of my folks. She smiled sadly. Truth be told, I couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing my folks, but I did pay for my decision.

How so?

I jerk lattés for a living, while my well-heeled law school friends get to practice law.

That must be kind of humiliating, Henry said softly. Serving your law school friends their pricey drinks.

Yes, she admitted. It is.

He studied her for a long moment as she sat back in an agony of misery.

God, he must think I’m the most pathetic girl on the face of the planet.

It’s funny, you know, talking about the ivory tower law firms. I’m a partner at one.

Oh? Which one?

Paxton & Seasongood.

She smiled. That’s one of the tonier law firms, too.

If you say so, he murmured, and then he fell silent once again.

She sipped her coffee, wondering if it hadn’t been a mistake after all, to open up so much about her problems. It was one thing to confide in someone, and something else entirely to lay her whole, pitiful history bare. But if Mr. Rutherford was in any way put off by her sad stories, he certainly didn’t seem concerned. Judging by his smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, he appeared to be in really good spirits as he finished off the last dregs of his coffee and signaled for the bill.

She reached for her handbag. Yes, time to end the meal and part ways. He’d revived her spirits and helped her to realize she really did have a future. And all it took was the comforting attention of a handsome man. Really, she couldn’t ask for anything more. He’d done so much for her already.

When the bill arrived, over Charlotte’s protestations, Henry paid hers as well as his own.

Oh, you don’t need to do that, she murmured.

Henry flashed her a sly smile. It’s my pleasure.

Thank you so much, Mr. Rutherford.

Henry.

Thank you so much, Henry.

A simple enough exchange, yet, suffused with the glow of the delicious meal and the bottle of wine, Charlotte sensed an undercurrent of tension flowing below the surface of their polite banter.

Henry jumped to his feet and hurried to her side. Holding her right hand firmly in his, he pulled her up. As she attempted to stand, she wobbled and fell into his arms. He grabbed her around the waist. Easy there.

Oof! I’m so clumsy. She ducked her head. Tremendous heat darted across her cheeks, and she didn’t want him to see her blushing at the sensation of being in such close proximity. If she wanted to, she could reach forward and place her hands on his chest.

If she wanted to.

Tentatively, she lifted her eyes and gazed into his. Bright green eyes gazed back. She could stare into those eyes forever.

At last, he released her. She reached for her crutches. He retrieved her coat, helped her into it. Once she’d bundled herself up, he escorted her out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk where the bitterly cold night air assailed them.

Charlotte opened her mouth to ask how he would get her home, when she noticed a limousine parked at the curb. Instinctively, she realized it belonged to Henry. Oh, goodie, she exclaimed with mock gravity. A limousine, and not another taxi. Wonderful. I don’t think I could bear another taxi-ride tonight.

That’s exactly what I thought, Henry said, holding the door open for her.

A uniformed chauffeur hurried over to assist Charlotte with her crutches while Henry helped her ease inside the sleek, elegant car.

Once safely ensconced, Henry slid into the seat beside her. When I got home this evening, I realized I’d be drinking, so I asked Paul to drive me here. And now, we’re taking you home.

I hope, she said with a nervous smile, as the limousine motored away from the curb, I’m not taking you too far out of your way.

Oh no, not at all. I live at Adams Landing.

That’s on the river, right?

Yeah. He flashed her a roguish smile. I own the penthouse suite.

Wow.