She stood up, the picture of a woman in charge of herself. She took one step toward the door before he got out of his seat and stopped her, snagging her by the arm, leaning into her, and whispering in her ear. “I’ve been looking forward to this dinner all week. And not because of some stupid bet. Stay. We’ll order crab cakes for dinner.”
Should she stay? His hand on her arm felt deliciously warm and promised so much more. The fingers of his other hand captured her hair and tucked it behind her ear right before he whispered, “Please stay.” His hot breath curled around her ear and sent a pulse of lust shooting to her core. She took a deep breath and might have broken away from him were it not for the fact that he smelled so good.
Not of cologne or aftershave, or even laundry detergent or soap. Matt Lyndon smelled like himself, and it was an unbelievable aphrodisiac. She turned her head a fraction and met his gaze. Why did his brown eyes always look soulful?
He didn’t have one soulful bone in his body. That look on his face was a trap, and she was just desperate enough to believe what she saw in his eyes. Leaving was probably the right thing to do, but she’d never been one to run from a fight. So she returned to her chair, determined to win this battle, even though she wasn’t entirely sure what they were fighting over.
She needed something to set him back, to surprise him, the way he’d surprised her with the flowers. And then it came to her, and even though it hadn’t been her idea, it was still brilliant. It would send him spinning in an unexpected direction.
She leaned forward. “I have a proposition for you,” she said, a frisson of anticipation tingling her spine.
His eyebrow arched. “Proposition?”
She stared down his smoldering look even though her insides quivered with need. He employed that look as a weapon, and he knew damn well it was effective. She wasn’t about to give in to it. “Not that kind of proposition…exactly.”
“Exactly? What does that mean? Are you saying you want to sleep with me?”
“Well, we could do it that way.”
“What?”
She hauled in a big breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m thirty-five years old, I’m not particularly a beautiful person, and I know that I’m never, ever going to get married. So I’ve decided to stop waiting for Mr. Right. Instead I’m going after what I want. And the truth is, I don’t want you. I want your sperm. Are you willing to be a donor? I can arrange for you to go down to Fairfax Cryobank and provide a sample, or alternatively we could…”
“What? Do it the old-fashioned way? Are you out of your mind?” Everyone in the dining room turned to stare at them.
She leaned forward and placed her finger across her lips. “Shhhhh. Not so loud. And I’m not out of my mind. I’m looking for a sperm donor with deep brown eyes, you know sort of like Aston Kutcher? Your eyes fit that bill nicely. Of course, there’s also your family pedigree to consider. But don’t worry. I’m not looking for any kind of commitment or monetary handout, just—”
“I can’t father your child.” His soulful eyes looked pretty damn angry right at the moment. That look made her feel absurdly powerful for some complicated reason.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I figured as much. But you can’t blame me for trying. That’s what I get for being honest, I guess.” She stood up again. “Sorry you lost the bet. I hate when Brandon Kopp wins anything.”
She stalked out of the cold dining room and into the warm June evening, but her skin seemed impervious to the heat. She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. She’d certainly taken a sledgehammer to Matt Lyndon’s calm approach to seduction. Nothing like talking about babies with a man who believed that sex was invented for his own personal gratification.
And yet she couldn’t shake the disappointment. Not because he’d refused to be a sperm donor. Of course he’d say no to that. She hadn’t suggested it seriously. But some small part of her, the stupid romantic part, had hoped for a different reaction. Although what that might have been remained nebulous in her mind.
She’d been utterly unreasonable with him. But then again, he’d taken a bet that was completely reprehensible and slightly misogynistic. So they were even.
She headed down Liberty Avenue toward the town parking lot, where she’d left her car, a route that took her past Secondhand Prose, her friend Melissa’s used bookstore. Courtney hadn’t seen Melissa in two or three weeks, which was a depressing thought. All her married friends had other interests now. Hell, all her married friends were having babies. But not Melissa. Melissa had kittens.
Courtney stopped in her tracks and turned toward the bookstore’s front window. A large cat tree dominated the display case. Until last autumn, the tree had been the domain of Dickens, an eighteen-year-old cat in need of a personality transplant. Dickens had followed his longtime feline companion, Hugo, across the rainbow bridge right before Thanksgiving—an event that had depressed Melissa for months because Dickens had been the last of her grandmother’s cats to pass.
Melissa had avoided adopting any new cats until a couple of months ago, when Mary Caputo, one of her grandmother’s friends and a volunteer down at the Jefferson County Animal Shelter, had shamelessly guilted Melissa into fostering three orphaned kittens.
Melissa had bottle-fed Athos, Aramis, and Porthos every three hours for weeks on end. The feline babies had kept Melissa from joining Courtney and Arwen on open mic nights at the Jaybird. For a while, Courtney and Arwen had resented the little darlings who had become stand-ins for the baby Jeff and Melissa had not yet gotten around to making.
The kittens were ten weeks old now and tumbled and pounced
