I give the place another onceover. “But do you like it? Is it your style?”
She opens her mouth to reply, but quickly shuts it. Instead, she slowly shakes her head.
I take another bite of my chicken before devouring half the salad. “So, if this place isn’t your style, what is?”
Finally, I see a little happiness return to her eyes. Kyla sits up straighter and smiles. “Have you seen those tabletops built from old barnwood?” When I nod, she continues, “I’d love to have one of those with mismatched chairs. Ones that have some scuffs and wear. Life.”
I find myself smiling back at her. “Now that I can see. Tell me more.”
We spend the next thirty minutes eating and talking, her sharing all of her ideas for redecorating. Funny, when she talks about the master bathroom, a weird bubble of longing fills my gut. The old-fashioned clawfoot tub she wants is exactly the one sitting in my own bathroom at home. Old, rustic, and full of history, much like the rest of my place. I learn in that half hour her style doesn’t vary much from my own.
“Oh, I do have something I’d like to discuss with you,” she states, carrying the dirty dishes to the sink.
“I can do those. You cooked,” I offer.
She waves me off. “No need. I can run the dishwasher later. Let’s grab a drink and go sit outside.”
While she finishes securing leftovers into containers, I grab two more bottles of beer from the fridge, popping them open. Eventually, she leads me through the living room to a sliding glass door, which opens to an impressive balcony deck with the same spectacular view I saw earlier. I whistle my approval and take one of the Adirondack chairs.
“Yeah, one of my favorite features of this place,” Kyla states, after sitting in the chair beside me.
“Impressive.”
“Only the best for the Morgans,” she says, unable to hide the hint of irritation in her words. Something tells me she’s heard that statement a lot growing up.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, both watching the city move and the water glisten below us. “So, what is it you wanted to discuss?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” she replies, sitting up and setting her bottle on the small table between us. “I know I mentioned this to you a few weeks back and you were unable to commit. I understand if you’re still unable to, but I’d like to see if you can attend the Fur-ever Home Charity Gala with me.”
“The one the shelter is doing?” I ask. Not because we’ve discussed it before, but because I saw a poster promoting it hanging up at the animal shelter on Sunday.
“Yes,” she confirms. “It’s two weeks from this Saturday. I’ll be working from time to time, but I’d love for you to come as my date.”
I mentally run down the schedule my brother left me, and the gala wasn’t on it. Probably because he had every intention of me doing his dirty work and breaking up with her last weekend.
“Saturday, right?” I ask, seeking confirmation. Matthew comes home that following day, on Sunday, and then my duty is fulfilled. I’ll have posed as my brother for the three required weeks and will, hopefully, be on the first flight out of Boston to head west come Sunday morning.
“Yes.”
My eyes meet hers. They’re eager and excited, and I can tell she truly wants me to go. Or at least, wants Matthew to go. That thought is sobering.
I clear my throat and try to picture what my brother would do. Not commit, I’m sure. He’d probably work too late and miss most of the event, the one she has been working so hard on. So instead of brushing her off with a noncommitted response, I stun even myself by saying, “I think I can make that work.”
Those hazel eyes dance with delight as she beams at me. “That’s wonderful. There’ll be many business associates there, I’m sure. You’ll have plenty of people to talk to. It’ll be just like you’re at work, but in a tuxedo,” she quips with a giggle.
I don’t tell her all I need is to talk to her.
“Can’t wait.”
Chapter Ten
Kyla
We sit out on the balcony for another hour. I tell him all about the gala, and surprisingly, he seems truly interested. He doesn’t share much, just listens intently and asks a few questions every now and again. It’s weird. I’ve never been so open and talkative before. Neither one of us even seems to realize our drinks are empty until I yawn and look at my watch.
“I should probably go,” he says, standing up and stretching his back.
I can’t help but sneak a peek at how well the button-down molds to his arms and chest. When he stretches, the shirt rides up just enough that I catch a glimpse of a strip of dark hair below his belly button. Suddenly, my body is humming, my mouth dry. I’m staring, even after he drops his arms, covering his lower belly with his shirt. All I can think about is exploring that strip of dark hair, discovering where it leads.
Oh, I know exactly where it leads…
“You okay?” he asks, breaking through the sudden dirty thoughts filtering through my brain.
When my eyes meet his, I find his full of concern, which makes me blush again. If only he knew where my mind just went.
“I’m good,” I assure him, grabbing the empty beer bottles to keep my hands busy.
Matthew opens the door and allows me to enter first. I hear him shut and secure the sliding glass door lock before his heavy boots echo across the hardwood floor. I quickly toss the bottles into the recycling bin and glance at the small stack of dishes from earlier. Those’ll wait until tomorrow morning to move to the dishwasher.
Turning around, I find him leaning against the counter directly behind me, watching
