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“Is everything all right?” He’s peering at me with concern from behind the computer on the desk. He’s still wearing the dark suit he put on this morning, and there’s an obvious question on his face.
I pull it together and smile at him. “Yeah. Sorry to interrupt. I was just making dinner and wondered if you wanted any.”
For some reason, it bothers me that he’s still wearing his tie, even working by himself at home. Doesn’t the man ever unwind? Doesn’t he ever relax?
He stares at me for a moment, blinking once.
I drop my eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s no big deal if you’re too busy. But there’s plenty if you’re hungry.”
“Sure,” William says at last, closing out something on his computer and then standing up. “Thanks.”
I’m even more self-conscious when he falls into step with me as we leave the office and head toward the kitchen. But that’s ridiculous. William and I are supposed to be engaged. This should be a perfectly normal situation.
There’s no reason to feel like we’re on a first date.
I distract myself from my inappropriate responses by asking William to find us a bottle of wine as I put the shrimp on the grill and drop the fresh angel-hair pasta in the boiling water.
He comes out of the wine closet with a nice bottle of chardonnay. Uncorks it and pours out two glasses. Then he helps me by turning the shrimp while I drain the pasta and then toss it with the pesto. We work easily together, and he doesn’t appear to think anything is strange about our interaction. Occasionally it feels like he’s watching me, but every time I check, his eyes are focused on something else.
I don’t want dinner to feel awkward or formal, so I suggest we eat in the media room. William thinks this is a perfectly good idea, and it’s not long until we’re set up there with our dinner.
I turn on a news channel, but we don’t end up needing the distraction. He asks me about my museum board meeting, and I give him a rundown, trying to make the otherwise boring meeting more interesting by highlighting the ongoing argument between two snotty attendees.
I relax at the sound of his warm chuckle, and it seems natural to ask him about his day as well. I’m pleased when he starts telling me more about the restructuring and transition of the Worthing companies.
I’m genuinely interested in what he says and ask a lot of detailed questions so I can get a better handle on it.
Before I know it, the food is gone and we’ve finished the bottle of wine. William gets us some sorbet from the kitchen, and bored with news, I flip over to an old Alfred Hitchcock film.
I’m wrapped up in a throw in the corner of the couch when William returns with the sorbet. He’s incredibly attractive and much less intimidating than normal since he’s taken off his shoes, tie, and jacket. He still smells better than any man has the right to smell—that mingling of masculine and expensive that makes my belly twist. I like the look in his brown eyes too. Soft and warm, like he’s actually enjoying himself.
The movie is one I like, but the long day catches up with me unexpectedly. I drift off to sleep before the first hour is over.
I wake up a couple of hours later, groggy and content. I blink a few times, not really sure where I am but remarkably comfortable.
The first thing I see is William, who’s sitting on the other end of the sofa. He seems to have been watching me because his eyes are on my face. I smile up at him blurrily.
He smiles back, his watchful expression transforming into something much softer.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Did I miss the movie?”
“You missed the end of that one and most of a second one.” The corner of his lips twitches slightly.
“Oh.” I blink and try to get my mind to work. A glance at the clock shows it’s after eleven. “You should have woken me up.”
“Why would I wake you up?” he asks, still looking like he’s amused.
With a pang of nervous self-consciousness, I sit up and pat at my hair. “Are you laughing at my hair?”
He laughs low in his throat. “Of course I’m not laughing at your hair.” He reaches over and brushes my hair back from my face, his palm lingering on my cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
My breath hitches for a different reason now. I lean toward him instinctively, unthinkingly.
He kisses me gently, almost questioningly. The brush of his lips sends shivers of pleasure down my spine, but he pulls away before I can respond.
“The Bolshoi ballet is in town next weekend. Will you go with me on Friday next week?”
My lips part slightly. My mind is still fuzzy from sleep and from pleasure at the kiss, but something about his tone makes the question sound significant. I have no idea why going to the ballet would be significant, and I have no reason to refuse.
