North didn’t know what was worse. Faith being on a date with Fancy Pants or Faith entertaining him privately at her house.
Okay, at her house where they were alone with a bed in proximity was definitely the worse-case scenario. No doubt about it. And daring her to get intimate with the guy was about the dumbest thing he had ever done short of landing himself in prison.
He stared down at her texts, rereading the messages.
I’m picking out my sexiest underwear.
Fuck that.
He charged to the door and yanked it open, only to see the Audi already parked neatly in the driveway directly behind Faith’s car.
He was already here.
North shut his door. Hard.
He paced his living room, thinking about her next door with some guy that North had all but told her to go ahead and fuck. What if she thought he didn’t care what she did? What if that made a difference for her?
What then?
TWENTY-TWO
“I don’t think anyone has ever cooked for me,” Faith ventured to say as Brendan sat across from her at her kitchen table. It was strange seeing him here. A man at her table. He wore a polo shirt tucked into starched slacks. She wondered what he looked like in a T-shirt and jeans—and then gave herself a mental shake. Who cared what he looked like in a T-shirt and jeans? She should be more interested in what he looked like naked. She sat there for a moment, letting herself think about that. Nope. The idea wasn’t very intriguing to her either. Damn.
“Never?” Brendan grinned as he lifted the glass of wine to his lips.
“Well, definitely not my dad or brothers. I might have starved if I had to rely on them. My life would have consisted of eating out and grilled cheese sandwiches.” She used the side of her fork to cut into her lasagna. “Now I love a grilled cheese, just not five times a week.”
She bit into the lasagna, ignoring that the noodle sheets were a little too al dente. It could have used another twenty minutes in the oven.
He was right. He was a passable cook, but hey. He had cooked. No man had ever done that for her before. That was saying something.
Al dente noodles or not, he had made a pretty good lasagna. Definite bonus points for that even if he had apologized for the fact that the sauce wasn’t homemade. She figured most of the world bought tomato sauce in a jar. She always made sauce the way her mother did. From scratch. It was a tradition. A way to keep her mom alive.
“You get major props,” she complimented.
“I can’t lie though. I bought the tiramisu from Angelo’s.”
Her smile deepened. He really was nice—that he had even cared to do this . . . to order a tiramisu and pick it up for their date. It only took him practically two weeks to follow up with the second date.
She shoved that negative little voice aside. He had an important and demanding job. She could appreciate that.
“Well, I’m having a nice time.” And she meant it. She was having a nice time. Nice. Argh! There was that word again. It was as though something was wrong with it. Damn North and damn Wendy for putting it into her head that nice wasn’t good enough.
She stood to gather their plates.
“Let me help,” he said, rising to his feet.
They cleared the table together and he pulled the tiramisu out of her fridge.
“Hm?” She cocked her head. “Wine and tiramisu . . . or should I make coffee?” They stood in the cramped space between her island and the refrigerator. She held up the bottle of wine thoughtfully while he held the cake.
His gentle eyes looked down at her and suddenly she didn’t think he was thinking about cake. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes glanced to her mouth before looking away.
He suddenly cleared his throat. “I don’t think wine can ever be a mistake . . .”
He’d changed his mind. For whatever reason. Shyness. He thought it was too soon. North’s texts flashed across her mind. Have fun. He was so smug he thought she was wasting her time with Brendan.
Resolve steeling her spine, she set the wine bottle down. He watched her movements, his head moving almost owl-like as she plucked the cake from his hands and set that on the island behind him.
“What are—” he started to say, but she cut him off. Leaning forward, she grasped his shirt and tugged him closer. His eyes widened, darting from her eyes to her lips. She inched closer. Close enough for her to press her mouth to his. To kiss him.
He responded readily enough after a fraction of hesitation. It was a good kiss. Proficient, she thought as his lips moved against hers. She’d had worse.