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The gentle touch of his rough fingers calms me down a little. “Y-yes.”
Because if he did stop, then I won’t get what I want.
He rubs the apple of my cheek. “But I’ll make it better.”
I burrow my face in his palm. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
I swallow again and nod, absolutely and irrevocably believing him that he’d do that. That he’d do everything to make it better for me. I’m ready to step away from him and check out the cabin when he tightens his hold on my jaw and stops me. “You don’t have any more red dresses, do you?”
I’m thrown by his out of the blue question and look down at my red dress for a second. Just for the record, this one’s really modest, even more modest that the one I wore at the restaurant last week, with a boatneck and cap sleeves and an empire waist that hardly shows off my ass or my legs.
Then, looking up at him, I reply, “Of course I do. Although I didn’t bring any here.”
He looks thoughtful for a second before throwing me a short nod and moving away. “Good.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, his voice low, his eyes sweeping across my body one more time as if he can’t help himself, “red is the color that provokes the bull.”
“So?”
“So turns out it’s not the only thing it provokes.” My breath hitches and he keeps going, “And I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”
“Is this a date?” I ask hours and hours later.
That passed, believe it or not, in the blink of an eye.
As soon as I entered the cabin, I became fascinated with this place. It has a real wood-burning fireplace, dark leather couches, plush rugs covering the floors. With an open floor plan, you can see the kitchen from the living room and there’s a hallway that leads to the bedroom in the back.
Like the living room, the bedroom also has a fireplace and it screams coziness. There’s a chest of drawers against the wall by the door where I put all my stuff that I brought in my overnight bag; a giant window overlooking the lake and the fall foliage; a plush armchair by the window that looks super masculine but still I can picture myself in it, huddled under a blanket with my knees drawn up and a romance novel in my hand.
But that wasn’t the thing I was interested in.
I was interested in the main thing.
That took up almost all the room in this bedroom.
The king-sized bed.
With white sheets and wooden slats as the headboard.
I don’t know why I became so fascinated with them, the slats, but I did. I even went so far as to touch them, wrap my fingers around them to see how sturdy they were. And then I got in the bed, probably because the mattress looked super high and super comfortable and the sheets looked brand new and made of the softest fabric.
And then the next thing I knew, it was dark outside and dinnertime.
Now here we are.
At dinner.
Or rather, after dinner but still at the table. A small thing made of dark wood like the rest of the cabin, seating no more than four people. We’re sitting on opposite sides and these are the first words either of us have spoken, much like the Chinese restaurant; although I’m glad he isn’t angry.
He’s watchful though.
And staring.
While I’m once again speechless at the fact that he not only took the time to make dinner — lasagna, which was delicious by the way — but also decorate the place with candles and fairy lights.
It sounds surreal, doesn’t it?
That he did that.
That he took the time to string lights along the walls and light up actual real candles.
Hence my question.
He puts down the tumbler of whiskey he’s been nursing — oh yeah, he’s been drinking all through dinner too; just the one tumbler with possibly two fingers of scotch but still — and says, “No. A business meeting.”
“You decorated the place.”
“That’s what I do for a business meeting.”
I don’t know why his words make me squirm in my seat and blush like crazy. Actually I think I haven’t stopped blushing ever since last week, but still.
Taking a sip of my water, I ask, “What is this place?”
“My dad’s cabin.”
My eyes go wide. “Your dad’s cabin.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t…” I shake my head, sitting up straight in the chair. “I didn’t know your dad had a cabin. As in, Callie never said anything about that.”
“Because she doesn’t know.”
“What?”
For the first time since we sat down to eat, he takes his eyes off me and looks at the whiskey. “It’s not something we talk about. The cabin in the woods that belong to our piece-of-shit father. One of the rules that Con laid out a long time ago.”
“Rules?”
He looks up. “Rules.”
