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I wiped my hands on a towel and started toward the foyer.

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Definitely not true.”

She followed me out of the kitchen.

When I opened the door, Richard stood on the other side with a bottle of wine in one hand and flowers in the other. His smile appeared the second he saw me.

“Hi.”

My smile widened. “Hi.”

He held the flowers toward me. “These are for you.”

“You didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“I know.”

I took them anyway.

Leanne appeared over my shoulder.

“Well,” she said. “If it isn’t Mr. Big.”

I groaned. “Leanne.”

Richard smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I ration them.”

She gave him a quick once-over before looking at the flowers in my hands.

“You better be treating my girl well.”

“I’m spoiling her rotten.”

“You better, I know plenty of rich men who would gladly treat her like a goddess.”

He looked at me, amused, and heat rose to my face.

My father stepped out of the hallway then, wearing gray slacks and a navy sweater, his salt and pepper hair combed back. His watch caught the light as he reached for Richard’s hand.

“Richard.” His tone was warm, but I knew my father well enough to recognize when he was sizing someone up. “It’s good to finally have you over.”

“Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Whitmore.”

“Henry is fine for tonight. I’ve known the Kincaid name long enough.”

Richard’s smile stayed respectful. “Henry, then.”

We moved to the dining room, where the table was beautifully set. Leanne sat beside me, clearly delighted to be here for the show. My father took his place at the head, with Richard to his right and me across from him.

For the first few minutes, conversation stayed light. But I knew my father. He was doing the dad thing, watching, assessing.

“So, Richard,” Henry began, leaning back slightly as he cut into his roast, “what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”