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at at home. I’ve barely seen your mother all week. And I’ll call the congressman on my cell while I drive.” He gathered up his stuff. “Morgan will bring you up to speed. Tonight’s yours. But tomorrow, I’ll need you. All day long. So clear your calendar.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’ll call you in the morning when I’m heading back into the city.” Monty grabbed his coat, glanced back at them as he headed toward the door. “O’Hara’s outside?”
“In a car across the street,” Morgan supplied. “I promised you I wouldn’t go anywhere without my bodyguard and I haven’t.”
“Good girl. Anyway, I’ll stop by his car on my way out, tell him to take the night off. I doubt you’ll be needing his services before morning.” Monty waved as he walked out. “See you.”
The door shut behind him.
Morgan’s gaze darted to Lane’s, color tingeing her cheeks. “I never said anything about spending the night.”
“I know.” Lane came over and tipped her chin up. “But you have to admit, it’s a good idea.” He kissed her, then raised his head, studied her expression. “Unless you don’t want to.”
She smiled, and for a moment she felt giddy, happy. In contrast to the past day’s gravity, it was like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders, however temporarily.
“Don’t want to,” she repeated. “Funny, that doesn’t seem to be a phrase I’d associate with whatever’s going on between us.”
“Good point.” Lane kissed her again, this time pulling her close, gliding his fingers through her hair. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you today,” he murmured when the kiss finally ended.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. This is all new to me.”
“I know.” Morgan rested her forehead against his sweater. “And it’s scary to me.”
“I know.” Lane was quiet for a moment. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Plus, I want to hear about what freaked you out enough to race over here to see Monty.”
“And I want to discuss those color prints you made of Arthur, and their possible implications—the gist of which Monty just laid out for me and now plans to lay out for Arthur. That’s why he’s calling him, and why I’m preparing for fireworks.”
“Wow.” Lane loosened his grip around her waist. “You have had a hectic day. Tell you what. I’ll open a bottle of wine and get a fire going. You grab some blankets from the hall closet and join me in the living room. We can unwind, and talk.” A frown. “Unfortunately, my fridge is pretty empty.”
“Do you have bread?”
“Sure.”
“How about peanut butter and jelly?”
“Yup. Standard fare.”
“Cans of soup?”
“Better—I have a quart of Rhoda’s chicken soup that I picked up yesterday for when I got home tonight.”
“Perfect. You take care of the ambience. I’ll do dinner. It’ll be a gourmet feast of PB and J and homemade soup. What could be better?”
“At the moment, I can’t think of a single thing.”
A HALF HOUR later they were sprawled on blankets in front of the fire, munching on sandwiches, spooning up soup, sipping wine, and talking.
Lane listened intently while Morgan described her surprise package and what it contained.
“Seeing your mother’s note and card—it must have hit you hard,” he surmised.
