“I’m glad,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “Because I was starting to think I was losing my mind. I’ve been reviewing balance sheets and seeing your face in the margins. It... it hasn’t made sense.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m sitting across from you in a converted chapel, wearing my wedding ring on my right hand, trying not to think about how much I want you to kiss me again.”
Her words settled for a moment, rending me speechless.
I set down my glass with a smile. “Well, now you stole my planned seduction speech.”
“You had a speech?”
“I’ve been practicing it in the shower for three days. Different accents and everything.” I leaned forward slightly. “The Scottish version was winning, but the French one had its merits.”
She laughed, and some of the tension eased. “Now I’m disappointed I’ll never hear it.”
“Who says you won’t? I’m quite adaptable.” I reached across the table, my fingers finding hers. “Though I have to say, your version was considerably more effective than anything I’d rehearsed.”
“Was it?”
“Aye. Made me forget how to form sentences for a moment there.”
“Good.” She turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with mine. “Because I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the moment you picked me up tonight, and I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”
My pulse jumped. “Is that so?”
“Very much so.”
The moment got interrupted when the tiramisu arrived. We picked at it as the conversation drifted to trivial topics, but thoseconversations were just a front, because underneath it all was a new current of possibility.
“I should probably tell you,” I said as I signed the credit card receipt, “I’m not interested in casual.”
She looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m thirty-five years old with six children and a company to run. I don’t have the time or energy for dating games or undefined relationships. If we do this—whatever this is—I want it to be real. I want to know we’re building something.”
“You’re talking about the future. Long-term.”
“Aren’t you?”
She was quiet as we left the restaurant, quiet as the valet brought the car around, quiet for the first few minutes of the drive. Then out of nowhere, she said, “I never wanted just four children.”
I nearly swerved. “What?”
“Marco and I wanted a big family. Six, maybe seven kids. But after Aspen was born, he got so focused on the company, on the next big breakthrough. We kept saying ‘next year’ until...” She stared out the window at the passing city lights. “I’m thirty years old, Patrick. If I want more children...”
“I have six already,” I said.
“I know.”
“You have four.”
“I know that too.”
“Are we really having this conversation? On our second dinner?”
She turned to look at me. “Again, isn’t that what you just said you wanted? Real? No games?”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Aye.”
