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She should go. She was grateful that he’d covered for her with Mr. Dobson. She was also relieved he was willing to keep dealing with her about the fund-raiser and construction project. It wouldn’t look good if Cole announced he needed a different contact person at Pershing. And she had twenty questions about what he had to say—who wouldn’t?
Dinner? Really?
Still, it wasn’t as if they were having an assignation. As she’d told her mother, it was a business meeting. Pure business. The kiss last time notwithstanding. A blip on the radar never, ever to be repeated
.
And now that Cole had agreed to the fund-raiser, she’d begun flirting with another idea—that is, until the storage room incident...
Donna continued to regard her. “Honey, trust me, I’m acquainted with the attractiveness of professional athletes.”
Marisa knew they were no longer talking only about Cole. They’d both been burned long ago by another man chasing sports fame, except he’d been a baseball player. “This is purely business, believe me.”
Marisa wished she could wholeheartedly believe it herself. So she and Cole had shared a kiss. Given the unusual circumstances—her panic and his need to reassure and, uh, comfort—they had an excuse. One that her mother didn’t need to hear.
As her mother searched her expression, Marisa stuck to her best Girl Scout face and walked back to the kitchen counter.
Finally, seemingly satisfied—or not—Donna sighed. “We should find time to write that dude book together. Meanwhile, let’s finish this lasagna, and I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
* * *
“What’s this about, Cole?”
“Dinner. What else?” He looked bemusedly at the woman sitting to his left—the one who had bedeviled more of his nights and days than he cared to count. He’d chosen Welsdale’s chicest restaurant, Bayart’s on Creek Road, and she’d proposed meeting him there—much to his chagrin. He’d gone along with her suggestion, even though he saw through it as the defensive move it was, because he knew he was still treading on fragile ground with Marisa. He’d ordered a bottle of Merlot, and the waiter had already poured their wine.
Tonight she was in a geometric-print wrap dress that left no curve untouched. My God, the woman is set on torturing me.
“I mean the subtext.”
He raised his gaze to her eyes. “Subtext? You were always a stellar student in English.”
“And you spent your time in the last row, goofing around.”
“Charlotte Brontë wasn’t my thing.”
“She was about the only female who wasn’t.”
“She was dead.”
“Don’t let that stop you.”
He grinned. “That’s what I discovered I liked about you, Danieli. You’re able to serve it up straight when you want to. Back then, and now.”
“I’m a teacher. It’s a survival skill.”
“I liked you better than you think, you know.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Right up there with being someone’s sixth favorite teacher.”
He laughed because he liked this more uninhibited Marisa—one who felt free to speak her mind. “Still feeling the effect of your confession last time? You’re letting it rip. It’s—” he let his voice dip “—enticing.”
She got an adorable little pucker in her brow and toyed with the stem of her wineglass. “It wasn’t intended to be, but why am I not surprised you took it that way?”
“I really did like you,” he insisted.
“You’re just saying that,” she demurred.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened in the storage room?” It was safer than focusing on the wineglass in her hand and imagining her fingers on him.
