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Again, his brows dip, and my palms begin sweating. Did I get this wrong? Is it too much? Will he see right through me?
He sighs and finally gives me an approving nod. That same megawatt smile returns to my face, and I quickly serve him. His hand reaches out, palming the center of my back as I set his plate before him, leaning close enough to smell his rich cologne still clinging to his body. I falter in my steps and lift my eyes to meet his gaze.
“It looks lovely, sweetheart. Really.” His hand slips away just as quickly as it came, but the heat of it burns through my dress.
As if he knows the effect he has on me, he smirks and my knees go weak at the sheer beauty of it. Isaac’s face is cleanly shaven, like always, exposing his chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. Even in his early forties, he still looks like some sort of catalog model. He doesn’t fit in here. Never has.
Neither have I.
The thought reminds me of why I did all this in the first place, and my insides twist. It certainly wasn't because I love being the doting wife-like housekeeper I’ve become due to circumstance.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Thank you,” I murmur, swallowing around my dry mouth. I gently slide into my seat across from him, and as soon as he takes his first bite, I dive into my food, letting it distract me from the sudden bout of anxiety settling in my gut.
We fall into easy, familiar conversation, chatting about the people Isaac counseled today and the renovations taking place at the old Wagner house. He tells me all about the new town gossip he heard from the group of older women who come in every Monday to use the chapel for their knitting group.
It’s simple and comfortable.
It’s natural.
It’s mundane.
Boring.
Lifeless.
And if I don’t do something about it, it’s my future.
Slowly our conversation dies, and he serves himself a second helping of salad. I continue to push my potatoes around my plate as my nerves grow. Every time we’ve had this conversation before, it’s gone badly, but things are different now. I’m different.
I’ve graduated. I’m twenty-years-old. I’m an adult.
I’ve done things my stepfather would have a heart attack over.
I can do this.
I take a deep breath and set my fork down. My hands tangle on my lap and I fight the urge to fidget.
“Isaac,” I say softly. “Can I speak to you about something?”
He swallows his bite of fresh tomato and washes it down with a gulp of water before turning his attention to me. His lip twitches, and he leans back in his chair. The wood creaks beneath his weight.
“I knew there must be a reason for all this buttering up,” he jokes, tossing his folded napkin onto the table beside his plate before absently straightening it out.
“What?” I ask, blinking rapidly.
“Come on, Eve.” His brow cocks. “Your mama’s roast takes at least six hours and it’s perfect. No doubt you stayed glued to that oven for half the day.” He chuckles deeply, crossing his toned arms over his chest. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Biting my lip, I nod. Of course, he saw through my plan. I take a deep pull from my straw, letting the sweet, icy beverage calm my nerves. It’s now or never.
I clear my throat and meet his gaze head on.
I’ve done much crazier things than this before and survived. Like that one time I spread my legs for fucking Kevin.
I can handle this.
