11. Dash
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DASH
"So, who's the lucky lady this evening? That's rhetorical. I already know who,” Colt said.
"It’s Kate. I made reservations at Brennan’s." Dash fished his car keys from his pocket.
“A third date with Kate? Well, that confirms it.”
“Confirms what?”
“That you retired the old stopwatch. Maybe we should drive down to Galveston and give it a proper burial at sea.” Colt gave a solemn salute.
"It's our first date, Colt. I've only seen her twice—the night we met, which wasn’t a date—and once when I stopped by her studio for ten minutes. Also not a date.”
"Well, have fun on your first official date. Don't forget your toothbrush.”
Dash laughed. "It's not like that."
"We'll see," Colt said, grinning. "I won't hold breakfast."
“Spending the night is out of the question. Not happening. But it won't be long. It's a cold, hard fact I’m irresistible."
"Humble too," Colt added.
"Not that it’s any of your business, but I'm waiting for the right moment with this one."
Had he thought about falling into bed with Kate? Absolutely. But he wanted more than the glitter of sexual chemistry. One-nighters were behind him. Dash wanted forever.
Colt stared at him, baffled. "You're shitting me? Who are you and what have you done with my fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants stepbrother?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, but it's the truth."
"You must really like her."
Dash gave a hard look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I mean this isn't exactly your standard operating procedure. What about Ol' Red in London? Wham-bam …?"
"Can't two people enjoy one another without making it sexual?"
"When one of them is Dash Benning? Slave to the stopwatch? Mr. One Night Only? Not a snowball's chance."
Dash waved him off and headed out. The drive to Kate’s house in The Heights was scored with his go-to Spotify playlist. Lots of southern rock and classic country.
Traffic was lighter than he’d expected, and he arrived at Kate's ahead of schedule. Miranda’s voice echoed in his head: never show up early to a woman’s house. So, he parked two houses down to wait.
He called the restaurant and confirmed their reservation: a table for two in the room where Jack Nicholson and Shirley MacLaine filmed part of Terms of Endearment. He was about to call a business associate regarding Streisand tickets when his phone pinged with a text.
Fun fact: I don’t charge for parking.
Dash looked up. Kate stood near her mailbox in a fitted black dress that damn near stole his breath. She motioned him forward, aircraft-marshaller style, minus the orange batons. He eased the gearshift into drive and rolled up into her driveway.
“Sculptor. Painter. And now, future member of an airport ground crew,” he said as he stepped out.
“What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”
He offered his hand, but she pulled him in for a hug instead. She was tall, taller in heels, and they matched eye-to-eye. Some men might find that intimidating. Dash found it sexy as hell.
Kate invited him inside. He waited in the living room while she shooed her dog out back for a potty break.
Her artistic eye, on full display. The room exuded eclectic warmth in varying neutral shades, minus one prominent pop of color in the form of an enormous spray of coral-hued peonies brightening the coffee table.
But the framed photos lining the built-ins pulled him in.
Vacation shots of Kate and a man, in landmark locales around the world.
The Eiffel Tower. The Trevi Fountain. Stonehenge.
A Christmas market in Germany. On a yacht with the Sydney Opera House in the background.
Their love for one another, evident in each shot.
Kate’s hair was shorter then. The man wore a bright orange Astros cap in every picture.
Must be his lucky hat.
One photo caught his attention. Teen Kate and a younger girl. A sister, maybe? Something about the younger girl tugged at his memory. He reached for the frame just as the dog barreled back into the room, nearly knocking him over.
"Easy, big guy," Dash said, steadying himself.
"Roscoe! Down! Sorry. He loves new people. Apparently, I’m a bore."
She took the dog by the collar and steered him out of the room.
Dash lifted the photo again. Young Amelia Earhart?
Surely not. Aside from her jet-black hair and thick eyeliner, there was a resemblance.
Or maybe he was imagining it. He’d trained himself to look twice at every woman who ventured into his sightline.
His inspection was cut short when Kate returned seconds later.
“I see you found Teen Kate and her sister, Baby Goth.”
“It’s a great photo.”
“She hates it, so naturally I display it.”
“That’s what big sisters do.”
Kate pulled her purse strap up over her shoulder. “Exactly. Ready?”
He placed the photo back. "After you."
As they headed to the door, Kate called out, “Alexa! Weather report for Houston tonight?”
A puck-shaped device on the bookshelf lit up and launched into a detailed forecast. Dash wiped a hand across his face and released an audible sigh.
“You’re not scared of a little rain, are you?” Kate asked.
“No, it’s that name … Alexa,” he grunted.
Kate’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this story.”
They talked non-stop in the car and all through dinner. After sharing the breakup story with Alexa, he expected her to reciprocate about the man in the Astros cap.
She didn’t.
He changed tactics and questioned her about the locations of the photos instead. But Kate didn’t take the bait. She offered brief descriptions of each trip—mostly food she’d enjoyed and excursions she’d made, but nothing beyond that.
She’s not ready to talk about Mr. Baseball. Leave it be.
"Would you like to see the dessert tray?" the server asked.
Dash smiled at Kate. “Their tableside Bananas Foster is the stuff of legends. Interested?"
"Honestly, I'm stuffed. I'd love some coffee though," she answered.
"Very good. And for you, sir?" the server asked.
"Make it two coffees," Dash confirmed.
The restaurant had emptied around them. Dash leaned back, letting the chair teeter. A perfect evening thus far, and one he hated to see come to an end.
Colt's teasing resurfaced: I won’t hold breakfast.
Between the warm embrace, the hand holding, and trading bites of food, a certain tension grew. A clear case of mutual attraction. And her milky skin in the candlelight? He could’ve stared forever.
With coffees in hand, they fell back into conversation, lingering for another half hour.
"You mentioned your dad's birthday. Big party or a quiet family celebration?" he asked.
“It’s both, actually. A dinner party with just the three of us one night, then a big surprise blowout the following day at a French Quarter style restaurant—one kind of similar to this one.”
"And he has no idea?"
"If he does, he’s not letting on. Won't surprise me if he knows every single detail. The man prides himself on knowing every move we make.”
"I'm sure it'll be great."
"Oh, it will be. My sister deserves all the credit though. She's planning everything. All I have to do is show up."
"A real Martha Stewart type, huh?"
Kate barked a laugh. "Hardly. She can't even boil water. But the girl has exquisite taste. Pop tells everyone I work in bronze and Natalie works in plastic. Give her a credit card and an afternoon and she’ll leave you breathless."
"Shopping as art?"
"Exactly.”
"What does she do?" he asked.
"She's an event planner for Soiree in Chicago. They plan everything from spoiled-rich-kid parties to red carpet events. Her firm is probably running the gala you and Miranda are attending next month."
"Wow. You Powell women are impressive."
"We had to be. Foster Powell swears he's spending every dime of our inheritance. There’s a surprise-within-the-surprise that he doesn’t know about.” Her grin widened. “It’s a soft launch for Natalie’s new business. She’s striking out on her own again.”
His eyebrow rose. “Again?”
“She and a few friends moved to London in their twenties and made an attempt, but there was a lot of in-fighting between them and robbing Peter to pay Paul. They were broke, and running up credit card debt like you can’t believe.”
“Well, that’s not exactly hard to do, being young and living abroad.”
“I know. They all had business degrees but didn’t know what the hell they were doing. And I’m not talking shit about my sister. She’ll tell you the same thing. Then they kinda got black-listed when a SWAT team pulled the plug on their most high-profile event.”
Dash coughed, almost choking on his coffee. “SWAT team?”
“Yeah, it was pretty wild. They got hammered on the internet and had to close up shop. She worked her way up at a big firm there, then landed the Chicago job.”
“Good for her.”
“She’s a machine. But I’ll be glad when this party weekend is over. She’s been a little … manic.”
“A bit of a perfectionist?”
“You have no idea.”
Dash paid the bill, reluctant for the night to end. He thought a drive down to Galveston might be nice, to bring the whole Terms of Endearment movie vibe full circle, but rain threatened. Before he could make a suggestion, Kate surprised him with an unexpected proposal.
"There's a Norman Jewison marathon on TCM tonight. If you’re not in a rush, maybe we could—”
"I'd love to," he answered quickly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
They held hands the entire drive back to her house, welcomed by Roscoe's loud bark.
"He's a helluva watchdog." Dash stroked the dog's head.
“But he can be a helluva pest.” She took hold of Roscoe’s collar. "You're going outside, mister. Dash, please make yourself at home."
Kate guided the dog out of the living room. Alone, Dash inspected a vast CD collection—everything from Vivaldi to Metallica.
Huh. I thought Colt was the only person who still listened to CDs.
Kate returned, carrying a tray with two coffees and the most gorgeous dessert he’d ever seen.
"So, here’s the deal. I'm sure their Bananas Foster is good, but I make a pretty mean lemon-raspberry cheesecake."
She placed the tray on the coffee table and motioned for him to have a seat. He settled in on the couch next to her—close, but not too close. Mr. Baseball’s eyes were everywhere. Best not to come on too strong.
Dash turned to her, his tone serious. "You lied. I searched that entire shelf. Not a single Barbra Streisand CD, yet you claim to be her biggest fan?"
"That's because the divine Babs has a cabinet all her own." She pointed to a long, narrow credenza. “I have close to fifty glorious albums, housed right in there.”
Dash dropped his head. "I stand corrected."
"I'll accept an apology in the form of concert tickets."
"I'm working on it."
"I'm not holding my breath." She pointed a remote at the painting above her fireplace.
Dash's jaw dropped as the painting disappeared, replaced by a state-of-the-art flat screen television. He whistled. "Now that is the ultimate in concealment. QLED?"
She beamed. "It’s the best. Perfect for watching college football. You can see every blade of grass on the field."
He raised an eyebrow. “You watch college football?"
"A Tennessee Volunteer since the day I was born,” she said proudly. “My dad would have Peyton Manning’s baby if he could. We cheer for Vandy too, to support the home team.”
Well, shit. First red flag. Make that an orange flag. She cheers for the wrong UT.
“And it’s not like my alma mater, Chicago Art Institute, did much on the gridiron," Kate added with a laugh.
Dash zoned out for a moment.
Damn.
This woman is the whole package.
Smart. Talented. Beautiful. Bakes desserts that look like they belong on a magazine cover. And loves college football.
"Is that your dad there on the horse?" He pointed to a photo on the bookcase.
"The man himself."
"You grew up with horses?"
"More than we could count. Dad trains everything—racehorses, jumpers, polo ponies. Cutting horses too. And for some pretty impressive clientele."
"What a coincidence. I’m in the market for a new polo pony."
"You play?"
“Played,” he corrected, touching his scar.
Kate winced. “Ouch.”
“Now that I'm settled back here, I'm ready to pick it up again."
"You should come to my dad’s birthday party. He could put you in touch with the right people. Hell, he might even have the exact horse you’re looking for."
Dash ran his hand through his hair. "I'm honored, but … I’ve never even met him. I don’t want to intrude, especially not on his big day."
"He’d love you. My sister too. That's us flying kites, back before our mother died."
He followed her gesture to a photo he’d eyed earlier.
"You said your father’s name is Powell, but you go by Fitzpatrick," Dash said with gentleness. “Is that for artistic reasons?”
Kate’s expression softened. "Fitzpatrick was my married name. The man in the cap. Malcolm. He passed away three years ago. Cancer."
Dash’s chest tightened. He took her hand. "Kate … I’m so sorry."
"Thank you. He was wonderful. I miss him every day. But I’m trying to move forward. Baby steps, you know?"
She stared at the photos for a moment. Dash held his breath, ready to be a compassionate listener should she wish to reveal additional details of her late husband. Instead, she clicked to TCM and said, “Let's see what's playing. I hope it's Fiddler on the Roof or The Thomas Crown Affair.”
At the mention of the title, Dash's pulse kicked. Amelia Earhart. Thomas Crown. Names that haunted him. And yet here he sat with a beautiful, complicated redhead. She wasn’t Amelia, but she might be someone just as important.
"Dash?" Kate touched his arm. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Sorry. Just mentally shuffling my travel plans. Nashville might be calling.”
"Are you saying you'll come to the party?" she asked with hopeful eyes.
"Depends on several factors." His gaze shifted to the tray on the table. "Not the least of which is your cheesecake here."
She slid closer. "Suppose I sweeten the deal?”
"What'd you have in mind?"
He didn't give her the chance to respond. He kissed her. One kiss became two, then three. All lips. No tongue. Three soft kisses, warm and perfect. She pulled back first.
"I was starting to wonder if that was ever going to happen.”
He smiled. "I hope it was worth the wait."
Kate’s eyes glistened. When she spoke, her voice was low. "These lips haven't touched anyone since Malcolm died. I wasn't sure I still remembered how."
Dash brushed a lock of hair from her face. "Based on my preliminary findings, Professor, I’d say you’re doin’ just fine.”
Baby steps for you too, Dash.