I winced. If she was jealous of Megan now, and suspicious of her relationship with Nick, she’d lose her mind if it turned out that they had a child together.
Then again, it was quite likely that I was just imagining things. So what if Megan had a kid? Lots of people had kids. It didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean that he was Nick’s kid. Plenty of people in Nashville have black hair and olive skin. The kid’s coloring proved nothing.
I put it out of my head—or tried—as I dropped my keys on Rachel’s desk, and made sure the office was locked up for the weekend, and loaded Edwina into the Lexus and drove home with her dancing on the seat next to me.
Chapter Six
Greg pulled into the driveway at seven on the dot. The convertible Jaguar F-Type gleamed under the porch light, and so did Greg.
He’s a good-looking guy. The dark hair silvered at the temples in a way that suggested distinguished rather than aging, and the blue eyes that turned toward me were warm and appreciably admiring.
“You look beautiful,” he said, and managed to make it sound both sincere and not like a line he’d used a thousand times before.
“Thank you.” I’d changed into a leather skirt and a designer label blouse that had cost more than my first car, back when David was still alive and spending money on me. I hadn’t been on a date since the last time Greg was in town, and a little effort seemed warranted.
Behind me, Edwina let out a mournful whine from her position just inside the door.
“I know, girl,” I told her through the glass. “I’ll be back soon.”
She gave me a look of betrayal before turning and stalking back into the house, her stub of a tail held at a displeased angle.
Greg smiled. “Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble.”
I assumed he meant me and not Edwina. “She’ll get over it by the time I get back.”
I dropped my keys in my purse, then let Greg guide me to the passenger side of the Jaguar with a hand at the small of my back. His palm was warm through the thin fabric of my blouse.
“Let me help you with your coat.”
He took it out of my hands and shook it out. I had left it off partly to give the impression that I hadn’t been standing there ready and waiting—just grabbing the coat on my way through, you know, because I’d been so busy up until he drove up—and partly to give him a better look at the goods. Since I had already made the impression I had hoped to make, I let him wrap it around me before handing me into the car. His hands lingered for just a second on my shoulders, unless I imagined it, of course.
Greg settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, which purred to life with the kind of sound that probably cost extra.
“So,” he said as we pulled away from the curb, “how have you been? It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise,” I told him. “How was the trip?”
He had texted me throughout his sojourn, so I knew the part before the return home had gone well, but it was only polite to inquire.
“Exhausting,” Greg said cheerfully. “The Italian leg was particularly good. Florence, Rome, Milan—God, Gina, you would have loved it. The food alone was worth the jet lag.”
He launched into a description of his time in Italy that was both entertaining and clearly designed to make me wish I’d been there. The hotel in Florence with the rooftop terrace overlooking the Duomo. The restaurant in Rome where they’d served him the best carbonara he’d ever tasted, made by a grandmother who’d been cooking it the same way for sixty years. The bookstore in Milan where the owner had insisted on closing the shop so they could have espresso and talk about American crime fiction.
I listened and made appropriately appreciative noises, because it really did sound wonderful. Greg had a way of telling stories that made you feel like you were there, probably the reason why people kept buying his books.
“You should come with me next time,” he said, glancing over at me. “I think you’d love Venice. It’s tourist-infested and overpriced and absolutely magical.”
Next time. The presumption in those two words sat between us like a third passenger.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like Greg. Of course not. He was nothing but likeable: successful, solvent, and sophisticated. Charming and age-appropriate. He had no criminal record, no secret family, no history of embezzlement or affairs. He was attentive without being clingy, interesting without being self-absorbed, and he seemed to genuinely care about me and my life rather than just be on the lookout for arm candy or someone to warm his bed during those cold Wyoming winters.
He was also coming on quite strong.
Not in a bad way, necessarily. There was nothing aggressive about it, nothing to make me feel uncomfortable. But he was determined, as if he had decided I was the one and he was prepared to pursue that conclusion to its natural end. It should have been romantic, and maybe it was. If we’d been on the same page, I dare say it would have been. I just wasn’t sure I was ready for another relationship so soon after getting rid of David. We’d been separated when he died, yes. And he’d been a bastard, true. I had no fond feelings for him, even if I appreciated, at least to a degree, what eighteen years with him had gotten me.
But it had also been almost two decades of sharing my life and home and bed with one man. Two months of downtime didn’t seem like quite enough before I made another attempt at being someone’s wife.
But none of that meant that I couldn’t enjoy tonight. And, I reminded myself, I also had other reasons for wanting to go to Sambuca Ristorante, aside from Greg’s company. I couldn’t lose sight of that.
