02_Groom of Her Own (21 page)

His frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“Your dinner. Or what was supposed to be your dinner. It’s a disaster.”

“Sam, let’s go inside,” he said carefully. She seemed on the verge of tears, but surely a recipe gone awry wouldn’t make her almost hysterical. Not Sam, who took everything in stride.

She moved aside so he could enter, then shut the door behind him as he deposited the bottle on the table in the tiny foyer and then turned to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes probing and concerned.

“Let’s start over, okay?” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Now what happened?”

Suddenly she felt tears welling up in her eyes. “Dinner. It’s ruined,” she said, sniffling.

“I don’t mind if everything’s not perfect,” he assured her.

He didn’t seem to understand. “Brad, it’s inedible,” she said.

“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad.”

She nodded. “Yes it can. It is. Trust me on this. It’s not a pretty picture in the kitchen.”

“But what happened?” he asked, frowning in puzzlement.

“I don’t spend much time in the kitchen. I didn’t realize cooking was so time consuming or involved, so I guess I overextended myself with the menu. And I don’t even have any microwave stuff in the freezer!”

Brad put his arm around her shoulder and drew her toward the couch. “Relax, Sam,” he said easily. “It’s not the end of the world. We’ll make do. What turned out the best?” he asked encouragingly.

“Dessert. And it’s not just the
best.
It’s the
only
thing that turned out.”

He kept his arm around her as they sat down, and though he was trying to remain calm, he was concerned and bewildered. He didn’t understand why she was so upset. It wasn’t like her to be thrown by something like this.

“Okay, then how about Chinese? I passed a place a few blocks from here.”

“But I promised you a home-cooked meal.”

“Can I tell you something, Sam? A home-cooked meal would have been nice. But food is
not
the reason I came tonight.”

That was good news on the dinner front, solving one dilemma. But it only reminded her of the other, far more important one.

When she didn’t reply, Brad removed his arm from around her shoulders and stood up. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he said. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He hesitated uncertainly, not sure he should leave her alone in her present state. She looked up at him, saw the concern in his eyes, and managed a shaky smile. “Go on. I’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly.

He nodded. “Twenty minutes.”

Sam heard the door click shut behind him and drew a long, shaky breath. He didn’t seem all that upset about the dinner shambles, after all. But that was only because his attention was.focused on another issue. And she’d better start thinking fast about how she was going to handle
that.

Sam glanced down, and her eyes widened in surprise. She still had on her jeans! With a startled exclamation, she rose and made her way to the bedroom, quickly substituting a black skirt and leather flats for the jeans and bare feet. She was almost afraid to look in the mirror, and she did so tentatively, groaning as her worst fears were confirmed. Her face had been largely wiped free of makeup from the steam in the kitchen, there was a trail of bread crumbs across one cheek and her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed since yesterday. She was going to have to work fast to make herself presentable before Brad returned.

By the time the doorbell rang, she’d not only dressed, combed her hair and repaired her makeup, she’d also finished setting the table—a job she’d abandoned earlier in the afternoon as the kitchen crises began escalating. She’d also discarded most of the evidence of her culinary disaster, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the unappetizing mess she’d created. Martha Stewart had nothing to worry about from her, she thought ruefully.

When Sam answered the door this time, she was calmer and much more in control. Brad noticed the difference immediately as he stepped inside, carrying two large white bags which were emitting tempting aromas.

“Feeling better?” he asked, turning to her with a smile still tinged by concern.

“Much,” she assured him. “I can’t even imagine what you must have thought when you arrived the first time,” she said, feeling a faint flush of embarrassment creep across her cheeks.

“Worried,” he replied quietly, his eyes searching hers as if to assure himself that she was all right When he seemed satisfied, he nodded toward the bags. “Should we put these in the kitchen?”

“Uh-huh. Here, I can take one,” she offered, reaching for a sack.

He followed her, pausing on the threshold to look around cautiously before entering.

Sam glanced back and laughed. “It’s safe. I destroyed most of the evidence while you were gone.”

Brad grinned. “Then let’s eat. But first…how are you feeling? Are the stings any better?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious. “I meant to ask the minute I got here, but we sort of got sidetracked.”

“Yeah, you might say that,” she said with a wry grin. “Actually, I feel fine. Most of the stings have faded and the tenderness is slowing disappearing. How’s your shoulder?”

“In working order,” he said, flexing it to demonstrate. “It’s still not very pretty to look at, but the color palette has changed from black and blue to blue and yellow. It doesn’t hurt as much, either.”

“Well, I have to say that when you ask someone out, you do show them a memorable time,” Sam said with a laugh.

“So do you,” he countered, nodding to the kitchen.

“Touché,” she acknowledged. “But at least my disaster didn’t involve injuries.”

He grinned sheepishly. “True. Next time I ask you out, things will be better, I promise.”

Sam’s face clouded, and she turned away to hide her reaction, reaching into the bags to remove the food. “Why don’t you go on into the dining room? I’ll put this in bowls and be right there.”

Sam hadn’t turned away quickly enough, however. Brad saw the look on her face, and he didn’t like what it implied. Clearly she was still skittish about the notion of a romance between them. But he wasn’t leaving here tonight until he persuaded her to give it a try. And the first order of business was to find out
why
she was reluctant. It wasn’t lack of interest, he was sure of that based on the smoldering look he’d seen in her eyes at the picnic. No, it was something else. Something quite serious, apparently. Nevertheless, he was convinced they could overcome it. Now he just had to convince her. But there would be time for that later, after dinner, when they’d both had a chance to relax a little.

“I’ll open the wine,” he said.

“That would be great.”

By the time she brought the food into the “formal” lining area next to the living room, Brad was waiting to pull out her chair. “I got beef and broccoli and chicken cashew. I hope that’s okay,” he said as she sat down.

“Mmm. Great!” she replied, spooning generous servings of both onto her plate to make up for the lunch she’d skipped. “Let me tell you, this is much better than what we’d be eating if I tried to salvage the dinner I cooked,” she said ruefully.

“That bad, huh?” he teased.

“Let’s just say that cooking isn’t my forte. I wish I’d learned how. You were lucky to have a wife who was good at it.”

Brad chewed thoughtfully. This was the second time tonight that she’d mentioned Rachel. Maybe she thought he was comparing her to his late wife, and she felt intimidated and less suitable for him because she wasn’t as “domestic.” If so, he needed to diplomatically dispel that concern.

“Rachel was a good cook,” he acknowledged slowly. “But I’ve found that everyone has their own unique talent. None are better or worse than the other. Just different. For example, you have a wonderful talent for drawing people out and making them feel happy. I can speak from personal experience on that one.”

Sam flushed and glanced down. “Not very practical, though,” she said.

He shrugged. “Depends on how you define
practical
joy and happiness are great foundations for coping with the trials and tribulations of everyday life. It seems pretty practical to me.”

Sam felt a warm rush of pleasure at his words. Or maybe it was from the wine, she thought, speculatively eyeing her half-empty glass. She’d had a glass and a half already. Given that her usual drink was mineral water she’d never developed much tolerance for alcohol. But tonight she figured she needed a drink. Or two. Maybe it would mellow her out a little after the kitchen disaster, help her find the words to tell Brad she couldn’t see him anymore.

The very thought of that discussion usually made her panic, but surprisingly, this time, it didn’t. She just felt very relaxed and content. Must be the alcohol, she concluded. “The wine’s good,” she said with a smile, taking another sip.

“Yes, it is. I like to have it on special occasions.”

“Is tonight a special occasion?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said noncommittally, his deep brown eyes watching her over the rim of his glass as he lifted it to his lips.

What a stupid question, she berated herself! Very deliberately and carefully she set her own glass down. No more wine for her. She cleared her throat—and tried to clear her too-foggy mind—before she spoke. “Well, how about if we have dessert and coffee in the living room?” she said brightly.

“Sounds good. Can I help.”

“No!” she replied quickly. “I mean, thanks, but I can manage,” she added, before escaping to the kitchen.

As Sam scooped out the trifle and waited for the coffee to perk, she took a deep breath. This was the moment she’d dreaded. How was she ever going to tell this wonderful man to get lost? And essentially that was what she had to do. He wasn’t going to like it, even though she knew that in the long run it would be better for him. But making him understand that without revealing her secret would be tough. Yet telling him the truth wasn’t an option. Because as hard it would be to lose him, it would be even worse to see the horror and recrimination in his eyes as
he
rejected
her
if she shared the terrible secret from her past with him.

Sam carefully poured the coffee and placed it on a tray, adding the bowls of trifle, cream, sugar and napkins as she tried to think of some way to delay her entry. But she’d have to deal with this sooner or later, and she might as well get it over with, she realized with a resigned sigh. Waiting wasn’t going to make it any easier.

Brad was standing by the mantel when she returned, and he moved toward her and took the tray, setting it carefully on the coffee table.

“Dessert looks good,” he said.

Sam tried to smile. “Well, the proof is in the tasting. I’m not making any promises.” Even to her own ears her voice sounded strangely tight, and she hoped Brad wasn’t picking up on her nervousness.

Her hope was in vain. He’d known this wasn’t going to be an easy sell, and he’d been keenly attuned to her signals all evening, debating the best approach to use to convince her to give a romantic relationship a chance. He’d ultimately settled on the one thing he knew they had in common—physical attraction. That wasn’t enough on which to build a long-term relationship—but it wasn’t a bad starting place for his persuasive efforts.

“Well…shall we sit?” he said, when she remained on her feet next to the table. “Unless you want to eat dessert standing up?” he teased.

“Oh! No, of course not.” She sat down on the couch, careful to allow room for a discreet distance between them. But Brad apparently had other ideas. He sat down very close to her, his arm brushing hers as he reached for his dessert. Sam’s instinct was to scoot into the far corner of the couch, away from danger, out of the magnetic range of the attractive man sitting next to her. But she couldn’t figure out a way to do that without being obvious, so she remained where she was, her back stiff, trying vainly to control the staccato beat of her heart.

“Sam?”

Brad was offering her one of the servings of trifle, and she reached for it automatically. He picked up his as well, then leaned back and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Then he took another bite. And another. Finally he turned to her with a grin. “Well, the rest of your dinner may not have turned out, Sam, but this makes up for it It’s great! Go ahead, try some,” he said, helping himself to a generous mouthful.

Sam did as he suggested, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else to do. She certainly wasn’t hungry, although she had to admit that the creamy concoction was tasty. She continued to eat so she wouldn’t have to talk, trying to buy herself a little thinking time while she figured out a way to break the news to the man sitting next to her.

She was only half-finished by the time he’d demolished his serving, topping it off with a sip of coffee before wiping his lips on one of the napkins. “You can make that for me anytime,” he said, turning to her with a smile.

As he angled himself toward her, he jostled her arm, and Sam, who was just about to take another bite of trifle, missed her mouth. Fortunately the concoction stayed on the spoon, although a streak of whipped cream ended up on her cheek.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Here, let me.”

He reached over and carefully dabbed at the sweet trail, and Sam literally stopped breathing. He was only inches away, and the magnetism she’d felt earlier was multiplied exponentially.

Suddenly Brad’s hand stilled on her cheek, and the natural brown color of his eyes darkened perceptibly as they sought and held hers compellingly. Without releasing her gaze, he laid the napkin on the back of the couch and took her dessert out of her trembling hands, setting it on the coffee table in front of him.

Sam knew she should say something. Anything. She had to break the spell he was weaving with his passionately eloquent eyes before it was too late. But her voice deserted her, and she seemed incapable of fighting the powerful emotions that were sweeping over her like a relentless tide, igniting her body in their wake.

Brad reached over and stroked her hair, pushing it back from her face and letting it glide through his fingers. Silently he repeated the motion again. And again. And still again, until Sam thought her heart was going to explode in her chest.