The Marriage Season. Linda Lael Miller
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cabinets she suggested, and the perfect bronze handles, too, and offered no resistance when she steered him away from granite to a poured concrete countertop a slightly darker color than the cabinets.
“A farmhouse sink,” she said firmly as they surveyed that aisle. “It’s beautiful and it’ll suit the rustic nature of the house.”
“I don’t even know what you mean by a farmhouse sink. Feel free to enlighten me,” he added mildly. “To me, a sink is a sink. That’s why I asked for advice.”
At first he balked at the six-burner gas stove, not because of the price, although that was substantial, but because he claimed he could cook about five dishes, and none of them required more than two burners. Bex reminded him that preferences tended to change over time, and so did circumstances. He might meet a woman who practiced the culinary arts in a serious way...or he might develop a passion for them himself. Plus, his sons would grow up and most likely have wives and children of their own, which meant there’d be family gatherings—Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and who knew what other celebrations. Then he’d see the wisdom of a properly equipped kitchen.
Tate seemed enthralled, if a bit amused, by the broad picture she painted.
Finally, her case made, she brought the speech full-circle. “It’s your forever house, right?” She ran her hand lightly, almost wistfully, along the gleaming top of the stove. “I think I can speak for most women and say that I’d love to have something like this. My rule is, if you’re going to do it, do it right.”
A stainless-steel side-by-side refrigerator with a bottom-drawer freezer came next, and by then they’d covered the basics. Tate put the total on his credit card—a massive amount—and didn’t blink an eye when the woman obviously assumed Bex was his wife.
Beyond a doubt, this had to be the most unusual first date ever.
“Food,” Tate said succinctly as they left the building. “Next order of business. Apparently, making domestic decisions, especially about kitchens and fridges and stoves, causes intense hunger.”
Bex smiled and agreed that it was time to eat. Privately, she was glad he hadn’t accepted his aunt’s invitation to dinner. The people in Tate’s family were probably quite friendly, but sitting down to a meal with them might be too much, too soon.
Besides, she had no idea where this was all going—or if it was going anywhere. Tate was a widower and he’d never mentioned his wife. He had two young sons to bring up, a major construction project to complete and a new business to organize.
Bex’s own situation was hardly less complicated; she had her sister and nephew living with her all of a sudden, plus fitness club franchises opening across the country, which meant that, of necessity, she traveled a great deal. There were “significant learning curves” attached to “growing the business,” as her financial adviser, who had a great fondness for corporate clichés, constantly told her. And, deep down, she wasn’t completely sure she’d ever gotten over Will’s death a decade ago.
Bex grasped the permanence of that loss, accepted that there were no guarantees in life. But emotionally...well, some part of her still expected her lost soldier to come marching home.
Granted, things were different now. Tate wasn’t fighting in a war. Unfortunately, there were other dangers besides bullets and bombs and, like anybody else, he could die. He was a man who flew small planes and would be working with large animals, both situations that could put him at risk... Death could happen close to home, not just on a faraway battlefield, as it had with Will.
Bex pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. She was with an attractive—make that sexy-as-hell—man. No need for any big decisions yet. If ever...
Why not simply enjoy the moment?
The restaurant was busy, since it was a Saturday evening, but they got a table for two fairly quickly, which might have been due to the flirtatious hostess and her interest in Tate as he explained that, no, sorry, he hadn’t made a reservation. Bex was still trying to decide if she should be amused or annoyed when they were seated.
“Does that always work?” she asked, settling in.
“What?” Oh, so innocent.
“That suave, charming way you have. That smile.”
He pretended to be puzzled, picked up his menu and finally grinned at her over the top of it. “Assuming that I am suave and charming, with a memorable smile, I have only one question. Do any of those things work on you?”
Now they were getting onto unstable ground. In fact, this was a quicksand sort of question. Bex felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, unrelated to hunger, and took her time answering. “The way a man smiles certainly makes a difference to a woman,” she said seriously, feeling like a humorless fool, but unable to respond in kind. “And yours just happens to be wicked.”
He flashed it then, full force, with that hint of a dimple in his left cheek included, no doubt, to increase the wattage. “Fear not, fair damsel,” he teased. “You’re safe with me. Translation—lighten up a little.” He watched her for a long, silent moment. “I think you just gave me a compliment. I’m still processing that.” Another pause. “My aunt liked you.”
Bex had managed to relax, ever so slightly. “She saw me for about thirty seconds.”
“I know Gina Calder pretty well. She has the instincts of a barracuda when it comes to sizing people up.” Another of those conversational hairpin turns followed. “Are we ordering separately or do we want to share?”
This entire evening she’d been outmaneuvered. Bex gave up. “I say we share. You choose for both of us because I’m too hungry to think. I am planning to have a glass of wine, though, and I’ll feel guilty you can’t, but my feet still hurt and you didn’t tell me I’d be meeting your family. So we’ll be even.”
“I would never drink and fly a plane or drive, but I supervised three boys for at least half the day. Do I get sympathy points for that?”
“Absolutely. Once we touch down safely, I’ll be the first to hand you a cold beer.”
“Like a serving wench? You’d wear the outfit? I want a low-cut bodice.”
“Don’t push it.”
In the end, ordering was a joint process, and they chose spring rolls and mango salad to start, followed by shrimp pad thai and lemongrass chicken; everything was delicious. Her glass of California chardonnay was exactly the kind she liked and accompanied the meal perfectly.
She did meet his father briefly later that evening, when they stopped by the house. Tate’s dad was an older version of his son, with some silver at his temples and a genial smile.
Later still, as they taxied along the runway before takeoff, she was already yawning. “He seems nice.”
“Most of the time he is. But appearances can be deceiving.”
“Duly noted. I might point out, though, that none of us are nice all the time.”
“That’s the third yawn. Feel free to nap. It’s a short flight, but you still have to take Josh home.” He pretended to be concentrating hard. “Let’s see, you ran a race, took a flight you didn’t know you were going to take and helped a hopeless bachelor organize what I suspect will be a killer kitchen. Like I told my aunt, you’ve had a full day.”
Bex sighed, admiring Tate from the corner of her eye.
He had a clean profile and handled the plane so effortlessly he didn’t even seem to be thinking about it. She was tired, but pleasantly so. It had been a lovely evening, and a treat just to get away. Her feet did hurt; tomorrow, she knew from experience, they’d really hurt. Something to look forward to, although she’d signed up for it, so there was no one to blame but herself.
“You, on the other hand, supervised three boys all morning—as you modestly pointed out. You