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I laugh at the fact that he uses her full name to clarify the name of the woman I kissed. “I did.”
“Did she kiss you back?”
A full laugh escapes me. “Damn right she did.”
He steps back to button his suit jacket. “Jesus, James, this is a big step for you two. I’m talking huge.”
I nod. “It is. Dinner is another big step, so get the hell out of my face so I can take care of that.”
He brushes a hand over my lapel. “Don’t make those shitty tacos you think you’re famous for. Cook something she likes.”
I swat his hand away. “Sinclair loves those tacos.”
“No one does.” He smiles. “Cook her a dinner she’ll remember forever, Jameson, because tonight might just be a night she’ll never forget.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sinclair
I glance at the chair in the corner of my room. Every item of clothing I brought to the penthouse is piled there.
That’s because I’ve spent the last hour trying on one outfit after another.
I finally settled on what I’m wearing now.
It’s a white V-neck T-shirt and a black leather pencil skirt.
I opted for a white bra underneath the shirt and matching lace panties.
I think I look sophisticated yet understated.
I’m wearing red heels. I take one last spin to look at my reflection in the full length mirror in my room. I look good. I definitely look much better than I feel.
I’m nervous in a way that I haven’t been in a very long time.
I typically feel a sense of anticipation whenever I’m headed on a date with a new guy, but this is different.
This is dinner here with Jameson.
We’re going to be alone and only feet from a bed at all times.
Just as I take a step to leave the room, Dudley perks up from where he’s been resting on the corner of my bed.
He lets out a high-pitched bark before he takes a flying leap to the floor. Then he’s out the door and down the hallway.
I know why.
I can hear keys dropping on the foyer table and the unmistakable scuff of dress shoes against the floor.
My date for the evening is home.
I suck in a deep breath and start toward the bedroom door.
“A true gentleman always puts a lot of thought into buying flowers.” Jameson holds tight to the stems of a lot of daisies. “I had to go to three shops to get enough daisies for you.”
I don’t bother to count how many are gripped in his palm, but I can tell it’s more than a dozen or two. There have to be at least forty flowers.
“I got forty-two,” he says as he offers them to me. “You once told me that forty-two flowers are the perfect number.”
I take them in both hands, bringing them to my nose to inhale their fragrance. “I did?”
“We were thirteen,” he tells me, placing a paper shopping bag on the table next to his keys. “We were standing outside a flower shop on Fifth Avenue. You counted the flowers in one of the bouquets in the window. There were forty-two. You said it was the perfect number.”
I vaguely remember that, but not with the same detail he does.
“Daisies used to be your favorite.” He slides the tip of his index finger over a petal. “Are they still?”
I nod. “They are.”
It’s been years since anyone has given me daisies. Berk and Keats always send me a bouquet on my birthday, but that’s usually a mix of beautiful blossoms with a daisy or two included.
“I’ll put these in water,” I whisper.
“I’ll get started on dinner.” Jameson grabs the twine handles of the shopping bag. “Lamb is on the menu, and risotto.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
His finger jumps to my chin to trail toward my bottom lip. “You were expecting tacos, weren’t you?”
An uncontrollable laugh escapes me because he’s right. “I might have been.”
“I want to spoil you.” He smiles softly. “It’ll take some time to get dinner ready, but it will be worth it. I promise. Good things take time.”
I stare into his eyes. “Good things do take time.”
“I bought a bottle of red wine.” He chuckles. “It’s the same wine you had the other night with Molly.”
I glance down at the bag to see an array of items, including a loaf of bread, some lettuce, and the wine. “You thought of everything.”
“I want this night to be special.”
The emotion in his voice lures my gaze back to meet his. I see the same tenderness in his eyes that used to be there whenever I needed reassurance or a soft spot to fall when life challenged me.
“I feel like I’m finally home, Sin,” he whispers. “We’re going to celebrate that and the future.”
“The future,” I repeat because that feels both daunting and comforting.
“I’ll get started on our feast.” He smiles. “I saw a few vases in the closet at the end of the hallway. Why don’t you get the daisies in some water?”
