“That’sit? No counter?”
“Nocounter. I want this done. Over.” He signed where she told him to, then shesigned and tucked everything back in the pouch.
Themuscles in his upper body uncoiled, and a tickle rose from his gut, making himsuddenly giddy. “I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to celebrate.” Whobetter to celebrate with than the person who had lifted this particular loadfrom his shoulders? They were on the same team, and they’d won. It was asmuch—no, it was more her victory than his. He was merely a teammatewho’d chipped in; she had put the team on her back and carried it acrossthe finish line. And she deserved to be lauded.
She bither lower lip and frowned, like she was looking for an excuse to say no.
“Yourhusband won’t like it?” he prodded.
“Idon’t think so.”
Beckettenjoyed being around her—she made him feel … Hell, he couldn’t put words to it.Though a definition eluded him, he didn’t want to let go of the feeling. Notyet. The more he contemplated sharing a meal and a glass of wine with her, themore determined he grew. “But I’m a client. Don’t you ever dine with clients?”
“Sometimes,but they’re usually not so …”
“Intelligent-looking?”
Shepuffed and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s it. Intelligent-looking.”
Beckettshrugged. “So invite him.” Maybe her husband wasn’t as big a dick as he’dseemed, and if it meant doing a happy dance with her, Beckett was all in. Theycould laugh loud enough to drown the son of a bitch out, if it came to that.
Shedropped her gaze. “He’s out of town.”
Beckettgrew even giddier, pursing his lips to keep the grin from overtaking his face.“So keep me company. There’s a place I’ve been wanting to try. It’s casual, andthey’re supposed to have really good farm-to-table food. I know the chef—heused to work for me—and he does a great job. What do you say? I’ll have youhome before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“I’llgo, but only if you let me buy.”
“No.”
After morehaggling, he let her convince him to split it. God, she was stubborn! But inthe end, he caved. She didn’t want it to look inappropriate. She hadn’t saidso, but he got it. He had on his smart glasses after all.
.~ * * * ~.
Hours later, after squaring away the offers, catching upwith Norm, and prettifying herself—paying a little more attention to herappearance than the dinner meeting might’ve warranted—Paige sat at anopen-air table in a courtyard lit with lanterns and twinkle lights beside a splashystone fountain. Two stemmed glass globes filled with wine the color of ripeningblackberries were perfectly placed on a crisp white tablecloth. Beside theglasses stood a half-full wine bottle and a white votive with a flame thatswayed in the warm breeze. That same breeze caressed her skin and made her feela little too tingly. The weather was perfect, the ambience was perfect, and hercompanion was … well, while he was perfect-looking, he was so not theperfect one. She sat on tenterhooks, reminding herself that while Adrian wasn’tperfect either, it was his ring she wore.
Rightnow Mr. Perfect-Looking was doing something inside the restaurant—gatheringphone numbers?—and the mantra that she was just having dinner with a clientcould not overcome mulish guilt.
Beckettstrode out of the restaurant’s interior with the loping gait of a mancomfortable in his own skin. His ice-blue eyes were on her the entire way,recalling the predatory look from the underwear ad. She darted her gaze to thelights, the fountain, a diner’s bald head—my, how it reflects the light—holdingout until Beckett loomed opposite her.
“Youall right? You look a little tense.” He slid into his seat.
Am Ithat obvious? “Justtired.”
“Here.”He poured a little more wine in her goblet, scooted it toward her, and raisedhis glass. “To new friendships.”
Howcould she not drink to that? It tasted smooth and fruity, like dark cherryvelvet.
“Thatdress looks good on you.” He caught her off guard.
“Um,thank you.” She was in a black vintage floral she rarely wore because, whileshe loved it, Adrian said it made her look like a San Francisco Bohemian.Whatever that meant. It hadn’t struck her as a good thing. “So. Tell me aboutliving in LA.”
“No,”he said. “Tonight we talk about you. It’s my turn for twenty questions.”
“You’renot wearing your glasses. I’m not sure you’re smart enough to follow along.”
“Ha! Idon’t need them to hear. Just to read small print.”
Thesynopsis of her life took a nanosecond. “Born to a single mother, raised inDenver, graduated from DU a year after you, started a business, got married.”How vanilla. How embarrassing.
Butteringhis bread, he said, “So an overachieving only child, raised solo by your mom.”
“Morelike two moms. My grandma was widowed, and she did most of the raising. Mom wasa bit of a free spirit, and flitted in and out of our lives. But Grandma hadher feet firmly rooted. And thank God for that. She was my role model.”
“Andnow?” He tore off a hunk of bread and chomped.
“Grandmadied when I was in high school, and Mom … well, Mom pretends a little harder tobe a mom now, but in the end, it’s no different. I couldn’t keep up with theboyfriends, so I stopped trying. I’m in touch with her every couple of weeks.”As much as possible, the contact was through email—much less awkwardthan phone calls. Email also helped Paige contain painful reminders of herabsent mom, an unknown dad, and dulled the ache of missing Grandma.
“Christ,I’m sorry. Sounds like your grandma gave you your responsible side. What about yourcreative side? Is that from her too?”
“Mycreative side?”
Hechomped some more and took a healthy sip of wine. “Yeah. Of course. How else doyou take a piece of sh—crap house and turn it into Marty and Claudia’s place?If that’s not creative, I don’t know what is.” He pointed his knife at her.“And when I’m back on my feet and it’s time to buy another house, I want one ofyours. Assuming I’m in Denver.”
Thebreadth of the compliment blindsided her, snatching her breath, and her cheeksflared hot. Is he for real?
“Soyou’re like the people on
