Page 4 of The Rejected Wife

"On the contrary." She reaches over to touch the hand I’ve flattened on the table. Instantly, a zip of awareness shoots up my arm. She pulls her hand back, but not before I hear her draw in a sharp breath.

A flush smears her cheeks. Her pupils dilate. She, too, feels this…awareness between us.A thrill of anticipation squeezes my chest.

"The place is perfect.” She takes a sip from her cup. "As is the coffee.”

"As is the company," I respond.

She blushes, then laughs. "Have we now moved onto the flattery portion of the date?"

"No, not yet," I tease. "I'm still compiling my list."

One of my companies is the supplier of the coffee served here. And I ordered a gourmet blend made from one of the most expensive beans in the world. It’s why I had to bring her here. I stiffen.Why do I feel like a schoolboy? Why is it so important that I impress her?

Unaware of my thoughts, she looks away, then laughs nervously. "I feel like I’m doing this all wrong." She pushes the hair back from her face. "It’s not that I’m not appreciative of your having rescued my handbag, but?—"

"But?"

She swallows. "But being in your presence makes me unravel."

Some of the weight on my chest dissolves. She’s as nervous as I am. It must not have been easy for her to admit that. Indeed, in my experience, women seldom speak their minds. They prefer to play games and make me guess what they’re trying to imply. But the clearness in her eyes tells me, she’s not one of them. So, I content myself with asking in a mild voice, "It is?"

She laughs again.

The sound, like a babbling stream of water, shoots bubbles through my veins. Jesus, am I rhapsodizing about her laughter? Really?I frown, and when I look into her bright eyes and see her curved lips, I feel my heart give another lurch.Jesus, what’s happening here?

"Are you okay?" she asks softly.

"Why shouldn’t I be?"

She shakes her head. "You seemed disoriented for a few seconds there."

I’d have gone with discombobulated; it feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me. I feel like I’ve lost my moorings, desperately trying to get my bearings and failing. Damn. I run my fingers through my hair. "The truth is, I’m not completely okay," I murmur.

"Oh?" She looks at me with curiosity.

"I haven’t been myself since I saw you struggling to free your bag from those doors to the subway train." I reach over, take a sip of my coffee, then place the cup back on the table.

I search for words to express what I’m feeling without coming across as creepy, or even more forward, or indeed, without making her uncomfortable, but also sticking as close as possible to the truth. I raise my gaze to hers again. "I feel like I should get to know you better. It’s why I asked you to have coffee with me." I raise both of my hands again, hoping my sincerity communicates itself to her. "Is that all right?"

She bites down on her lower lip, and goddamn, I feel that tug in my chest. And lower down. The blood throbs at my temples. My pulse rate grows insistent. She seems to consider my words, and when she finally nods, some of the tension bleeds from my shoulders. I didn’t realize how much I was worried she might want to leave after that confession.

I hold out my hand. "I’m Tyler Davenport."

Something flickers in her eyes. Her gaze grows troubled, but she places her much smaller palm in mine. "Priscilla Whittington."

"Whittington?" I release her hand. "You’re Toren Whittington’s sister?"

3

Priscilla

"And you’re one of the Davenport brothers.” I place my hands in my lap.

"You’ve heard of us, I take it?"His tone is wary.

I scoff, "You mean, have I heard of the one-time feud between our two families which has lasted for over fifty years?"

“The relationship has improved since Toren helped my brother Nathan stave off a takeover of the Davenport Group,” he points out.

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