“Maybe I just know you too well,” I quipped.
He looked at me for a moment, then took a single step closer. My breath hitched and my pulse began to pick up tempo, and when he reached out an arm toward me I stood perfectly still, anticipating a touch that never came—it wasn’t me he was reaching for, but a bottle of wine.
Idiot, idiot, idiot. But at least I could breathe easy again.
“Too well?” he said, as he poured a glass of pinot noir and passed it to me. “Does that mean you’ve figured out all my secrets?”
Our fingers brushed as I took the wine from him, and I shivered from the spark of connection that seemed to shoot through me, all the way from my fingers to the very tips of my toes.
I saw the quick flash of awareness in his eyes and wanted to kick myself. Because it wasn’t me that knew his secrets—it was the other way around. And damned if I didn’t feel confused and exposed and vulnerable.
“Secrets?” I repeated. I stood up straighter, determined to snatch back some measure of control. “Like the mystery behind why you’ve barely said two words to me all night? Why you’ve looked everywhere but me?”
He tilted his head as if considering my words, then he poured his own glass of wine and took a long, slow sip. “I’m looking at you now.”
I swallowed. He damn sure was. His cloudy gray eyes were fixed on my face, and I saw the tension in his body, as if he was fighting the coming violence of a storm.
Against my better judgment, I took a drink of my own wine. Yes, I needed a clear head for tonight, but right then I needed courage more. “You are,” I agreed. “What do you see?”
“A beautiful woman,” he said, his tone making my heart flutter as much as his words. “A beautiful woman,” he continued, “who needs to take a step back and think about what the hell she’s doing and why she’s doing it.”
“Excuse me?” His tone had shifted only slightly, but it was enough to totally erase that flutter. “Excuse me?” I repeated, because he had so completely flummoxed me that I couldn’t seem to conjure any other words.
“You’ve had a hard time of it, Angie,” he said. “You deserve to be happy.”
I twirled the stem of my wineglass between my fingers as I tried to figure out his angle. Was he about to tell me that he could make me happy? The thought sent a small tingle of anticipation running through me, but I didn’t believe it. He was too hot and cold, too confusing. And I wasn’t going to figure out what the hell he was thinking unless I flat-out asked.
“What makes you think I’m not happy?”
He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “I get why you’re dating Warner,” he said. “Political father. FBI agent boyfriend. It all fits. It all makes sense. The perfect daughter piece in the picture perfect puzzle that makes up your life.”
I’d gone completely tense, my throat tight, my chest heavy. I felt like a walking target that he’d just skewered with a dead-on bull’s-eye.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Kevin’s wonderful,” I said tightly, determined not to let him see that his barb had hit home.
“No,” Evan said. We were still standing next to the counter in the kitchen, completely alone except for the few waiters who wandered in to refill their trays. Now he moved a step closer, and I swore I could feel the thrum of the air molecules buzzing between us. “For someone, maybe. But he’s not for you.”
“What would you know about it?” I’d intended to sound indignant. I didn’t even come close.