11. Kate
Kate
I stayed at the tavern on Main long enough to order a margarita and exchange a few words with the bartender.
Then I left the drink untouched, pulled my hood over my hair, and slipped through the side door while the mariachi band was still warming up.
There had never been a girls’ night.
Claire was home with a cold. Sara had an early meeting. Neither of them knew I’d used them as an excuse to keep Michael away.
I’d promised him one night. Nothing more.
We’d both known it was a lie before the night was over, but acknowledging that would mean surrendering control of something I barely understood.
Michael had already moved into my life with alarming ease.
He drank coffee in my kitchen, walked my dog, and kissed me goodbye as though leaving my condo was something he intended to do regularly.
He consumed space without asking for it.
Worse, I kept making room for him.
I had told him there would be no booty call tonight because I needed to remind both of us that access to me wasn’t automatic. The message had been flippant enough to suggest I wasn’t thinking about him.
I had been thinking about him all day.
That was why I needed the lie.
I took the quieter streets behind the marina instead of walking along Main. The wind pushed cold air beneath my hoodie and carried music from the tavern toward the harbor. By the time I reached my condo, my hands were tucked into my sleeves and the tip of my nose had gone numb.
Amber met me at the door with her leash in her mouth.
“Not tonight.”
She followed me into the kitchen and dropped it across my foot.
“You’re as bad as he is.”
Her tail struck the cabinet.
I poured a glass of wine, carried it onto the back patio, and curled into the wide chair overlooking my private dock. Amber wandered through the flowerpots while I pulled a throw over my legs.
The harbor had gone quiet. Most of the boats were covered for the season, leaving only a few masts moving against the dark sky. Water tapped softly against the pilings beneath the dock.
Usually, this was my favorite time of night. Bayview stopped performing after the restaurants closed and the tourists returned to their rentals. What remained belonged to those of us who remembered the town before the casinos and superyachts.
Tonight, the empty chair across from me kept drawing my attention.
I finished half the wine before going inside.
Amber settled near the front door while I locked the dead bolt and switched off the downstairs lights. I had reached the third stair when someone knocked.
Three measured taps.
Amber’s head lifted.
I continued upstairs.
My phone buzzed inside the pocket of my hoodie.
Michael: I can see the light under the door.
I turned off the hallway lamp.
Another message arrived.
Michael: That was adorable.
I stared at the screen.
Me: Go home.
His reply came immediately.
Michael: I brought something.
Me: It’s midnight.
Michael: Almost.
I didn’t respond.
For several seconds, the house remained quiet.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Michael: I’m not coming inside, Kate.
I should have left him standing there.
Instead, I went into my bedroom and looked through the front window.
Michael stood beneath the porch light wearing a black overcoat over a white shirt open at the collar.
The wind had disordered his dark hair and brought color into his face, sharpening the strong line of his cheekbones.
In one hand, he carried two insulated cups.
In the other, a narrow black box tied with a gold ribbon.
He looked up.
Directly at my window.
I stepped back, although it was already too late.
My phone buzzed.
Michael: Five minutes.
Me: No.
Michael: Three.
Me: That isn’t how negotiation works.
Michael: You responded. Progress.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Annoyed by that small betrayal, I went downstairs.
Amber was already waiting beside the door, her tail sweeping across the floor.
“You’re not helping.”
She stood the moment I unlocked the dead bolt.
I opened the door only as far as the security chain allowed.
Michael’s gaze moved over my face before settling on my eyes.
“I thought you had plans,” he said.
“I did.”
“How were the margaritas?”
“Excellent.”
“What did you order?”
“A margarita.”
The corner of his mouth shifted.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You came here to question me about tequila?”
“I came because it’s almost midnight.”
I glanced at the cups. “Is that your excuse?”
“No. This is.”
He raised one of them.
“What is it?”
“Decaf cappuccino.”
“At midnight?”
“That’s why it’s decaf.”
“Normal people bring flowers.”
“Flowers die.”
“So does romance when you say things like that.”
“The cappuccino was made with beans imported from a family roaster outside Naples. They’re ground to order at the casino because I don’t serve stale coffee to people losing fifty thousand dollars at my tables.”
“And you brought some to my house?”
“I brought you the best coffee available in Bayview.”
Of course he had.
I nodded toward the box. “What else?”
“Chocolate.”
“You brought me chocolate and coffee at midnight?”
“I absolutely did.”
Michael untied the gold ribbon and lifted the lid. Dark chocolate truffles sat in individual gold cups, each one decorated by hand.
“Venchi,” he said. “Hazelnut, sea salt, and dark chocolate ganache.”
“You raided your casino gift shop?”
“My casino doesn’t have a gift shop.”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
“It has a private confectioner.”
“That is somehow worse.”
“It’s significantly better.”
Amber pushed her nose into the narrow space between the door and the frame.
Michael’s attention dropped to her.
“And I brought something for Amber.”
“You did not.”
He shifted the coffee into one hand, reached inside his coat, and produced a bone-shaped biscuit wrapped in clear paper.
Amber’s entire body began to wag.
“Don’t even think about it,” I told her.
Michael unwrapped the biscuit and held it through the opening. Amber took it gently from his fingers, dropped onto the floor, and began eating as though she hadn’t been fed in weeks.
“Traitor.”
Her tail thumped while she chewed.
Michael watched her with quiet satisfaction. “Someone in this house appreciates me.”
“She has no standards.”
“She rejected the first biscuit.”
I looked at him. “There was a first one?”
“Peanut butter. She preferred pumpkin.”
“You brought her options?”
“I didn’t know what she liked.”
The image of Michael Waters standing somewhere inside his casino at midnight, considering dog-biscuit flavors, was far more charming than it had any right to be.
I reached through the gap for one of the cups.
He moved it out of reach.
“What are you doing?”
“Negotiating.”
“You said it was a gift.”
“It is.”
“Then hand it over.”
“Open the door.”
“You’re not coming inside.”
“I didn’t ask to.”
His answer removed the argument I had prepared.
Michael set the cappuccino and chocolates on the porch table, then stepped back to the edge of the porch.
No push. No attempt to convince me that my boundary was unreasonable.
That was new.
I closed the door long enough to release the security chain. When I opened it again, Michael remained where I had left him.
I picked up the cappuccino and took a cautious sip. The coffee was smooth and rich beneath a thin layer of foam, with enough cocoa dusted over the top to soften the bitterness.
“This is good.”
“I know.”
“And modesty dies at midnight.”
“Modesty was never alive between us.”
I selected one of the truffles.
“Hazelnut,” he said. “The square one has sea salt.”
“You memorized the box?”
“I asked questions.”
“About chocolate?”
“About what women like.”
I raised an eyebrow.
His mouth curved. “A friend suggested I try romance.”
“You have a friend?”
“One. His continued survival is under review.”
I laughed despite myself.
Michael’s expression changed.
Not dramatically. His features simply lost some of their hardness.
“What?” I asked.
“I like that.”
“What?”
“Making you laugh without irritating you first.”
The softness of the answer caught me off guard.
I looked down at the chocolate in my hand. “Who is this friend?”
“Brett. My head of security and, apparently, my relationship adviser.”
“You have a relationship adviser now?”
“I didn’t hire him for that. He appointed himself after accusing me of doing everything in the wrong order.”
“What order were you doing things in?”
“Pursuit first. Romance later.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“He used the word stalking.”
I stopped with the truffle halfway to my mouth.
Michael took a drink of his cappuccino.
Then one side of his mouth lifted.
“That was a joke, Kate.”
“With you, it’s difficult to tell.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
I ate the truffle. The chocolate melted almost immediately, followed by hazelnut and the faintest trace of salt.
Michael watched my face.
“You like it.”
“It’s acceptable.”
“You closed your eyes.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You’re staring too closely.”
“I pay attention.”
“That’s a polite way to describe it.”
His gaze moved to my mouth. “I’m trying to be polite.”
I felt that look everywhere.
“What did Brett suggest?” I asked.
“Dinner.”
“There are dozens of women who would happily have dinner with you.”
“I’m only asking one.”
“You haven’t asked me.”
“I was getting there.”
He reached inside his coat and withdrew a cream envelope. My name was written across the front in black ink.
Kate.
Not Kathryn Peters. Not Ms. Peters.
Just Kate.
Michael held it out to me.
“Another tourist restaurant you’ve probably eaten at a thousand times hardly screams first-date energy,” he said. “So I made a different plan.”
I accepted the envelope but didn’t open it. “First date?”
“Yes.”
“When did I agree to date you?”
“You haven’t.”
“Then why are you planning dates?”
“I like being prepared.”
“It was one night, Michael.”
“I remember.”
“One night does not make us a couple.”
His gaze held mine.
“No. But every lifetime starts with one.”
For a moment, I couldn’t think of an answer.
Michael seemed almost irritated with himself for saying it. His jaw tightened, and he looked toward the street as though checking whether anyone else had heard.
“Did Brett give you that line?”
“No.”