Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,198

in the rolling hills of the almost-country.

“Close,” he said, but when they got there, he didn’t take the turn. He kept going, turning off at the sign to the Tumwater Vineyard.

She asked, “Do they have a restaurant?” This made more sense. More private, and they probably had patio dining, which would be beautiful tonight, looking out over the vine-clad hills as the light softened. Not perfect sense, because she couldn’t drink wine, and Harlan kept it to a single glass during the season and didn’t drink much at any time, which made wine-tasting pretty pointless, but whatever.

He said, “I’m not sure.”

“It might be better to be sure,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Would you like me to look it up?”

He glanced at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know what? Assume I’ve got this. And I told you, you don’t have to use your Tactful Voice. I’m not a real explosive guy.”

He didn’t turn left, though, into the vineyard’s entry. Instead, he drove a couple hundred yards farther, made a right at an unmarked driveway, pulled up to a security gate flanked by trees, punched in a code, and drove on through.

She said, “Oh. It’s somebody’s house. Is it a party? You didn’t have to be so mysterious. That’s fine. Although I’d have put on more makeup if I’d known it was a party. Some of your teammates’ wives are intimidatingly beautiful. Just saying, since I don’t have to be tactful.”

He didn’t answer. He was taking a curve up one of hills and approaching a house.

Well, sort of a house. More of a French chateau, situated at the breast of the hill with a view all around. White stucco that was supposed to look like plaster, gray slate roofs, dormer windows, and a round tower at the front. A whole lot of house. It had wings. She’d never actually been inside a house with wings. It also had a full tennis court on one side, with basketball hoops on either end. So, a tennis and a basketball court. Also a putting green. She said, “Yep. This house is NFL all the way. Isn’t that Owen’s car? He’s here, too?”

He said, “Anybody ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?” Then he hopped out and came around to open her door. He also put a hand under her arm to help her out, which she appreciated, since she wasn’t feeling what you’d call “graceful” at the moment. He took her hand, tucked it through his arm, and said, “And by the way, you look beautiful. In case I don’t tell you enough … I’m proud you’re mine.”

She looked startled that he’d said it. In fact, she opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. Why? Was that wrong? Did it sound like he didn’t respect her personhood or something?

Modern life was so confusing. He’d just wanted her to feel good, walking in. She seemed not to know how pretty she looked now, or what a thrill he got when he looked at her, because having her pregnant was hot as hell to him.

He probably shouldn’t say that last part, either.

He was thinking about that, because he was nervous.

He wasn’t a nervous guy. He was a cool guy. He was a guy who ran his pattern the same in the fourth quarter as he did in the first. Perfectly.

Yeah, big shot. But you’re nervous now. Heart pounding. Breath coming too shallow. The works.

No time for second thoughts. He opened the front door and ushered her inside.

Kickoff.

63

How Forever Feels

It was an empty house, at least from what she could see. As in, no furniture.

The front door opened into an entry hall, around the edges of which twined a graceful curved staircase. Ah. The tower was for the stairway. All righty, then. It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to just for a fancy staircase, but whatever.

She said, “I guess you’d call this decorating style “minimalist.” She nearly whispered it, but it still echoed.

He didn’t answer. He had her hand and was nearly pulling her through the entry and into the living room. Where the party was.

Well, if the party was being held in a very large but totally empty house. And if it was Owen and Dyma and Annabelle and Blake and Dakota and … her grandfather.

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to think. So she just stood there, rooted to the floor.

“It’s not my birthday,” she