CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Danica
While I’d never had a first date before, something told me this was a fantastic one.
We never ran out of things to talk about, and until tonight, I hadn’t really realized how funny Tom was.
Sure, I knew he had a sense of humor, but the extent of it eluded me until now.
He really was in his comfort zone and welcoming me in, and damn if it wasn’t a cozy place to be.
As a shy, anxious introvert myself, I knew how hard it was to forge connections with people. So I didn’t take his openness to build one with me for granted.
After another helping of cannelloni, the best tiramisu I’d ever tasted, and just a splash more of wine, we found ourselves on his couch in front of the fireplace with Portia snoring in her princess bed with her legs in the air.
Initially, when we first sat down, we were on opposite ends of the couch, but somehow, over time—I wasn’t even sure how it happened—we migrated to the middle.
Before I knew it, I was leaning against him, my head in his lap, and he was playing with my hair with one hand while our fingers twisted and twirled together mindlessly with his other.
“It’s weird, right?” I asked, near comatose I was so relaxed as he ran his fingers through my hair.
“What is? That child next-door? Si.”
I snorted. “Well, yes. He is. But that’s not where I was going. I was going to say, it’s weird that we’ve only known each other for a week, and yet it doesn’t feel that way at all.”
“It does not.”
“I’ve been here every day this week, gotten to know you and the animals. My kid adores you and has come out of her shell around you, which hardly ever happens with anybody.” I glanced up at him. “As sad as it was with Angel passing, it—”
He nodded. “I know what you mean. Sometimes things happen for a greater reason than we know. From the ashes grows the flower.”
“How old are you?”
His smirk was so utterly kissable. We hadn’t even kissed yet, but oh boy, did I want to. “I am forty-eight. How old are you?”
“Uh … I’m thirty-two.”
“You had your daughter young.”
“Yeah, they tend to do it that way when you don’t really have a say,” I murmured, glancing toward the flickering flames of the fire. “Not that I’d trade her for the world. But … well, how she came to be is something I’d rather forget.”
His finger came under my chin, and he turned me to face him. “I am sorry for that part of your story. Nobody should have to go through what you and your cousins did. My heart hurts for all of you and how much pain you must still feel.”
With my throat tight, but unable to break away since he still had me by the chin, I managed a faint smile. “We’re safe now. We’re healing. The kids are thriving. We’re all happy.”
“I am very glad.”
“Tell me about your son.”
The light that entered his soft-brown eyes at the mention of his child only endeared him to me more.
All parents should get that look when asked about their children.
“He is my sunshine. An easy baby. A curious toddler. A funny child. He never shied away from telling you how much he loved you. He is the most authentic person you will ever meet. Kind and patient. Compassionate and forgiving. He knew he was gay and that he wanted to be in fashion by the age of eight. He told me, ‘Papa, I think I love boys, but I want to make clothes for girls.’”
I blinked through the sting of happy tears. “I love that.”
“He is not your typical moody, demanding designer. The models love him. They all want to work with him because he is so kind. He doesn’t pick just the skinny ones.
He designs for all body types and celebrates them all.
And his boyfriend, Nico, is exactly the same.
They will be a dynamic force in Milan very soon.
Kind people with good heads on their shoulders and an eye for fashion. ”
“Does he only design women’s clothes?”
“Si. Menswear is boring to him. Though he tells me all the time I have terrible fashion sense, and whenever I see him, he tries to dress me. He says, ‘Papa, you are too handsome for jeans and white T-shirts. That is boring. You are not boring.’”
“He sounds like quite a character.”
“The light of my heart.”
“As he should be.”
My eyelids grew heavy as he continued to play with my hair. “This is so unbelievably relaxing. I could fall asleep.”
“You can,” he murmured. “If you are too tired, you should not drive.”
“What time is it?” I yawned.
“Eleven-thirty.”
My eyes flew open wide and I sprang up from where I was on his lap. “Eleven-thirty?”
“Si.”
“Oh my god, I hardly ever stay up this late.”
“Neither do I, but I have been having such a nice time with you.”
I was on my feet now and headed to his front door, wide awake.
“And I was—am—with you. But it’s still late.
I need to let you get to bed. I need to get to bed.
It’s a schoo—wait, it’s not a school day tomorrow, is it?
” My feet practically made a screeching sound on his hardwood floor. I stopped so fast.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said, totally calm, if not a little amused at how I went from zero to sixty to zero so quickly.
“Right. Saturday.” I exhaled, and my shoulders rounded. “Sam is having a sleepover with her cousins at Gabrielle’s. So as long as I’m home in the morning before she comes to find me …”
A slow smile curled on one side of his mouth as he stepped closer to me. I thought he was going to put his hands on my hips, or scoop me up and cart me off caveman style to the bedroom, but instead, he took my hand. “Let me play with your hair a little longer.” Then he tugged me back to the couch.
I was too weak, too relaxed, too infatuated with this man to say no.
“I know you said this is your first date, and I said that it’s been over twenty years since my last first date. So I am okay taking this as slow as you would like.”
We sat back down on the couch.
“However, if you are okay with it, Danica, I would very much like to kiss you.”
My breath stuttered as I inhaled, my eyes falling to his full lips. He’d shaved today, and the five o’clock shadow in all its salt-and-pepper glory was as sexy as ever. I ached to feel it scratch my cheek.
Swallowing, and unable to keep my hands from shaking, I knitted them in my lap as I sat facing him on the couch. “Yes. I … I would like that too.”
His eyelids dropped to half-mast as he reached forward and gently, but possessively, cupped the back of my neck, his pinky against my raging pulse, his thumb cradling my jaw.
With his other hand, he grabbed my twitching, clasped fingers, and stilled them.
“Relax. I will bite you only if you ask me to.”
My breathy “ha” of a laugh came out as more of a squeak, as he leaned forward and slowly pressed his mouth to mine.
I closed my eyes and let him take the lead, slowly letting our lips touch, then pull back, then touch and explore. He inched forward a little more, tightening his grip on my neck just a fraction, and encouraged me to open my mouth wider.
I was putty in his safe, strong hands and let him guide me through the best kiss of my life. I thought for sure that he was going to push his tongue into my mouth or lay me on my back, but he didn’t. He pressed his soft lips to mine one more time, then slowly pulled away.
I was breathless, rampant with need, and so incredibly relaxed.
Blinking open my eyes, I found him watching me, a small smile lifting one corner of his mouth higher than the other.
Was he going to kiss me again?
Please.
“Come,” he said, encouraging me to lay back down and rest my head in his lap.
He started playing with my hair again. “Tell me something about you that would surprise people to learn,” he said, reaching to the side table and grabbing his wineglass.
He took a sip, set it back down, then reached for my free hand again, twining our fingers together.
Swallowing, I studied the strong, angular shape of his jaw and the way the firelight cast beautiful flickering shadows across it. This man was a work of art. A stunning representation of the male form both inside and out.
“Hmm?” he probed. “What is something nobody would expect Danica St. Claire to have done?”
Biting my lip, I hedged a smile. “For my thirtieth birthday, I went and got a tattoo, then I went bungy jumping. Is that surprising?”
“Do you think people would be surprised to know that about you?”
I shrugged. “I’m the shyest of all of us. So, maybe. I take the fewest risks. I’m a bookkeeper, for goodness sake. I crunch numbers and sit in my home office all day, toiling over our business accounts. I’m boring. I’m—”
Pressing his finger across my lips, he shook his head. “You are not boring. And your job has meaning. Just because you are not fighting bad guys or sailing the high seas catching crabs does not mean your life, your work, is without meaning.”
“Superheroes and crab boat fishermen are the examples you used?”
“I like Batman and Deadliest Catch.” His broad shoulder lifted as his eyes and smile became boyish and sweet.
“But you are not boring. I do not find you boring. I find you fascinating. And I want to see this tattoo.” He bobbed his silver brows salaciously.
“I would never bungy jump. I do not like heights very much. So to me, that is surprising and not boring at all.”
“You’re not allowed to laugh, okay?”
“I will remain as still as a statue.”
“As still as the David?” I asked, grinning.
“Do you want me to take off all my clothes?”
Yes.
“Just don’t laugh.”
His smile was electrifying, and when I untangled our fingers, my hand trembled when I reached for the hem of my dress. His eyes followed my every movement as I slowly peeled the hem of my dress up my thighs. But my hand couldn’t stop trembling.
My breath grew ragged, and my stomach tightened into unforgiving knots.
“Here,” he said softly, resting his hand over top of mine. “Together.”