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"Well, there you go." He smiles, and those dimples melt me even further. "I'll come get you at...what, seven? Might be closer to seven-thirty, since I'm running behind now."
Before I can feel guilty, he lays a hand lightly on my forearm. "And I'm glad that you're the reason, Delia. I like you."
"I like you too," I say inadequately. "Seven-thirty is fine. Is this a dress-up place?"
He shrugs one shoulder. "The Folly? Not necessarily. Lots of people do, but lots of them just go as-is after a day on the lake, too. You'll see people in shorts and swim cover-ups as well as people in suits and cocktail attire. You can choose."
"I'll wear a dress."
That smile goes incandescent. "I'd like to see you in a dress." His eyes go further. They say he'd like to see me out of a dress, and maybe this evening will end the way I hope it will.
By 7:20 I'm a ball of nerves, waiting on the front porch in my favorite of the dresses I brought with me, a not-too-dressy wrap-bodice thing that skims over my curves and makes the most of my cleavage without shoving it in anybody's face. The deep plum color makes my cheeks and eyes glow. My black high-heeled sandals make my legs look longer. I've curled my hair and left it loose on my shoulders, and I feel pretty.
When Beck pulls up in a sparkling-clean red pickup, I see I've chosen well in terms of attire. He's wearing a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display those strong forearms, dusted with light hair, and gray chinos that make his butt look delicious. In fact, all of him looks delicious.
He walks up to the porch, still smiling. "So. Seafood, right?"
I nod. He takes my hand to support me down the three wooden steps, and I don't really need the help but it feels so nice to be taken care of.
It's starting to dawn on me what's wrong with my work in progress, and it's interesting to note that it took a modern man to show me that Lord Hugh isn't really tender with Hermione. Polite, yes, but all men of that social station would have had good manners with the fairer sex (as they would have called it). He isn't especially thoughtful of her. That doesn't bode well for their romance.
I come back to the present to find myself ensconced in the front seat of his pickup and Beck holding the seatbelt for me. "I said, are you ready?" he asks patiently.
I take the seatbelt latch and fasten it. "Yes. Thank you. I'm sorry, I was thinking that I've just now found a solution to something that's been bothering me for some weeks now."
He gets in on the driver's side. "Oh? Tell me about it."
So I do. "So...okay, and let me start by warning you that I don't tolerate guys making fun of my career...I write romance novels. Historical ones. Like Regency England ones, where there's lots of emotion and very little smut."
"Really?" he says, with interest (but not creepy interest). "My mom loves those things. I think she owns every Barbara Cartland novel ever published. I used to read them sometimes if I was home sick from school."
I snort out a laugh. "I can't picture that."
He shrugs one shoulder. "Well, I can't say I got much out of the clothing description, but they're weirdly addictive books. The thing that bugged me is that her heroines usually goes completely incoherent when they're admitting they love their handsome rakes--what's a rake, really, anyway? I mean, it always sounds to me like he's just a guy who likes women."
I make a face. "In that social setting, it would really mean that he would have had sex with girlfriends and then maybe dump them and leave them hanging, which would have been terrible for the single ones, especially the ones who got pregnant as a result. I don't think Lady Barbara wrote any really despicable rakes, though. Not like, say, Edward Rochester and his so-called ward Adèle, who was the daughter of his opera singer lover."
"What?"
I give him a pitying look. We'd been getting on so well. "In Jane Eyre."
"Haven't read it."
"Oh." I shrug, too, recalibrating. "I think Rochester's a patronizing jerk, anyway. Never mind."
We pull up at Love Lake's main pier and park on the gravel. Beck comes around to my side and helps me down from the truck. When I land, I stumble a little and bump into his chest. Oops. #sorrynotsorry.
I'm full of anticipation.
