Page 61 of Midnight Valentine
When Craig pulls up at the curb in an expensive-looking silver sports car, I pretend like I wasn’t watching from the front window and hustle into the kitchen so he can’t see me as he walks up the path to the front door. After a minute, the doorbell rings. Though I know no one’s listening, I say a little prayer, asking for strength to get me through the evening.
I open the door to find Craig standing there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I’m surprised to see him in black dress slacks and a stylish wool blazer. He looks like he’s going on a job interview. In a way, I suppose he is.
He looks me up and down and whistles low. “You sure know how to wear that dress, Megan.”
“You’re not half-bad yourself.”
“I’m glad you think so. I spent two hours fussing in front of the mirror before driving over here.”
I have a sneaking suspicion he spends hours in front of the mirror whether he has a date or not, but I smile at him pleasantly, admiring the sheen of his freshly shaven jaw and his golden hair, which probably took a lot of coaxing to achieve that artfully tousled effect.
The man could teach me a thing or two about personal grooming. If I’m not mistaken, he even gets his eyebrows waxed. Those arches of his are suspiciously perfect.
“Are you ready to go?”
I nod, happy he didn’t ask to come inside, and turn the bolt on the new door lock Theo installed. He did it without me asking, a small kindness I’m grateful for.
And am not thinking about because he’s banned from my mind.
Great. Not even two minutes with Craig and already your thoughts are wandering back toward He Who Shall Not Be Named.
I turn back to Craig with a big, fake smile, already knowing the night is going to be a disaster.
* * *
Craig takes me to what is probably the best restaurant in the area. It’s one town south of Seaside and obviously expensive, with waiters in tuxedos gliding around silently and a pianist discreetly playing a baby grand on one side of the dining room. We’re seated at a candlelit table by a window with a view of the ocean, while I try not to be overly disturbed by Craig’s taste in music, which I was introduced to on the drive over.
He likes polka. Polka, for the love of all that’s holy.
Other than that extreme failing—and a tendency to dominate the conversation, which I already knew—he has lovely manners and is easy to be around. He’s smart, polite, engaging, and funny. Not to mention well dressed and sophisticated. He’s the kind of man every woman’s mother would love to have as a son-in-law.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asks after a hostess brings us menus.
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, examining me. “Like you’ve got a secret.”
I laugh. “I was just wondering how you’re still single.”
He leans back in his chair, smiling, obviously pleased. “So you think I’m a catch.”
I don’t want his ego getting any larger than it already is, so I shrug, because I’m nice like that. My nonchalance makes him throw his head back and laugh.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, you know that, Megan?”
“I’ve never had a man call me a nut before, so no. I didn’t know that. But…thank you?”
“Just an observation, not a compliment, but if you want a compliment, I’ve got about a dozen of them ready to go.”
I lift my brows. “You prefabricate compliments to pay to women? I feel so special.”
Craig’s eyes grow warm. He murmurs, “Not for women in general. For you. I won’t admit exactly how much time I’ve spent thinking about you, but it’s a lot.”
My cheeks heat. I glance down at the white linen napkin on my lap, flustered by the look in his eyes, which is frankly sexual. “You’re very good at this.”
“What?”
I glance back up at him. He’s leaning over the table now, eagerly listening.
