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“You are,” I say fiercely.
“It’s because I spent all my childhood practicing and thinking about it, nothing else. My parents were older, and they preferred relaxing to days out. So I had plenty of time to learn.”
“How old?” I ask.
“My dad was fifty-seven when I was born. My mom was forty-one.” My reaction must show on my face because she goes on. “I know. I know. They thought they didn’t want to have kids at first.”
We pause when the waiter brings the drinks. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to order food.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Where was I?” she asks.
“They weren’t sure if they wanted kids.”
“Yeah, exactly, but they decided they did later in life. It took a lot of trying and a few medical marvels, but then they had me. I’ve sort of lost the wholecover storything.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I don’t want a cover story, anyway. I wantyourstory.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. Every time we touch, she reacts like the same heat is burning through her, the same heat that pulses in me every time. I’m finding it difficult not to pull her into my lap and let her feel my solid manhood against her round juicy ass, but she deserves romance, too, if I’m capable of giving it.
“I’m happy they had me, but Dad was soold. He wasn’t like you. Uh, not that you’re old.” She snatches her hand away, grabs her soda, and starts to sip it as though she needs to give herself an excuse for not speaking.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, my perfect painter. I’m pretty hard to offend. Anyway, I am old, especially compared to you.”
“But you’renot,” she says passionately, slamming the glass down. “Fine, you’re older than me. I get that, but you’re notold. You’re fit. You’re healthy. You take good care of yourself. You’re mature and experienced.” Her eyes glint playfully. I wonder if she’s filled with horny-as-fuck ideas like me. “Dad didn’t take care of himself. Mom isn’t great, either. Heck, am I?” She shrugs. “I know one thing. I don’t want to wait until I’m forty-one to have a baby.”
My body responds with an urgent pulse. Even if somebody ran in here with a photo of James and played a recording of him proclaiming his love for Samantha, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
“You want kids?” I ask.
“Yeah, for sure,” she says, as though the answer is obvious. “Honestly, not to sound crazy, I’d like to have them sooner rather than later. I want to be on the younger side when they’re little. I want to be there for them.”
I tighten my hold on her hand, hearing the change in her tone and the agony buried in her voice. “You’re going to make an amazing mother.”
She laughs in disbelief. “Oh, really? What makes you so sure of that?”
“Instinct,” I snap.
“Instinct?” she repeats, shaking her head slowly. “So you’ve got some magic are-they-good-parents instinctual radar or something?”
I must have one because, looking in the mirror, I knowthatman isn’t a good parent. “You’re damn right I do. I can see how badly you want this. Some people have kids for the wrong reasons. They have kids just to make a point or to trap someone.”
I let Samantha’s hand go, leaning back and picking up the menu. Suddenly, the jazz seems offensively loud. Somebody is making a clattering sound on the floor below, maybe cutlery or the telltale metallic rattling of weaponry.
“Fletcher?” she murmurs. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say. “Just hungry. What’re you in the mood for?”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Samantha
Fletcher cuts into his steak, seeming different from when we did the wholecover storything. When he mentioned some women having kids to trap people, it seemed obvious he was talking about himself. He got angry quickly, his blue eyes flashing with twin flames. Now, he focuses on his steak, cutting determinedly.
I eat a fry, looking at his silver peppered hair, neatly combed, his shirt open at the top to show a hint of chest. Every second, I have to remind myself that this is real. I’m on a date with the most handsome, hottest older man I’ve ever seen.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
