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“I’m no wine snob, sweetheart. Until my late twenties, I got along just fine with cheap beer and booze and only came back to wine when I decided to behave like an adult.”
“I don’t believe it,” I mutter, pouring him a glass. “But here you go. And while you’re here, you might as well tell me what else sent you over. What’s wrong now?”
He accepts the glass and takes a sip, not even making a face at the ten-dollar wine I’ve just handed him. “Do I smell like disaster or what?”
“You could have apologized on the phone. And you said there was a ‘development.’ That has me a little freaked.”
“In my defense, you weren’t answering the phone,” he points out, and I shuffle back to my corner of the sofa. He’s got me there. “But as it happens, you’re right.”
My gut tightens.
What else could he possibly have in store?
More dates?
More kisses to feel bad about later?
Morepretending?
Dexter sticks a hand in his pocket and toys with whatever’s inside, frowning at the wall like he can see the mouse village inside that Catness is too chicken to shut down.
I resist the urge to tell him to spit it out.
“There have been a couple developments since I last saw you,” he says.
“Dude. You need to stop using that word.” Looks like I needed that wine after all and I throw back half my glass in one gulp.
“For starters, you remember Forrest Haute?”
“You mean the entire reason we’re a fake couple? How could I forget?”
“I met with him this afternoon to go over the property. He mentioned how keen he is for his wife to meet you.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed,” he says grimly, drinking his wine. Catness curls up on his lap and he strokes him absently, not seeming to notice the thick fur slowly fastening itself to his suit. “We need to get that dinner done. There’s no putting it off forever.”
I tap the edge of my glass with my nails, giving myself a minute to come to terms with everything.
Fine, whatever.
The last time we had dinner, we wound up spontaneously making out in front of my grandmother, but he clearly regrets it and so do I.I think.
But I’ve been sufficiently shamed now.
It won’t happen a second time.
And if I drink less and stay sobered up, I won’twantit to happen again, either.
I’d rather walk on nails than have this conversation again.
Never mind the fact that I’ve had a few sips tonight and he still looks way too delicious for his own good. No man should be blessed with that jawline, those cheekbones, and eyes like the Atlantic.
And now I know what those lips taste like—lips that I’ve seen go hard with contempt and strangely soft with surprising sweetness. Lips that kissed me until I was drunk with desire.
He frowns at me again and I force my mind back into the conversation.
“That’s fine,” I say. “We knew it was coming. If he likes my baking, then we’ve got something positive to work with. After Nana, it should be a cakewalk. Maybe literally. Oh, should I bring him a cake?”
