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“Yeah. How’d I do?” he asked, although her cat-in-cream smile was all the answer he needed.
“Not bad, although I’m compelled to ask if you’re feeling okay.” She leaned her glass of champagne against her lips, but didn’t take her eyes from his as she sipped. “I mean, that whole lighthearted laughter thing didn’t hurt, did it? You didn’t strain anything? Because I could see if there’s a doctor in the house.”
Oh, come on. He wasn’t that serious.
Was he?
“Just because I don’t go stirring up trouble all the time doesn’t mean I’m incapable of having fun,” he said, but the words were so measured with caution that they snagged in his ears. Okay, so he’d never been a social spotlight kind of guy, but he knew how to have a good time.
“Really? When was the last time you stayed in your pajamas and watched movies all day?”
He wrinkled his brow in confusion. “What?”
“You heard me. When?” The cluster of tiny candles on the table between them cast a shimmery glow on Sloane’s face, emphasizing her mischievous smile.
He hesitated, but after a minute he was forced to admit the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Mmm hmm. And when was the last time you ate breakfast for dinner?”
Gavin laughed, releasing some of his pent-up tension. “Okay, now you’re getting weird.”
“I’m not getting weird. I’d be willing to bet next week’s paycheck you can’t remember the last time you laughed so hard you could barely breathe. Or that you’ve never taken a trip without planning it in advance, or run out into the middle of a rainstorm instead of running away from it.”
His gut plucked with unease, but he swallowed hard to cover it. “How is getting purposely drenched fun?”
Sloane raised an inky brow. “If you tried it, you’d know.”
Somewhere between the sexy curve of her mouth and the half dare coming out of it, Gavin flung his stalwart caution to the wind. He knew how to live life, dammit. Losing his mother with barely any warning had taught him just how quickly things could slip away.
This moment wasn’t going to be one of them.
Gavin rounded the bistro table in a purposeful stride, stopping only when he was close enough to feel the rise of Sloane’s chest over her sharp inhale of surprise. “I know how to have fun, and I don’t have to run around in the rain to do it.”
“You don’t?” Sloane squeaked, but she didn’t take a step back. Instead, she lifted her gaze to meet his head-on, and there was no mistaking the want in her eyes.
“I don’t. Let’s go.”
10
“This is your idea of stirring up trouble?” Sloane asked, certain she was missing a crucial piece to the cool yet sexy-as-hell puzzle that was Gavin Carmichael.
“Yes. Now watch and learn.”
Gavin rolled up his sleeves with precise, even turns, either unaware or uncaring that she was watching him. The corded muscles of his forearms stood out in lean relief under the light spilling down from the cozy half kitchen in her hotel suite. He shot her a quick glance before starting to rummage through one of the well-stocked drawers.
She chewed her bottom lip, torn between guilt and rampant curiosity. She’d been kidding when she’d given him a hard time about being so serious, and anyway, he’d been the one to start teasing her first. No way had she thought he’d actuallydoanything about it. Even though grabbing two glasses and a dusty old bottle of wine from La Dolce Vita’s wine cellar and finding a quiet place to indulge didn’t exactly qualify as wild and crazy.
“Technically, Bordeaux is supposed to breathe for a while before you drink it, but this one is old enough that we’ll be fine with a shorter breathing time.” Gavin stopped to examine the bottle, then the glasses, with careful precision. The reverent attention to detail in his liquid brown stare made her wonder what it would feel like to be the crystal in his hands.
Sloane cleared her throat and eyed the plain-Jane bottle. “How old is it, exactly?”
“1999.”
She should’ve known that Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected wouldn’t get squirrely enough to pop open a vintage that wastooold.
“So, how come you took glasses from downstairs? Aren’t they all the same?” Sloane gestured to the narrow shelf above the sink that housed assorted glassware.
“Not even close. We use these downstairs when customers buy a bottle of nicer red.” He unearthed a no-frills manual corkscrew from a drawer with a wry smile. “Guess we’re going old school here, though. Good. I’m not really a fan of those fancy wine keys for something like this.”
