“She looks pretty out of it.”
He nods. “I have no idea what to do with her. I think my mother was going to leave and take her home early. I think I heard that, anyway.”
“You could take her home with you since we’re leaving now,” I say.
He bites his bottom lip before looking at me. His eyes search mine for a long time.
I want to fight him, to prevent him from seeing the vulnerability in my eyes. I want to make a joke or blow everything off like I’m so good at doing.
But the fact that I am good at doing that hits me like a ton of bricks.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I don’t want to figure myself out. Not all the way.
“Dara?”
“Yes?”
He looks up at me through his thick lashes. “I made you feel a certain way tonight, and I—”
“Please. Don’t.” My cheeks flush. “It’s fine.”
He stands, the child still in his arms.
There is no confusion or trepidation in his features, no hesitation. He licks his lips and straightens his shoulders.
“I want to have a conversation with you,” he says, “but I don’t want to do it here.”
“We can do it in the car on the way home—no innuendo intended this time. Just, you know, to be clear.”
He fights a smile. “Fine. How do you feel about coming to my house tonight?”
“We can do this another time, Wade—”
“No.” The words are sharp. “I want to do this tonight.”
I’m not sure what do this tonight means, but I’m sure it doesn’t mean what I hoped it might when he picked me up. I’m also certain this is unnecessary. But at least if we’re at his house and not surrounded by the entire Mason family and half of Savannah, I can get my phone out of Wade’s car and call an Uber. I’ll just sit outside until I get picked up.
This is where I am in life. Taking the smallest wins.
“Okay,” I say, giving in.
His shoulders sag either from my capitulation or Rosie’s weight.
“Let’s find her parents and get out of here,” he says.
TWENTY-FOUR
DARA
Wade holds the door open for me.
We enter a mudroom that I’d bet has never seen a speck of mud in its existence. Then I follow him into the kitchen. A light glows beneath the cabinetry along the back wall. Moonlight streams in from a large rectangular window that hangs over the sink. Our movements are slow, deliberate, and aside from the occasional nod or exchange of routine conversation—we don’t speak.
It’s been like this the entire ride from the Gardens. Every minute that passes without any kind of inclination as to what he wanted to do tonight makes me think I’m going to lose my mind.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks.
“No. I’m fine.”
He nods and then disappears through an oversized archway that leads into the living room. Flames begin to dance in a stone fireplace. The shadows filter through the room, lending a romantic ambiance to the space.
I wonder if this was Wade’s intention or a coincidence?
I place my clutch on the white stone counter and glance around.
The kitchen is three times the size of mine. A matte black Viking range sits like the showpiece it’s meant to be, the brass trim shining in the low light. The range sits beneath a husky black hood with the same shiny trim.
Hardwood floors run from the mudroom as far as I can see. The same wood appears as thick beams overhead. The deep color contrasts beautifully with the white cabinets.
Soft footsteps catch my attention, and I look over my shoulder just as Wade walks back in. He shrugs off his jacket and places it on the back of a chair.
He blows out a breath. The tension between us and the stress of the evening are visible in the way he holds himself.
“Wade, I can go,” I say as a host of anxiety rears its head. “This isn’t necessary.”
His eyes snap to mine. “No. Stay. Please.”
Why?
I walk toward the window and pretend to be engrossed in his yard. In reality, I just don’t want to be engrossed in him.
“Dara?”
The sound of his voice so close to me makes me jump. I clutch my heart and spin around, nearly bumping into him.
He’s closer than I realized—only a couple of steps behind me. The look on his face is unreadable.
“Thank you for joining me tonight at the wedding,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. But embedded in his tone is something else that I’ve never heard in it—uncertainty.
“I don’t think I really gave you much choice.”
His weight shifts. “I always have a choice, as do you.”
What’s he saying?
He runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry that I made this weird between us,” I say. “Can I blame the champagne?”
He searches my eyes like his life depends on finding something hidden in their depths. I can almost feel his gaze percolating all the way to the bottom of my soul, sifting through the debris caused by the events of my life.
Finally, he leans back. Resolution is awash on his face.
“I hope that you wouldn’t blame anything.” He forces a swallow. “I hope that you’d say you meant the things you said and that you would stand by them like the woman you are.”
My lips part as I lug oxygen as ladylike as I can into my body. My heart pounds in my chest. I look at Wade as he looks at me and try desperately not to react.
He stands tall in front of me and doesn’t move. He leaves himself open for me to inspect, to peruse—for me to understand.
I want to reach out and touch the side of his face, to get more of the contact that we had tonight. But I’m afraid to, despite the slight opening he might have just given me. Might have. Because I’m still unsure.
“Honestly,” I say, “the champagne probably is the reason that I was so … forward. But did I mean what I said in my moment of glory?” I breathe deeply. “Yes. I did.”
I lift my chin and leave myself open for his inspection. If he wants to try to understand me, I’ll give him the chance.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his bottom lip. He’s deciding how to proceed with this conversation, and that’s fine with me. I have no interest in leading this discussion.
I’ve said enough.
He releases his lip before licking it. “I had a really nice time tonight, and I’m glad that you came. I was pretty pissed at Holt when he invited you, but it worked out.”
“It worked out?” I raise a brow. “I’m glad.”
Sarcasm is written all over my words to hide my embarrassment.
“I’m attempting to share my feelings with you,” he says. “Can we not pick my words apart?”
“Okay,” I say, contemplating his point. “I’ll give you that. But I also know you’re a wizard—I heard someone say that tonight—so my expectations of your linguistics are a bit higher than normal.”
He sighs. “The thought of you next to me for an entire evening was initially disturbing, but it was the highlight of my night.” He raises both brows. “Better?”
“Slightly.”