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He laughed. “Not quite. I guess my choice would be to be at home on the couch, preferably with a woman, eating popcorn and watching a movie.” He glanced her way and Anne’s stomach did that flip thing again. Was he imagining the two of them, chilling out on the couch? His arm around her shoulders and she snuggled up against his side?
“What movie?” she asked lightly.
“You pick.”
Anne thought for a moment, then just to see what he’d say, blurted, “Titanic.”
He groaned aloud and she laughed.
“I’ve seen that movie,” he said, “and I couldn’t wait for everyone to die. It lasted forever. Worst movie ever.”
“I just remember all that water gushing everywhere making me feel like I needed to use the restroom. Probably TMI.” She grimaced, but Blane just laughed.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Actually, like any man, I like action flicks. And I like the classics. Hitchcock, Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, Gable, that kind of thing. There aren’t a lot of movies made now that people will still watch in fifty years.”
She had to agree. “True. I don’t see my grandkids pulling upAntmanto watch.”
“Then youdosee yourself getting married and having kids,” he said.
And the conversation just took an unexpected turn.
“I never said I didn’t,” she said. “Kids and family are something most people want, don’t they?”
“Probably. I always hoped for that.”
“So, what happened? You mentioned the close call, but surely you’ve had more opportunities since then. I believe you’re listed as the most eligible bachelor around.”
“There’s a list?” he teased.
“Perhaps unofficially,” she amended.
“If I had to guess, it would be because the kind of woman I’m looking for isn’t someone who auditions for the role.”
“Ah.” Having grown up in the higher echelons of political society, Anne knew exactly what he was talking about. Women whose life ambition was to climb as high as they could in the seat of power that was D.C. She could list a half a dozen such women off the top of her head. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, but she could understand why that would be off-putting. As in not all men cared to be wanted solely based on their career and/or income.
They didn’t say anything else and a few minutes later, Blane turned into the driveway of a sprawling two-story brick home.
“This is a restaurant?” Anne asked, confused.
Blane turned off the engine, turning his gaze on her. “I thought a home cooked meal would be nice.”
Her brows rose. “You’re going to cook?”
“Ah…not exactly.” He got out of the car and rounded the front, opening her door.
Bemused, Anne got out and took the arm he offered as he led her inside.
The foyer was spacious with a ceiling that stretched to the second floor. A huge iron chandelier hung over the space, matching the iron railing on the winding staircase that led upstairs. Deep mahogany wooden floors stretched throughout, including the stairs.
Blane took her wrap and discarded his coat, hanging them on a hall tree, then took her hand.
“This way,” he said.
His hand was warm against her chilled fingers as he led her through the foyer. He took a right and stepped through an arched doorway into a lavish dining room. Two tall windows took up the opposite wall while a long table that could seat ten took up the main space. A thick Persian rug hugged the floor, and the table was set for two, one place at the end of the table and the other catty corner to it. Unlit candles in crystal candlesticks were set strategically between the two places.
“May I pour you a cocktail?” Blane asked, moving toward an antique sideboard that held assorted stemware and a cabinet full of various bottles.
“That would be lovely,” she said. “I’ll take a vodka tonic, tall.” She was pleasantly relaxed from the wine but didn’t want to get any further inebriated. Food would help. Charcuterie only went so far.
