Leo almost drops the speaker in his hands. “I’m going to need a moment. Maybe two.”
Duke spots me, and for a second, his eyes ease down to my dress, then slowly up to my face like he’s memorizing every inch.
He leans in close, his voice low and velvety in my ear. “You’re gonna make me late if you keep looking at me like that.”
“You’re already late,” I say.
“I had to look good for the woman I’m crazy about,” he says.
My heart thrums in my chest like a motor that roars to life from the push of a button. “You wear that suit well.”
“Why, thank you. You’re not the only one who can shop, Trouble.” He turns to Allie, who is staring at him with her mouth open. “Allie, Leo, how does this evening find you?”
“Very well, thank you,” Leo says.
“Good, good, I’m, thank you. I’ll …” Allie stutters. “Okay, there’s no other way to say this. You look hot. Like flaming hot.”
Leo guides Allie to the kitchen. “Come, let’s go see if we can help bring out dinner.”
Duke chuckles as his hand slides to the small of my back. It’s asimple touch, but I feel it everywhere as every nerve in my body tilts toward him.
“Damn,” I whisper under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I squeak.
He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Save me a seat by your side.”
“It’s already got your name on it.”
He brushes a kiss on my neck before walking toward the table, leaving me standing there flushed, tingling, and barely upright.
I’m proud when I manage to make it to my seat without floating off the ground. Allie’s smirking at me from across the table.
“Stop it,” I mouth.
“I have said nothing,” she remarks.
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
When Thatcher Green and a couple of sous chefs deliver dinner, the incredible spread of food becomes a distraction for all of us. The long wooden table in the Nook practically groans under the weight of the spread. Cast iron skillets hold seared elk medallions drizzled with blackberry port reduction, still sizzling from the stove.
There’s a platter of roasted root vegetables, carrots, golden beets, parsnips that are caramelized to perfection and tossed in fresh thyme. A giant wooden bowl overflows with arugula and citrus salad, sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts and shaved pecorino.
In the center, a sourdough boule still warm from the oven waits to be torn apart, the crust crackling under eager fingers. Next to it, tiny ramekins of whipped honey butter and roasted garlic compound butter gleam in the candlelight.
Everyone murmurs and tries to hold back their drool as Thatcher and his team finish telling us what we’re about to devour. We clap as he asks for us to recognize his chefs, and hebows before heading back to the kitchen. We bow our heads as Rusty leads the dinner prayer and once released, we dive in.
Topper raises his glass like he’s making a toast, but instead, he grins across the table at Duke. “Would you look at this guy? All cleaned up and nowhere to rodeo.”
Georgia chimes in, fork mid-air. “Duke, you walk in here lookin’ like a damn catalog model, and we’re just supposed to eat dinner like normal people?”
“Have to look good for when Mr. Hollywood shows up,” Duke says, tugging at his collar.
I lift my water glass and take a sip. “Some of us appreciate the effort.”
Duke turns to me. “Glad you approve.”
