One to Chase - Tia Louise Page 0,27
I’m really laughing. “What interest do you have in my living arrangements?”
“I’m sure you can figure that one out.” His sly grin causes that little flicker to grow into more of a sizzle.
“Pretty sure of an invitation, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been pretty lucky in the past.”
A server appears with our plates, and it isn’t long before I’m cutting into perfectly cooked, medium-rare steak and roasted cauliflower with gruyere. Taking a break, I sip more wine and our eyes meet in the dim light across the table. His drop to my mouth then lower, lingering over my shoulders.
His gaze is like a caress, clearly hungry for more than steak. My head feels hot, and I curse not getting out more with C.J. I need to reconnect better. Then Marcus wouldn’t be so damned tempting all the time.
“We’re supposed to be discussing your mission statement during this business dinner,” I say, hoping to break the tension.
With a blink, he releases me. “How did the interviews go with Paul and Chris?”
“Just fine. That’s another thing we should take care of tonight.”
Setting his fork down, he leans back, lifting his wine glass. “What do you want to know? Shoot.”
I follow suit, leaning back on the velveteen bench. “You weren’t born in Chicago. Is Wilmington home?”
“Nice memory,” he grins, glancing down. “Yes. I grew up in Wilmington.”
“That explains the good Southern manners.” He chuckles, and I continue, recalling my curiosity at our earlier conversation. “You don’t credit your mother for them. Were you raised by another relative?”
“A rather personal question, Miss Knight.”
“You shouldn’t hide things from your PR person,” I tease. “Survivor stories are a marketing goldmine.”
“Is that so?” His question is slow and thoughtful, and he’s not smiling.
A protracted pause, and I decide to back off. “You don’t have to tell me. I was really just curious.”
“I know.” His eyes are on his wine glass, and I feel guilty for prying.
“What’s that saying? ‘It will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end’?” It only gets me a small smile, and I keep going. “I read it on a cat poster.”
That gets me a laugh. “You’re quoting the Lego movie now? What are you, twelve?”
“You caught the reference.”
“I happen to like Will Ferrell.”
This is better. I grin, “I seem to recall someone said I was a baby.”
“I’m starting to think you have daddy issues.” He lifts the wine glass and takes a sip. “Don’t most women?”
Wrong answer. “Don’t go there.”
He blinks up at me, and his expression softens. “Sorry.”
An uncomfortable silence floats between us, and I try to think of anything to say. I hadn’t meant to be sharp. I hadn’t meant to show my hand, and I really wish we could turn the clock back to a few seconds ago.
I’m surprised when he suddenly answers my original question. “My mother left when we were kids.” A little pause, a little frown. “Elaine was just a baby.”
My brow lines as I try to understand what he’s telling me. “Left... as in she moved to another house?”
“No.” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t know where she went. I’ve since learned she moved to California. Half-Moon Bay.”
“The other side of the country?” I actually hadn’t planned to say that out loud.
“As far from us as she could possibly get it seems.”
I can’t tell if he’s still angry. I feel like he must be—I know I can’t seem to let go of my past.
“But... that was better, right?” For whatever reason, I want to comfort him. “Better than if she’d stayed and been unhappy?”
“No.” He exhales a frustrated growl. “I don’t know. How can I answer that? All I know is Edward was a wreck. Henry was a sullen prick. Elaine was four.”
Blinking quickly, I don’t know why my eyes are hot. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.” He still isn’t looking at me, and I’m not sure I want him to. Tears would bring us too close. “She kept asking for our mother, and I wanted to protect her. I didn’t want her to feel like she’d lost everything.”
Pressing my lips together, I swallow the pain in my chest. “Is that how you felt?”
Those smoky hazel eyes rise to mine. “I was pretty young.”
Nothing is between us on the banquette, and I don’t hesitate. I reach forward and take his hand, threading our fingers. Warmth spills through my chest. I can’t contain my feelings for him.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Ahh,” he leans back. “We all have shit in our past. Basically, it