Her dark hair is loose in a shiny cloud, and she’s wearing a sundress that hugs her curves. I wish she wasn’t wearing a cardigan over it so I could see her shoulders—I used to kiss the freckles there and I want to know if they’ve faded over time—but the restaurant’s gone a little overboard on the air conditioning. I want her to be comfortable more than I want to see her shoulders because the fewer excuses she has to get up and walk out on me, the better.
Once I can see her in my peripheral vision, I look up at her and smile before getting to my feet. “Hi, Cara. Thank you for coming.”
She gives me a tight smile and takes her seat before I have a chance to walk around the table and pull her chair out for her. After she’s settled, I sit and then I have to swallow a growl of frustration when the server immediately appears.
I do not want this evening to be rushed.
Cara orders a glass of white wine, and I nod at the carafe to let him know I’ll stick with the water for now. After our server leaves the menus and walks away, she finally turns her attention to me. “We should set some ground rules for this dinner.”
I don’t point out the time for her to negotiate ground rules was before she joined me at the table and ordered a glass of wine. I don’t think she’d appreciate it. “Okay, you go first.”
“Fine.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “This is not a date. I’m here to talk about the house. We’re not going to take any strolls down Memory Lane, stepping in the garbage and potholes along the way.”
I drop my gaze back to the menu again, trying to hide my wince at the unexpected gut punch her words deliver. Garbage and potholes? I know I deserve her anger, but that’s harsh.
“And no flirting,” she says emphatically. My eyebrow quirks because I didn’t see that stipulation coming. “I’m just saying, you’re not going to be able to charm me into making my mother accept your offer.”
“Ah. Understood.” Not necessarily agreed to, but understood.
When the server brings her wine, we order the chicken parm for her and a NY strip steak for me, and I refill my water glass again. My mouth feels inexplicably dry because no matter how firmly she denied it, this feels like I’m finally on a real date with Cara freakin’ Gamble after all these years.
“Tell me about the offer,” she says.
“Did Gin share any details with you?”
“She didn’t bother, since she has no intention of accepting it.”
Because I’m hoping Cara will become my unofficial partner in this transaction, I lay it all out. The offer for more than it’s worth. No contingencies. No inspections. I’ll pay all costs incurred. It’s recklessly generous on my part and as uncomplicated as possible for her mother.
“Essentially, I’ve made her an offer she can’t refuse,” I say in summary.
Cara snorts. “And she’s refusing it.”
“I know our families haven’t always gotten along, but it’s a good offer.”
Rubbing her thumb up and down the stem of her wine glass in a way I find incredibly distracting, Cara thinks about it for a moment and then looks me in the eye. “That’s the part I don’t get, and why I’m not sure I want to push my mother to reconsider her position.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“The offer is too good. I don’t believe for a second that you’re willing to make a bad business deal to restore the one house in the thousands of old New England houses needing restoration that happens to belong to the family your family hates.”
I’d hoped Gin would see the number and jump at it, not looking too closely at my motivation. But now Cara’s involved and she’s going to kick over every rock to see what she can find out.
The one thing she won’t find is the honest reason I’ll do whatever it takes to own the Gamble house. Only two people know. One is me and the other died five years ago.
“Does it really matter?” I ask, careful to keep my tone light despite the rage that sparks any time I think about Marcus Gamble.
“I think it does.” She takes a sip of her wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.
“It’s not necessarily a bad business deal. The increase in value if the house was totally restored and modernized would be significant.” I shrug. “And it’s the one house in the thousands of old New England houses needing restoration that’s in my hometown.”
“Right. How could I forget your close bond with Sumac Falls?”
Sarcasm is practically dripping from her voice, making me smile. “I’m busy and don’t get home often, but it’s still my hometown.”
Her eyes narrow, but before she can challenge how I feel about the town, the server steps up to our table with our meals. It takes a few minutes to get everything settled, and Cara declines another glass of wine. I pour her a glass of water from the carafe while she snaps her napkin open and lays it across her lap. Then we take the first few bites of our food while my mind works, trying to determine the next step in my plan. But I’m having trouble focusing on the house at the moment.
Now that Cara has a rather impressive plateful of chicken parm in front of her, I think she’s probably less likely to storm out if I ask her the question I’ve been struggling not to ask since she walked through the door. Actually, since my visit to Pampered Pets, if I’m being honest.
