“What kind of dinner should we make?” he asked.
“The easy kind.”
“Baked lobster tails?”
“Goodness no. Stir-fry?”
“Shrimp curry?” he suggested.
“Hamburgers?”
“Enchiladas.”
Her shoulders relaxed a few degrees. “I love enchiladas.”
“With ground beef and red sauce?”
“With chicken and salsa verde, plus sour cream and white cheese.”
“Additional terms?”
“I request 1980s background music.”
“I’ll agree to a playlist containing three-fourths eighties music and one-fourth Sinatra.”
“Fine.” She was warming to her subject. “I also request a mowed lawn, clusters of red grapes for snacking, flattering lighting—”
“A disco ball, perhaps?” he suggested dryly.
“Why not? And an indoor temperature of seventy degrees—”
“I’ll compromise at sixty-nine degrees.”
“Very well. Additionally, I’ll require a cheesecake from Tart Bakery.”
“Done.”
“Oh, and no flowers or gifts.”
“Spoilsport. Anything else?”
“No. The items aforementioned will be sufficient.” She retreated backward toward her door. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Professor.”
Sebastian watched Leah walk inside, then returned to his Misty River house. He prowled the rooms, too preoccupied to sit or to concentrate on anything except her.
She’d told him she would not become his girlfriend, which, in light of his inability to commit, was amazingly convenient. A relief. So why was his brain taking him down wild tunnels of thought that all ended in things he wanted to do for her? Give her gifts. Take her places. Lift some of the weight of caring for her brother. Do whatever was necessary to ensure that she got her PhD.
He stopped in his foyer and shoved both hands through his hair with a sound of irritation.Get ahold of yourself.
As usual with her, his reaction was too much. He’d gone out with her one time.
Get ahold of yourself.
