Why didn’t he?
It was my fault. I know it. I shouldn’t have cut the date short. Every step of the way I’ve behaved wrong with this man and he’s put up with it. But now it’s time to face my fears.
So taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock on his door. But before I can, I hear his voice from inside. “Come in, Evie.”
My mouth falls open. Moving automatically, I turn the knob and step inside. I’m instantly greeted by warm, cozy lighting, and the wonderful scent of garlic and herbs.
Dawson’s house is really nice and really tasteful. Much more so than I expected from a man with such calluses. There’s even a coat rack by the door that looks like it was handmade from a wild piece of wood. It’s beautiful.
As I take off my sweater, I brush against one of his jackets. It releases a dose of his scent that causes my eyes to close and my body to go tense.
This is not good. I’m already losing control. But when Dawson’s voice rings out again, it’s like his hands are already on me, steadying me. Calming me. Telling me that everything will be okay.
“I hope you like chicken,” he says as I walk deeper into the house. There’s a cutout connecting the living room to the kitchen, and I see him standing at the stove, bulging biceps threatening to tear from the short sleeve dress shirt he’s got on. “This is my mom’s famous garlic chicken recipe.”
I move slowly to the counter, trying to calm my jitters. When I told Reese that I agreed to dinner tonight at his place, she thought I was lying. Even now, I’m not sure I’m actually here. The whole world feels like a dream.
“How did you know?” I ask. He looks up from chopping parsley, and I find myself staring down those eyes.
Hot and sexy. Almost too much to handle.
A shudder runs through my body. I know he can see it, because the corner of his lip twists, and I feel myself blushing. But this time, I don’t look away. I’m not here to be afraid. Not anymore.
“How did I know what?” he asks.
“That I was here. I was just about to knock when you told me to come in.”
He smirks, tapping a finger against his temple. “Isensedit.”
“Is that right?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head and points to a screen on the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. “Front door camera.”
I pretend to deflate and shake my head back at him. “You should have kept it a secret. More mystical.”
I watch as he starts plating our meals. It’s such a contrast to see such a big, strong, rugged man doing something so domestic. I offer to help, but he refuses and tells me just to take a seat. So I do. And find myself sitting at the table, a soft candle between us, eating the best chicken I’ve ever eaten.
“This is delicious,” I tell him, trying not to scarf it down like I’ve been starving myself all day—which I have been.
“Didn’t I mention I used to be a chef?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Really?”
“Yup. McDonald’s. Three months of cooking three-star Michelin cuisine.”
I choke on a laugh so hard I almost spit out my drink and have to quickly grab a napkin. As I dab my lips, I realize I’m not nearly as anxious as I thought I’d be, especially after making a fool out of myself.
Dawson has somehow shifted from the cause of my anxiety, to the cure for it. The house, the meal, his very presence has me feeling almost relaxed. Although I can’t stop wondering what’s going to happen next.
I don’t skip dessert this time. It’s a strawberry gelato with fresh berries, and it’s also delicious. I offer to clean up. But Dawson isn’t having any of it.
“No,” he says, taking me by the hand. “I’ve got something better in mind.”
His words cause me to jump, and as he takes my hand and leads me into the living room, I’m shocked to realize I’m not panicked. It’s more like I’m anticipating something.
We reach the couch, and I move to sit, but he doesn’t let me. His strong grip finds my waist and secures me where I am. Mylips fall open, and I gasp as I look up at him, strong eyes, the ember flecks burning down at me.
Expecting.
