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Charlie took one look at Savannah and let out a low wolf whistle. “You look great.”
Her cheeks glowed a rosy red. “I did the best I could under the circumstances.”
“Like I said, you look great.” He walked to her, turned her slowly to inspect her new outfit. “A little loose, but another few weeks and you’ll fill this out perfectly.”
“At the rate I’m gaining weight, it may be too small in a few weeks.” She laughed a little self-consciously.
“Savannah?” he said, hearing the doubt in her voice. “You know you’re beautiful?”
She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He tilted her chin upward, forcing her gaze to his. “You. Are. Beautiful.”
She stared straight into his eyes, her own a little shiny. “Thank you.”
Her lower lip quivered and something shifted inside his chest. Maybe his head too, because he bent to press his lips to hers. Gently because he didn’t want to hurt her. Her busted lip appeared healed, but he didn’t know how sore she still was.
She stood on tiptoe, met his kiss in a sweet caress that had him wanting to take her into his arms and do a lot more than just kiss her lips.
But he kept the kiss soft, kept his hands to himself, and pulled back, smiled down into her confused face, all the while reminding himself he had no right to kiss her.
He shouldn’t be kissing her.
“You always had the most amazing mouth,” he said instead of the apology he should be issuing. He had no rights. He’d done enough damage to Savannah, and yet...
“My mouth always felt pretty amazing when you were kissing it,” she countered, her gaze searching his. She had questions, lots of questions.
Too bad he didn’t have answers. He didn’t. Not for her or himself.
For tonight, he’d just enjoy being in her company. He owed it to her and to himself to not let history repeat itself, but one night of not focusing on all the things he should be doing wasn’t going to change a thing.
He took her hand and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let me take you out to dinner and show you off to the world.”
* * *
Savannah bit her lower lip as she stared at the man sitting across the table from her.
The candlelit table.
What was he doing?
Buying her clothes, taking her to a fabulous restaurant, and having them put at a private, almost romantic, booth.
This wasn’t a romantic meal. He wasn’t wooing her.
They were two people who’d had their chance at being a couple and they’d failed. He didn’t want her and she didn’t want him.
Offering her a piece of bread he’d just sliced from the fresh loaf the waiter had put on the table, he smiled. Really smiled. One that reached his eyes. One that dug dimples into his cheeks. One that set off explosions in her head.
She shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here. They weren’t a couple. They shouldn’t be acting like one.
“Is that what we’re doing?” she asked out loud.
His forehead scrunched as he tried to figure out what she meant.
“Acting like a couple?” she clarified.
Setting the bread back on the wooden cutting board, he considered her question.
