After Dark. Wendy Etherington
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he was amazed he was taking the step. He wasn’t going to go crazy and actually get out and socialize, but if he was trying to heal his battered spirit, dinner with a hot blonde might be a promising start.
“Then that’s what we’ll have,” he said.
She angled her head. “You’re not inviting me to dinner just to tick off Davis, are you?”
“No. Of course not.” He grinned. “Though that’s a side benefit.”
She took a step back so suddenly, he grabbed her around her waist. “What? Too honest? Look, I—”
She raised on her toes and pressed her mouth—lightly—to his. “Not at all. You just have a really nice smile.”
THE MEMORY of Aidan’s breathtaking smile followed Sloan around like an arc of sunshine all week long. If the man suddenly got cheerful on her, she might have to give the renovation project to somebody else, someone unsusceptible to his allure, since she would find it impossible to talk in his presence.
Sister Mary Katherine was her first choice. And, even for her, that smile was bound to be an issue.
Besides, she could enjoy Aidan and still do her job objectively. She wanted to see where that wildly hot kiss of theirs would go if it was repeated and uninterrupted. And if he smiled and backed her against the wall, pressing that leanly muscular body to hers, she wouldn’t complain.
Would she?
As she packed her briefcase and prepared to lock up the library for the day, her thoughts turned from her upcoming date to Davis.
He’d been calling, of course, but she was playing it cool with him. Now that the initial shock was past, and her anger had somewhat abated, she’d been dwelling on her devastation and humiliation at his leaving in the first place. She’d thought he’d been The One. The one who’d be her love-of-a-lifetime, the relationship her parents had had.
But he’d left, and she’d sealed off her heart.
Now, he was suddenly back because he’d missed her?
She’d love to know what had really happened between him and that chick he’d been seeing in Atlanta. Maybe she’d left him for somebody else. He’d said she hadn’t broken up with him, but she could have left without notice and sent a note later. That wasn’t a breakup; it was abandonment.
She ought to know.
Mostly, she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to tell her he wanted something from her. Or, worse, for there to be no shoe at all. For him to dart back to Atlanta, or wherever, leaving his small-town roots behind. Again.
Focusing on Aidan was much more pleasurable.
So without effort, she put aside her worries about Davis and left the library to get ready for her date.
She’d hit Aidan with her LBD the first time they’d met, so she debated between something similar or contrasting. Maybe she should go with jeans, a flowy top and wedge heels. Casual sexy. Or she could go all out with a stop-sign-red dress. Obvious sexy. Or a feminine, springlike dress and straw hat. Picnic sexy.
Or was that too Scarlett O’Hara?
Good grief, romance was complicated.
She settled on the jeans outfit. After gathering her purse and the bread and salad ingredients she’d agreed to bring, she headed toward Aidan’s house. He was supposed to do the spaghetti and provide wine, which she needed, if the nervous fluttering in her stomach was any guide.
When she reached the porch, she noticed there were lighted sconces by the door and that the lower porch railing had been replaced. Obviously, Aidan and Pete had been working hard the last few days.
Batherton House was a typical Charleston-style double house with both first-and second-floor porches that dominated the front of the house. The central hallway separated the house, with rooms on either side. In the days before air conditioning, this allowed for better ventilation. There were some historic homes in downtown Charleston that still didn’t have full central air, but they were museums. Sloan and her fellow committee members were so thrilled to see the house coming alive again, that they certainly weren’t going to argue about an absolutely necessary mechanism for comfort in steamy South Carolina.
Thinking of steamy, she immediately thought of Aidan. A bead of sweat rolled down her back into the waistband of her jeans. She waved her hand in front of her face. Maybe she should have worn the skirt.
After ringing the doorbell, she forced herself to think enticing and positive thoughts and planted a bright smile on her face.
Which faded when Pete opened the door.
She glanced at her watch, though she knew it was just after seven o’clock. “Ah…hey, Pete,” she said, looking over his shoulder and hoping to see Aidan.
But she didn’t.
Pete stepped back, inviting her inside. “Hey, Miss Caldwell. I was closer to the door, so Mr. Kendrick asked me to answer it.”
She adjusted the grocery bag on her hip. “Oh.”
She was so insignificant as a date that not only was he not ready for her arrival, he also had his handyman playing butler? Why did she always manage to find the insensitive—
“Sorry, I’m not ready,” Aidan said, walking quickly toward her from the other end of the hall and wiping his hands on a cloth. “Pete and I were finishing up and lost track of time.” He took the bag from her hands.
His face glistened with sweat; his dark hair curled across his forehead. Stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked, as always, alluring, strong and delicious.
Her annoyance vanished.
Was that weak? Probably.
“I’m going,” Pete said. “I’ll get my stuff.” He grinned. “I have a hot date myself.”
When he wandered into the parlor, Sloan asked Aidan, “Between us, am I the hot date, or are you?”
“Definitely you. I’m sweaty.”
“I could start making the salad while you shower.”
Leaning toward her, he smiled that amazing smile, his eyes lighting with sensual sparks. “Or you could join me.”
4
SLOAN let her gaze glide over the planes of Aidan’s body.
Tempting?
Definitely.
Still, that luscious package came with a whole lotta baggage.
“That’s quite presumptuous of you, Mr. Kendrick,” she said, though she slid the tip of her finger down his broad chest as she spoke. “I think I’ll make the salad instead.”
She took the bag back from him and headed toward the kitchen. Behind her, she heard the murmurs of Aidan’s and Pete’s voices.
As she grew closer, the scent of spaghetti sauce washed over her. Clearly, Aidan had been doing something besides hammering all day.
She set her bag on the counter, then crossed to the stove, lifting off the stock-pot lid and inhaling deeply. She recognized lots of oregano, basil and garlic. A man who knew his history and his sauces was pretty much irresistible.
As she pulled lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers from the grocery bag, she also noted that her name and phone numbers were still hanging on the fridge door and found it oddly comforting that he’d saved them. Smiling, she pulled out the wide-rimmed wooden bowl she’d brought along with the food.
“You brought a bowl?”
She glanced over her shoulder as Aidan approached. “And silverware and wineglasses. Your provisions are sparse, as I recall.”
“Were sparse.” He opened a drawer beside her, revealing brand-new silverware.