She couldn’t breathe again. She managed to find a chair and crumpled into it.
Patrick knelt before her, a huge grin creasing his features. That dimple, damn it, that dimple was definitely going to be the death of her.
“We are masters of our own destiny.” He just looked so boyishly charming, so completely enticing. Her fingers itched to trace the outline of that dimple.
Instead, she nodded.
He clapped his hands together, the noise louder than a gunshot. “Perfect! What’s on our agenda for today?”
She could hardly remember her name, let alone her agenda.
“Umm—” Practice, but there was no way in hell she wanted to think about their rumba routine right now. “I—I still have to get some stuff ready for the party on Saturday night. Oh, and dinner with my parents, but I don’t think I’ll go.” It would take time to research security cameras. And how not to lust after your best friend and dance partner. It was going to be a full night.
Patrick’s eyes widened in apparent horror. “Dinner with Marina and Bill? You can’t not go to that, Anita. I’ll come with you.”
And for the life of her, she suddenly could not think of a reason why not.
Chapter Thirteen
She remembered why not the minute they arrived.
“Patrick!” Marina’s smile was as wide as her arms as she raced to envelop Patrick. “Ah, I did not believe it at first when Anita told me, but then I realized I must have known.” She took his hands in hers and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. Great, now they were allies. Perfect. “I made pastitsio.”
Patrick groaned. “I have missed you so much, Mrs. Goodman.”
“Bah.” She threw the compliment away with a carefree wave. It had been a smart move on Patrick’s part. Her mother loved nothing more than a compliment on her cooking. “You must call me Marina. After all these years, we are friends, no?”
“As you wish, Marina.” He winked, actually winked, and offered her mother his arm to lead her into the house.
Anita stalked in behind them, slamming the door. They did not notice.
“Oh, it is so chilly tonight! Smells like snow.” Her mother practically glowed under Patrick’s attention. Her father must be in absentia, as was becoming usual.
“I doubt it’s going to snow, Mom.” Anita felt nauseous and sullen and distinctly like she was the unfavored child. After the experiences of the morning, her day had significantly gone downhill. “It was sixty-five degrees at lunchtime.”
“You never can tell here in Pennsylvania.” Marina flipped her recently blown-out hair over her shoulder.
Anita fought the urge to go home. She had no interest in watching her mother flirt with Patrick. It had been difficult enough sitting beside him in the car on the way here.
“You must tell me how you are doing, Patrick,” Marina gushed. “You are like a son to me. You know, Bill and I tried andtried to have a son”—she winked at him wickedly—“the trying is the fun part, after all.”
“Mom!” Anita said sharply. She slipped out of the heels that had been a mistake. Her bathtub at home called to her.
If Patrick really wanted to spend time with her—
Nope, shutting that right down. Anita swallowed a wave of bile.
“Anita?” Marina stared at her from the kitchen, two glasses of red wine in her hands.
Great. She was standing barefoot in her parents’ foyer, daydreaming about Patrick and bathtubs. Or decidedly not daydreaming about Patrick and bathtubs.
She must be coming down with something.
“Everything okay, love?” Marina asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve just, you know, lots going on lately.” Anita cursed herself for stammering. Her stomach turned over, and she tried to swallow the heat creeping through her body. It would be easier if Patrick wasn’t leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, his body languorous and that wicked dimple calling out to her like a homing beacon.
“Poor dear,” Marina cooed, moving toward her daughter. “Come, have a glass of wine and eat. Good food will make you feel better.”
