Chapter 18 Rowe
Rowe
“So why do you want this?” I ask, hoping to change the subject from Pane’s dad to something else. “To win the company? Yesterday you said that you wanted to be seen as more than just Pane Maddox. Why?”
He quirks a brow. “Now you’re asking questions?”
“Knowing four things about you gives me an advantage.”
He barks a laugh before pulling me into him as “Careless Whisper” by Wham! begins to play.
“Ah, George Michael,” he says. “One of the many faces I see before bedtime.”
“I’m sure George is lovely.”
He studies me for a moment before sighing. “I’m not ready to tell you my reasons for wanting to win the company.”
“What? That’s no fair.”
He drops his mouth to my ear. “You haven’t earned the right to that knowledge—not yet.”
I bristle. “I’m helping you win the competition.”
“There’s a long way to go before we win, Sunbeam,” he tells me before proceeding to spin me out.
He pulls me back in and tugs me close so that every inch of my torso is pressed to his. Sparks ignite in my body, torturing me as they fire off. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he swings me out again, and I can finally breathe.
That’s before I’m pulled back in and the cycle starts all over.
As the song continues, his movements slow. He holds me in a way that makes my brain scream, Run!
This whole dancing scenario has destroyed my notion about who this man is. For as sarcastic and grunty as Pane has been, he apparently also has a softer side.
“Speaking of scents . . .” he says, lifting his hand and spinning me. He reels me back in effortlessly. “You smell like a bouquet.”
“You’re joking.”
“I would never joke about such a thing.”
The way he’s staring down at me makes a lump clot up my throat. Somehow I manage to talk past it. “How do I smell? Could you bottle it?”
“Oh, I could bottle it,” he growls.
The heat in his voice sends hormones flooding through my bloodstream. My panties are now soaked through. Thank you very much, hormones. Must not think about wet panties. “So, what is the smell?”
“It’s . . . wildflowers.”
“Wildflowers?”
“On a cloudless day,” he muses.
Our gazes latch, and I blink in a pathetic attempt to claw my way out of the hole I’ve plummeted into.
“Tell me . . .” He nods toward the crowd. “What’s the dating pool like here?”
“It’s a small town. What do you think it’s like?”
“Tiny.”
We both laugh and it feels good. Right. Lawd, have mercy. I must be losing my mind to think that.
This is not supposed to happen. This is a business relationship, and I must remember that.
“Since you know everyone in this town,” he continues, “I assume that means you’re also privy to their secrets. I’m guessing that means you’re—”
“Not interested in dating any of them.”
He hitches a brow in disbelief. “Never?”
“Never.”
Pane’s hand on my back tightens. “Which means one of them broke your heart.”
I stiffen. This is not the time to spill about Luke. Not now, and not with Pane. No matter how fabulous he smells.
My heart immediately throws up walls around itself. “Why are you asking? Wondering if I’ve almost nabbed other rich men?”
His expression falls. “If your dating pool is small, mine is, too.”
“How could your dating pool be tiny? You can date the whole world.”
“But does the whole world want me? Or does it want something else?”
My heart stutters at what Pane’s suggesting—that woman only date him for his money.
I’ve been staring at him, and it’s getting hot. Or I’m feeling hot. “Can we sit down?”
“You okay?” he asks, concern etched on his face.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
I don’t like the look on his face. Our relationship was better when we hated one another. This is new. Confusing. Strange.
He escorts me back to our barstools and we sit. My water is empty now, which makes me sad. Pane sips his drink and swivels his barstool around to face mine, giving me his undivided attention.
“Another water, or whiskey sour?”
“I’ll take a whiskey sour.”
When the drink is in my hand, I suck it down in an attempt to fog up this new feeling for Pane. I’m working really, really hard to not like him, but here he is, steadily watching me. Pane Maddox is acid, slowly dissolving my resolve to continue hating him.
“May I ask . . . where is your mom?”
“Oh, her.” I grab a handful of peanuts and slowly shell them, popping each in my mouth as I explain. “She is living her dream and following her favorite jam band around the country, alongside her boyfriend.”
“People do that?”
“They do. There’s a whole community of retirement-age folks who follow bands in their campers.
” I chew and swallow a peanut. “My dad’s death hit her pretty hard, and it was years before she and Bill started dating.
She deserves to have some fun and not worry about all the mess that’s going on here. ”
Pane taps my wrist. “How long have you been back from college?”
I hold up both hands. “Six years.”
“Which would make you . . . ?”
“Twenty-seven. And you are?”
“Thirty-five.”
The alcohol is now flooding my system, and Pane’s face is swimming. I squint to keep it steady. “That’s why you’ve got that gray.”
He pats his hair and frowns. “I don’t have gray.”
“No, you don’t. But I made you think that you do.”
He smirks. “And you haven’t dated anyone the whole time that you’ve been home? Six years?”
I exhale, annoyed. “So many questions about dating. Yes, I dated. I brought a man, Luke, home with me from college, but we only lasted about a year before he dumped me for Sally Ray, my neighbor who owns the unicorns. Now they’re married and are living happily ever after.”
“Luke,” he murmurs darkly.
“Don’t worry. You shouldn’t have to meet him. He works at the bank. Besides him, I have dated a few guys, but nothing serious. Probably because they lack my love of piggycorns.”
“How evil of them.”
“See? You get it.” I lightly poke his shoulder for emphasis. “Now it’s my turn to pepper you with questions about your love life.”
“Shoot. I’m an open book.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Absolutely not.”
I frown. “You say that so emphatically.”
“What kind of man would be dancing with one woman while dating another?”
“Good point. But I saw a picture on the internet of you with a blond woman.”
“Ah, you’re an internet sleuth.”
“Not me. Cristina.”
“Well, that was an old picture.” He folds his hands. “I’ve dated women on and off, none of them seriously.”
“Why not?”
He cringes. “The women who run in my circles are socialites. Their concerns are different. Don’t get me wrong—they’re smart, educated. Even if they weren’t educated, they’d still be smart. But they’re just not my type.”
A knot jams up my throat. It should be jammed up, because he’s talking about how sophisticated the women he dates are. Sophisticated enough to know the difference in knives. But the way he’s looking at me makes it very clear: Those women might not have been his type, but maybe . . . Nope. Nope.
Not going there.
Love leads to heartbreak. Love leads to relying on other people—people who do things like die or dump you.
I clear my throat. “Well, the woman in the photo was certainly beautiful.”
“There are other, more beautiful women in the world,” he says with hooded eyelids.
No, no, no! There will be no flirting. I jump out of my chair. “Are you hungry?”
He pats his flat stomach. “Starving.”
I cock my head toward the door. “Great. Want to grab something to eat?”