Chapter 8
He found her sprawled face down on the maroon and white striped sofa in the living room, a blanket thrown over her lower legs.
He hesitated a minute inside the doorway and wondered if he should just go on upstairs. Then she opened her eyes, and he felt the jolt of electricity arrowing straight to his loins. He found himself wondering what exactly he could use to describe the colors and texture.
Honey gold seemed too basic and too wrong.
He tried to clear the huskiness from his throat, but it didn't work.
"Hi."
"Hi." She stayed where she was, and this time could not ignore the hammering of her heart against her ribs. He looked so delicious standing there. Like a long glass of golden wine.
"I just came back."
"Me too, obviously." He came further into the room and sat across from her.
"Were you sleeping?"
"A little bit. When did we become the parents to our parents?"
His chuckle warmed her.
"Dad says he wants to do better."
Her brows arched.
"Mine said the same thing. Of the two, my money is on yours." She flipped away the blanket to reveal black leggings. The sweater was snug against her generous bosom. He had to force himself not to take a peek.
"Have you eaten?"
"I had breakfast at Dad's. We did say we were going to do the popcorn thing and watch movies."
"How about an actual dinner first?"
"Italian?"
"I could do Italian." He rose.
"I'll see to it."
"Thanks."
He nodded.
"I'll just go up and put away my stuff and make the call."
"I'll set the table."
She waited until his footsteps faded upstairs, then sat up and brushed her hair out of her eyes, glancing at the clock.
The anticipation of sharing a quiet meal, perhaps something comforting like lasagna or risotto, made her smile softly.
For a moment, she let herself hope that tonight might mark a new chapter for both of them, one with fewer burdens and more laughter.
And wondered what the hell she was thinking.
Swinging her legs off the sofa, she rose and stretched, pressing her fingers at her back to work out the kinks. They were just being civil, that's all. But somehow the reassurance no longer sounded convincing.
In fact, it sounded weak.
With a sigh, she went to set the table.
He came back to candlelight and music. Something soft and bluesy. She had settled for the cozy table tucked beneath the wide bay window overlooking the river.
"The food will be here in ten minutes." He could not understand why his palms were sweating and his heart was pumping overtime. It's just dinner. A meal between two people who happened to be married to each other.
Ignoring the underlying tension and the stern lecture he had given himself while in his bedroom, he strode to the wine cooler and selected a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
"So, how's he really? Your dad?" He worked the cork out with a muted pop, before selecting glasses to pour.
"I had to set him straight. Self-pity comes natural to him." The scent of the mood candles mingled with the spices inside the kitchen.
"He likes to blame people for his supposed failure in life. The man is a brilliant architect and refuses to use his talent."
"I've seen some of the things he did." He handed her the glass, amused that she had hoisted herself up on the counter and was wearing bulky socks as usual.
"I got my inspiration and talent from him. When I saw him design a particular building, I told myself I wanted to do just that." Leaning back on one hand, she swung her legs and sipped the excellent vintage.
She had to admit that she felt damned comfortable around him.
The meal arrived and they spent a companionable few minutes dumping the delicious smelling risotto into chinaware. They sat down to eat, and the conversation settled smoothly around business. She found that she could talk about the projects easily, because he was a big part of it.
They even spent a few minutes volleying back and forth over an idea she pitched.
And he realized to his amazement that she was not afraid to dig into her meal. The other women he had spent time with, including Carly, ate delicately, toying with their food as if afraid to ruin their lipstick. Ingrid was not wearing lipstick for one and was enjoying the meal with relish.
Tearing off a piece of the loaf, she automatically handed it to him and used hers to gesture at him as she made her point.
"White is more the color."
"Everything white?" He gave her a dubious look as he ate the bread.
"What about pastel, pink, subtle shades of raspberry? I understand you want uniformity."
"That's so not what I'm after."
His thick brows lifted, and he laughed when she rolled her eyes.
"Okay, fine, you got me. The store front shops, the water fountain in the middle of all of it, park benches, not those hard ones that gives your butt an ulcer. Soft, buttery soft with padded headboards. An area where the shoppers can relax and watch their kids play. Swing sets."
She thought about it for a minute.
He loved watching her brainstorm, she went all in.
"Buggy rides, horse drawn carriages for the romantic or visitors who just want to wander around town to look at what's being offered. It's going to be like a fairy tale location combined with the Victorian Era. What do you think?"
He scooped up pasta.
"I've been looking at the plans."
"And?"
"I think it's brilliant."
Her smile had his breath lodging somewhere in his throat. Dimples peeked out and white teeth flashed against very sexy lips. It was funny. She wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup, and her hair was tumbling all over the place, yet, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The thought of it staggered him and rendered him speechless.
Picking up the glass, he took a sip.
"You okay?" she asked him curiously.
"Yeah." He had to move in order to keep his wits about him.
"How about some dessert? There's tiramisu."
"Let's save it for later." Her eyes danced. Unaware of the turmoil she was causing, she continued.
"I vote for the movie and popcorn and hell, soda."
Her words settled him, and he stared at her with raised brows.
"You're going to be sick," he predicted.
"Fortunately, we're home." Shoving to her feet, she came around and took his arm, sending heat straight through him.
"Come on, McCreary, old black and white films await."
He allowed himself to be led into the sunken theater room with its roomy bed-like easy chairs, decorated in rich burgundy. The large screen was mounted on the wall and fashioned like a movie theater. There was a concession stand.
She made a beeline for it and started the popcorn.
"I'm choosing the movie," she told him, flashing a smile over her left shoulder as she headed towards the stack of movies.
"Action?" She turned to look at him as he made himself comfortable on one of the recliners.
"It's your deal." Lifting his hands, he crossed them at the back of his head and felt another quick jolt as she wrinkled her nose at him.
"How do you feel about Seagal?"
"Considering that I'm a straight guy, I'd have to say that he does absolutely nothing for me."
He grinned at her wry look.
"You're a funny guy." She plucked several movies out.
"First Stallone and then Seagal."
"Okay."
She got it started and to his shocked surprise, came to settle next to him. Plumping up the pillows, she curled her body next to his, her hair spilling over his arm. For a moment he could not breathe and when he did, her scent assailed his nostrils.
All of his senses were furiously engaged.
Because of it, he missed the introduction of the movie.
It took him several minutes of deep breathing and fighting his desire for him to concentrate on the plot unfolding before them. And when he did, he had to focus fiercely. He was aware of every time she shifted, every breath she took.
His senses were so acutely tuned to her that he could feel when she sighed.
"It's mechanical."
"Pardon?"
"His acting. I like Stallone, but I cannot get around his Brooklyn accent."
He chuckled.
"You're a snob."
"Am not."
"With your upper crust accent, you certainly are."
Tilting her head, she gazed at him.
"You're one to talk," she retorted.
"I'm not a snob."
"Yeah, right." She snorted.
He breathed easier when she directed her gaze back to the movie. They watched in silence, the sounds of gunfire and mayhem echoing around the room. She insisted on getting up to fetch the popcorn and soda and placed it between them.
Then became so absorbed in the plot that she was digging out handfuls of popcorn the same time he did.
They argued over the merits of the plot and the main characters.
"Jason Statham."
"What about him?"
"He's classic. Acting is great and not to mention that accent."
"Once again, snob." Without thinking, he dabbed at the sides of her mouth with the napkin.
"Just saying." She fed him popcorn from her hand.
"Seagal is too stiff and unrealistic. Come on, McCreary, you have to admit that it's impossible for one man to take on an entire army and not get a scratch on him."
"He was pretty banged up there."
"Bruise on the forehead." She scoffed.
"Not realistic."
"You wanted him battered and bruised? The man is a martial arts genius."
"Still." She settled back to watch the movie in silence.
Two movies turned into four and they finally saw the classic black and white she had originally suggested.
He had no idea what woke him or that he had fallen asleep. He blinked at the blank screen, and it took him a while to realize that his wife was practically wrapped around him. Her head was snug on his shoulder, and one leg was thrown over his.
He went still, not even daring to breathe.
Tipping his head down, he studied her face. He should move or wake her. A glance at his watch showed that it was almost eleven. And this was dangerous territory.
His desire was raging out of control.
Just when he decided to move, her eyes flickered open and met his. Not daring to breathe, he stared into her eyes and saw awareness flicker in them.
"Hi." Her voice was husky with sleep.