When everything was arranged, they sat opposite each other. She looked at the steaming plates between them and said warmly, “It looks delicious.”
“It is,” he said with a confident tilt of his mouth. “And you should eat it. Now.”
Her eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “You sound like a man with an ulterior motive.”
“Only to see you clear your plate,” he said, leaning back, one arm over the chair. “And perhaps to gloat when you admit it’s the best thing you’ve tasted in weeks.”
She gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
As always, it was easy to talk to her, but he didn’t miss the way she hesitated before taking the first bite, as if some part of her still resisted the simple act of eating. He kept his tone playful, but his gaze on her was steady, unwilling to look away until she tried it.
At last, she lifted her fork, tasted, and her lips curved faintly. “It is… rather good.”
“Rather good?” he repeated, feigning outrage. “That is hardly the glowing praise I was expecting.”
She laughed again, a genuine sound this time, and took another bite. “All right. It’s excellent.”
“Better,” he murmured, watching her eat with quiet satisfaction.
There was still a shadow in her eyes, something that had nothing to do with Vernon and everything to do with the distance she kept between them. But for now, he let it rest. He would rather fill the evening with her laughter than weigh it down with questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cordelia had no idea how much time had passed since they finished dinner. With Mason, time was a relative thing. It always passed much more quickly than she wanted it to.
They stood side by side at the railing of the terrace, the remnants of dinner behind them, but the night was still before them. The garden lay in shadow now, the flowers only faint smudges of pale color against the darkness.
She rested her elbows on the cool stone and glanced at him. “You keep surprising me, you know. First the picnic, now dinner… If you keep this up, I shall have to assume you are trying to charm me.”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the darkness beyond. “What if I am?”
She tilted her head, trying to sound light though something in his tone made her heart trip. “Then you ought to know I am perfectly capable of recognizing such attempts.”
“Oh, are you?” He finally looked at her, one brow raised in mock skepticism. “Forgive me, Cordelia, but I don’t think you know how to flirt at all.”
Her mouth fell open. “I most certainly do.”
“I doubt it.” His voice was low and amused. “And before you tell me, learning from books doesn’t count.”
She gasped, more for effect than outrage. “You don’t know that’s where I learned it.”
“Where else would you have?” His smile deepened. “Some obscure French novel, perhaps? Full of swooning heroines and smoldering glances?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, suppressing a laugh. “You seem to know a great deal about swooning heroines yourself.”
“I’ve met a few,” he said casually, leaning on the railing as though entirely at ease. “But you’re not the swooning sort.”
“No?”
“No,” he said, his gaze lingering on her for just a heartbeat too long. “You’re the sort who would trip a man rather than faint into his arms.”
She tried not to smile, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Perhaps I ought to prove you wrong and faint right here.”
“I’d catch you,” he said simply, and something in his voice made her glance away, suddenly unable to think of a suitably clever reply.
She traced her finger absently along the stone railing, aware of him watching her. The air between them had shifted. It was still warm, still playful, but heavier somehow.
