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“So far,” I say casually, looking at my plate on purpose so she won’t think I’m pressuring her in any way.
But when I look up casually a moment later, I catch her looking down at her own food with something like hope on her face.
Our conversation flows easily, and the food goes down well as it always does, but this is only the starter course for me.
The real main course is coming up later, and I can barely wait to get started. Unfortunately, I find myself wolfing down the food too fast, eventually setting my knife and fork aside when I’m only two-thirds of the way through the plate to make myself stop.
I need room for dessert.
But more than that, I need room to be fit and athletic.
I have a feeling I’m going to need some stamina tonight. Of course, a bit of lean meat will help with that, but filling up on everything else would be a mistake.
At my age – as I put it earlier – I know that a full stomach will be a mood killer. But, for her, it’s probably better. She is young and fit alright.
God, she’s going to give me a run for my money, isn’t she?
“Is the dessert really that good?” Alana asks, glancing at my plate pointedly.
“I think it will be,” I say, smiling. “I don’t know what it will be like yet, but I’m guessing.”
And this time, she does catch the meaning of my words because a flush spreads over her cheeks, and she looks down at her plate shyly.
Or, so I think. Her knife and fork fall with a clatter and she clasps her hands together over the plate. Her gaze meets mine again with a somehow innocent and yet knowing smile.
“I think I’d better save room, too,” she says with a sassy tone and a wink.
I clear my throat and shift my chair back from the table.
“How about I tell Tom to let the dessert chill, so we can have it later?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Alana replies without a trace of hesitation.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Alana
I follow Finlay up the impressive staircase from the main hall, admiring the paintings, statues, and vases that line the walls as we go. Not for long, though, because Finlay can’t get up the stairs and along the corridor fast enough, leading me right to a large wooden door that looks just as old as the rest of the house.
He pauses for a moment, looking at me, and then draws my hand to his lips for a kiss. The gesture takes my breath, and before I can recover, he opens the door and pulls me inside, leading me right to the center of what must be the estate’s master bedroom.
It’s a large room, big enough to hold at least three of my bedrooms at home and decorated in an understated yet still somehow grand fashion. Everything is dark wood, from the dresser to the large four-poster bed to the writing desk in the corner, complete with dozens of different-sized drawers to the stand-alone wardrobe.
The bed, which my gaze can’t stop straying back to, is fitted out in what looks like fresh and clean satin sheets in a dark hue, edged with white piping for contrast.
Everything looks expensive, old, and stately. Even though I don’t really think of him that way, it suits Finlay perfectly.
He’s at home here – in his element.
He steps back for a moment, leaving me, and when he comes back, the stone fireplace holds the beginnings of a crackling fire. I feel its warmth wash over my skin, heating what might otherwise be a cold room.
Finlay joins me in the center of the room again. I haven’t moved, too busy looking around to think about moving.
He takes my arms in his hands and then steps back once, letting his fingers slide down my skin to entwine with my own, and looks me up and down as if appraising me. I squirm under the attention.
“You are truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says in a low voice, and all the awkwardness melts away.
At the back of the room is a large window, one that must have been added and enlarged in more modern times – there is nothing antique about the thick glass and the wide view, unobscured by an ornamental wooden window frame I might expect from the rest of the décor.
