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Since when had she ever noticed a man’s thighs? What was he doing to her?
“I like to make an entrance,” she said, doing a very lopsided curtsy in an attempt to defuse the tension. All she really succeeded in doing was making herself look like a bit of an ass. That seemed to be her specialty. But it didn’t matter really. She just kept smiling. If she didn’t care, no one else seemed to. No one else seemed to notice how hard things were, how awkward she felt, if she didn’t.
She straightened and smiled, hoping she didn’t blush.
“You certainly do that.” He walked toward her, the easy grace in his movements filling her with one part envy and nine parts desire. He really was gorgeous.
“Ha. Yeah. My blessing and my curse.”
He put his hand on her lower back and heat fired through her from that point to the rest of her body. He propelled her forward into the dining room and she was afraid she might wobble again. Not because she was that big of a klutz, not usually, but because his touch was making her limbs feel rubbery.
She sucked in a breath when she saw the table. It was laid out special—gorgeous platters with appetizers and there were candles. It was very real, suddenly. Like an actual date, which she knew it wasn’t.
And she shouldn’t let it make her feel any kind of pressure. He wasn’t interested in her that way, and that was fine with her. She didn’t have the time or inclination for it.
“This looks great,” she said, too brightly.
He pulled her chair out for her and looked at her, waiting for her. She just stared.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
“Oh, uh…yes. I’m not used to men pulling my chair out for me.”
“Then you need to associate with better men.”
“Or maybe find men to associate with in general.”
“I imagine your dating life is somewhat hobbled by recent developments.”
“Yeah, recent developments. That’s what’s hobbled my dating life.” She sat down and he abandoned his post at her chair and went to sit across from her. She took a salmon roll off the platter and put it onto her plate, her stomach growling, reminding her it was late for dinner. “So,” she said, “you want to talk?”
“We need to talk. I’m not sure I particularly want to talk. But we need a plan. If we’re going to be a couple, to both child services and the media we need to know about each other.”
“And how do you propose we get to know each other?” she asked, taking a bite of the sushi.
“I’m not proposing we get to know each other. I’m proposing we learn things about each other. The two are different.”
“Less involved, I suppose,” she said.
“Much.” He took a roll off the platter with a pair of chopsticks. Effortless for him, as ever. “Where are you from?”
“Silver Creek. Oregon. Small, bit of a nothing town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone knows you. The entire population is kind of like your extended family.”
“Which is why you moved.”
“Yes. To somewhere that didn’t have people with…expectations.” Expectations of her failure. Of her continuing to drift through life without a goal, without any success. “And you, where are you from?”
“Rome originally. Then moved to Los Angeles. And then…when my mother died,” he said, his voice too smooth, too controlled, as if he was saying words he’d rehearsed to perfection, “I went into foster care. I spent a few years with different families before the Colsons adopted me at fourteen.”
“I could have found all that out by reading a bio online somewhere.”
“But had you read one?”
“No.”
“So, I still had to tell you.”
“Fine, you did. What else do I need to know?” she asked.
He slid two covered plates over from the edge of the table and placed one in front of her, and one in front of himself. She uncovered it and took a moment to appreciate the tantalizing look and smell of the fish dish before directing her focus back to Dante.
“My sign?” he asked, his tone dry.
She laughed. “I don’t even know my own sign. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
