Page 62 of Midnight Valentine
“Flirting.”
His lips cant up. He blinks like a debutante, coy as sin. “Am I?”
“Yes. You are. But you already knew that.”
“And you’re very good at being alluringly mysterious and hard to read.”
That makes me laugh out loud. “Mysterious? Hardly. I’m an open book compared to some.” Like Theo Valentine, for instance.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my left ear, silently cursing myself for thinking about Theo. It’s like he’s taken up residence in my head and is just lounging around in there, waiting for random opportunities to shout, Hey, think about me!
Craig watches the motion of my hand with a contemplative look, then meets my eyes. “Okay, since you’re an open book, may I ask a personal question?”
I have a bad feeling about this, but nod anyway.
“You told me during our first conversation when you called for a quote that you moved here because your husband had passed away. How long ago was that?”
A pit forms in my stomach. I swallow, moistening my lips. “Five years.”
Craig asks gently, “Why are you still wearing your wedding ring after five years?”
I hide my hand in my lap and curl my thumb into my palm, twisting the plain gold circle around my finger. I feel exposed and vulnerable. My heart is caught in my throat. “The answer to that probably isn’t something a man on a first date would like to hear.”
Now he’s really interested. His eyes glow with intensity. “I do want to hear it. Please.”
I take a breath, hoping my voice comes out steady. “I don’t take it off because I still feel married. I am still married. My husband just happens to be dead.”
After a beat, Craig leans back in his chair, crosses one long leg over the other, folds his hands in his lap, and looks at me until I’m squirming with embarrassment.
“I told you you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“I’m glad you told me, though. B
ut it begs another question.”
I have to swallow a groan. “Which is?”
“If you really feel that way, why are you having dinner with me?”
I think about that long and hard. I can’t find an answer that won’t sound either pathetic or like I’m using him for a free meal, so I tell him the truth. “Because you make it impossible to say no.”
He winces. “God, you make me sound like a sexual predator.”
I blow out a breath that turns into a laugh. “That came out wrong. What I meant was that you’re charming.”
He cocks a brow, waiting for more. Obviously, he’s not satisfied by my half-hearted attempt to salvage the conversation, but I’m rusty as hell at this, and not in the mood to massage his ego.
I level him with a look. “Craig, you know you’re handsome. Half the women in this restaurant gave themselves whiplash watching you as we walked to our table.”
He smiles serenely. “Go on.”
Unbelievable. “And you’re funny. And smart. And a lot of other nice things I’m not going to list because you’re already too big for your britches.”
His chuckle is one of a man oozing self-confidence, who loves to hear other people tell him how great he is so they can be in agreement. I find it incredibly grating.
Self-confidence is one thing. Arrogance is another. Time to take him down a notch.
“So what’s happening with your company? Any news about the lawsuit?”
