Brad let out a low, throaty grunt and slid his hands down to her calves. “I’m going to do so again later. Right now though…” He blew out a hard breath and rose to his knees. Extending one hand to help her up, he winked. “I have dinner waiting. And as much as I’d like to dine on you, you won’t do much to prevent the wine from going to my head.”
“Wine? Dinner?” Sitting, she blinked in confusion. “You said you didn’t cook.”
“I made an exception.” With one easy tug, he pulled her to her feet and tucked her hand into his much larger one. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you up. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a bottle of Chianti.”
He’d also evidently explored her house while she was asleep. She should mind. She should feel uneasy that he’d roamed through her rooms, discovered God only knew what about her personal life. Strangely, however, the fact he’d made himself at home sent a rush of pleasure through her veins.
“And,” he added as he led her up the stairs, “I turned the jets on in the hot tub. We’re having dessert in there.”
Boy, he was full of surprises. But Cassie didn’t know what startled her more, that he was being so charming, or that this little passionate rendezvous had suddenly taken a very romantic turn. Intentional on his part? She doubted it. To him, it was probably just another way of trying her out in some new fashion. If he had any idea how the promise of wine, hot tub, and amazing sex made her heart swell and filled her head with pictures of whispered promises, he’d run like hell.
For that matter, she ought to run like hell. Away from him before he dealt her permanent damage.
He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and guided her around in front of him. The riot of her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she looked at the table set for two. Spaghetti waited on their plates. Napkins adorned the back of their chairs. And two tall tapers he’d evidently dug out of her china cabinet drawer flickered in the otherwise dark room.
No, this was indeed artfully planned romance. The question was—why?
She turned an inquisitive gaze on him.
He avoided eye contact and gestured at the table. “Your seat awaits, beautiful.”
…
As Cassie eased into her chair, Brad took the seat opposite. He hadn’t realized until a moment ago what this dinner must look like. When he’d had to change the generator over to their restored power, and the kitchen had gone dark for a few minutes, the candles seemed natural. One thing led to another.
Now, he wondered whether he’d gone too far.
With a mental shrug, he dismissed the nagging discomfort in his gut and picked up his fork. He wouldn’t toast—that would be overboard. But he could carry on a conversation and pretend he hadn’t acted so…so…foolishly about dinner. He twirled his spaghetti against the side of his plate and changed the subject to a safer topic. “So tell me, why did you go into private practice instead of working with a large firm?” Maybe she’d give him some more insight about her life.
Her fork hesitated in front of her mouth, but there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in her answer. “I wanted kids. I could have a family if I opened a practice with Chris. Or so I thought.” She popped her bite into her mouth, chewed, and chased the bite with a sip of wine. “You know the demands of firm responsibilities. You’ve given up on the idea of kids completely.”
“And you haven’t?” He bit down on his tongue a fraction too late—the words leapt free before he could hold them in.
“No. There’s still a part of me that hopes I’ll find someone compatible enough to build a life with. Though that seems rather unlikely given my demanding schedule.” Smiling, she sipped again from her wineglass and set it down. “Chris worked long hours. Drove himself like he worked for a firm. I hated it. I can’t imagine a man would feel different, unless he was also an attorney, and most of the ones I’ve encountered don’t want families. I’m sure you can relate to that.”
Well damn. The most unintimate conversation he could imagine had just become a minefield. A violent need to object lodged in the back of his throat. Except, he wasn’t quite sure what he objected to: her correct assessment he didn’t want a family, or her assumption she wasn’t compatible for one herself.