Page 43 of Healing Kiss

“You have your own chef?”

“For special occasions like this…yes. I’m not much of a cook.”

He pulled the padded chair out from the table and motioned for her to sit. “I just have to heat up the meal. I promise, it will only take a minute.”

“Can I help?”

He smiled, revealing a glimpse of the dimple that only seemed to come out to play in moments like these. “To use the microwave and oven? I’ve got it. You sit and rest and talk to me.”

Talk to him? What safe topics could they talk about they hadn’t already covered?

He opened the fridge and proceeded to pull out an assortment of covered dishes, which turned out to be a tossed salad, butter, and a white casserole dish, which he put in the microwave.

“Will Angelina be at the hospital fundraiser tonight?” The minute the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them.Of all the questions to ask.That was not a safe topic. Besides, what business was it of hers?

“Yes, she organized it. It’s the largest fundraiser the hospital puts on. She’s been planning it for more than a year.” He pressed a button on the microwave until it beeped and hummed, then set the salad on the table along with the butter and turned to look at her, all trace of laughter removed from his expression. Tension vibrated on an invisible cord between them. “Are you married?”

The unexpectedness of the question had her skin tightening.Tit for tat, obviously.The heat in the room rose another notch, and she didn’t answer but took off her jacket and draped it around the back of her chair.

He stilled, his gaze never wavering, waiting for her response.

She pressed her lips together. Despite the way she’d evaded the topic earlier, she couldn’t outright lie now. “No, I’m not married. What about you?”

The tension in his expression vanished. “Nope, too busy working.”

Of course, developing the software that made him a billionaire. “You’re not working now.” Her stomach cringed. She really should change the subject.

“I’ve been a bit preoccupied with my mom.”

“Of course.”

He straightened a tulip in the vase. “Besides, I doubt I’ll ever tie the knot.”

He said it casually, as if they were discussing the weather, but the admission was meant as a warning. He could save himself the trouble—the last thing she wanted was commitment.

She dropped her gaze to the gold placemat in front of her, sliding moist palms down her lap. The earlier light camaraderie between them had faded and been replaced with…what? Fear? Curiosity? Her throat scratched.

“How can you be sure?” She meant the words to be teasing, but they came out breathless.

His eyes met hers. “Because I don’t want children.”

She frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Why not?”

He grimaced. “Any child of mine could inherit Huntington’s. I won’t consign an innocent child to that fate.”

He turned away to check the oven, and she fingered the fancy cloth napkin. How sad a man as vital as him would never have children of his own, especially knowing he did not have Huntington’s. But she understood his dilemma all too well. If she ever made the mistake of having children, they would have a 50 percent chance of either inheriting the healing gene or some other mutation, like the gene that allowed Hannah to know the secrets of the heart. And any children who could cure the sick would have a target on their back.

“Have I shocked you?”

His deep voice interrupted her musings, and she realized he’d returned to the table, while she’d been preoccupied. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure there’s a lady out there who doesn’t want children also.”

“Do you?”

Her gaze flew to his, and it came to her then, someone had wounded him deeply—someone who had wanted children. He turned away, picking up the champagne bottle and pouring the sparkling liquid into their glasses. He handed her a glass and waited for an answer, his eyes challenging.

“Want children?” She took a gulp of champagne, the sweet taste dulling the ache in her chest at the thought of never having babies of her own. Yes, she wanted children, and a husband, and a white picket fence. Foolish dreams she had been forced to relinquish when she’d fled Cleveland. “No, I’m too into my job.” Which was as close as she’d allow herself to get to the truth.

He raised his glass, clinking it with hers. “To workaholics.”

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