Page 28 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
“Please?” he wheedles, and I can see where Cece got her winsome ways. I try not to react. “I know you’ve had a long day. Let’s have a nightcap and play a game of Scrabble. We can call it a celebration of getting Cece to bed without waking her.”
The utter incongruity of wine and Scrabble strikes me as funny, and I laugh out loud.
“Shhhh!” he cautions. “You’ll wake Cece! Then she’ll need something to drink, and a trip to the bathroom, and none of us will get to bed before two o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I clap both hands over my mouth to stifle my giggles, because I know exactly what he meant, and I recognize the paraphrase of one of Cece’s favorite books. “All right,” I say. “But if Cece wakes you in the morning, it will be your fault for keeping me up late.”
Mr. Emory gets the bottle of wine, then opens a drawer in an end table at the end of the couch and brings out a very ordinary, worn Scrabble box.
Charles turns out to be a demon Scrabble player, and he has beaten me three times before we finish our glasses of wine — and I’m no slouch at Scrabble.
After the third game, Charles says, “Bedtime for me, and I think for you, too, Kate. May I walk you to your room?”
“You may,” I say, delighted with the sheer sophistry of the invitation.
He offers me his arm, and I take it. I am careful not to put any weight on it, mindful of his earlier troubles with his leg.
When we reach my door, he bends and brushes a soft kiss on my forehead. “Good night, Kate. Thank you for being here for both of us.”
Before I can say anything, he turns away and goes back toward the living room. I watch him go, tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, walking with only the slightest trace of a limp. In my imagination, my skin burns where his lips had brushed.
In my mind’s eye, I can see myself calling out to him, offering to give him a massage to ease the muscles obviously tight with pain. He would have to lie down…somewhere…and that massage would become intimate. I could let my hands explore that lean, athletic form, and touch . . .
I’m not ignorant about boys. I had a brother and a father, after all. I’d dated a few times. And I’d read copious romance novels. But I’d never been with a man, not all the way. Perhaps it is time to change that. And Mr. Charles Emory was . . .
Then I mentally curse myself for being a fool, because there is no way in hell that handsome, wonderful man will ever fall in love with me. But I might be falling for him.
I get out my phone and text Grace.
Grace: Hi, Kate. I’m kind of in the middle of something.
I look at the time. It is approaching midnight. What could Grace be in the middle of?
Me: Ok. Text you later. Or you text me when you’re not busy.
I get an “ok” emoji.
Then, I lay on the bed thinking. Or emoting. Or something. Am I a complete idiot? Falling in love with the boss is never a good idea. Maybe I am just responding to proximity. Yeah, that is it. Handsome man, nobody else around . . . But he really was handsome. No, he is more than that…he is hot. Really hot. Maybe I should have invited him in? Might he have expanded on that fatherly forehead kiss?
I remember what I had glimpsed when he stood at my door that first morning, before he’d started wearing jeans around the house. Yeah.
I go over to my dresser and dig out BOB (Battery operated boyfriend.) Time to take the edge off before I do something super stupid.
Chapter twelve
Charles
I could have kicked myself for that light, fatherly kiss. What in hell did I think I was doing? Kate is a good fifteen years younger than I, and my best friend’s baby sister, to boot.
But what the heck had James been about when he practically shoved her out the door of his car and fled the night he dropped her off? Did he have a secret paramour he didn’t want his sister to know about? Or was he up to something else? He’d made himself scarce since then, too, only making the occasional video call to check in on his sister or to talk business with me.
I use the remote to retract the tv screen into its console, take the wine glasses to the kitchen and rinse them out. I start to put them in the dishwasher, but realize it is running. So I wash and dry them the old-fashioned way. Then I hang them back in their cabinet. No sense in leaving good crystal out for the cat to knock off.
The temptation to have another glass of wine is strong, but there will be work tomorrow. I should not court anaccident involving the bum leg or waking up with a hangover. I get down an ordinary glass, fill it with water, down it, and take myself off to my lonely bed.
The next morning, I get up early and go down the hall to the exercise room. I get in some work on the exercise bike, then on the rowing machine. My muscles tell me just how badly I’d been neglecting myself in the last few weeks. It wouldn’t do to add a crippled man to Kate’s already considerable workload. I should get Cece down here to practice her physical skills, too. She loves the climbing wall and the swinging rope.
I have breakfast with the girls and go with them and Gidget on the quarter mile walk around the gardens. Mr. Fluffy goes, too, dashing ahead of us to lie in wait and pounce, then lag behind.
