The Inconveniently Engaged Prince. Mindy Neff
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by the sun and sexily mussed—the result of an expensive salon cut rather than lack of a comb.
And his smile…Lord have mercy, it could render a woman speechless. Especially those dimples.
His brows rose. “Do I have spinach in my teeth?”
She snapped out of her trance. “Uh, no. Sorry.”
He laughed. “Come on in.”
“Why are you wearing an apron?” Like a kid gazing at a castle for the very first time, she stared in awe at the high ceilings and chandelier dripping with hundreds of sparkling crystals. A gleaming piano with a mirror-clear ebony surface drew the eye toward the cavernous living room, the wall of glass, the balcony and the sea beyond.
“I invited you to breakfast, remember?”
She finally found her manners and stopped gawking at the house, looking instead at him. “But I thought we changed the plans and decided on the park.”
“Did you already eat?”
“Well, no. But—”
“Then come on in and let me impress you with my skills.”
Now, there was an invitation that ought to make a woman wary.
She followed him across sandstone tiles and up several plush carpeted stairs to a kitchen that also boasted a wall of glass and a clear view of both the city and the sea. At night it would be even more breathtaking.
Acres of granite counters flowed over and around top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances—two of almost everything, she noted. She could probably fit her entire apartment in this one room alone.
“Um, are you trying to impress me?” Good grief, Vickie, stop stammering!
“Actually, yes.”
“Well, at least you’re honest. Can’t say as much for the modesty.”
He waved a spatula at her. “Told you, I’m a take-me-as-I-am kind of guy.”
Yes, and she would love to take him. Because her heart was pumping like mad, she glanced away.
The dining table was set with china and crystal. Orange juice filled goblets and champagne iced in a bucket beside two of the chairs.
Something smelled absolutely wonderful. Arming himself with oven mitts, he bent and removed an egg casserole from the oven. Vickie decided that a man in close-fitting jeans wearing an apron was a dangerous combination for a woman’s heart.
“How in the world did you manage to have this all catered in a little over an hour?”
He took the serving dish to the table, lowered his brows. “If I’d had it catered, do you think I’d be parading around in an apron?”
“Probably. You said you were out to impress me.”
“With my winning skills, woman. I’m a great cook. Mimosa?” he asked, holding the champagne bottle over the goblet of orange juice.
She shook her head. “Not for me. I’m driving.”
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“That was the deal. Besides, I need a clear mind and clear vision to see the birds.”
“Good point.” He put the bottle back on ice and pulled out her chair in a gentlemanly gesture that charmed her. “Breakfast is served.”
She sat and waited while he retrieved a basket of croissants out of a warming oven, and took an icy bowl of fruit out of the fridge.
“Mom and dad, though they were home a lot, had demanding careers,” he said as he put the rest of the meal on the table, shrugged out of his apron, and sat down. “So, I learned to cook. My sister, Kelly, was too wrapped up in her latest invention to be bothered with cooking chores. Besides, I was afraid she’d try some experiment and blow up the kitchen.”
“She sounds fascinating.”
“She’d be stunned to hear herself described as fascinating—although she is. Very much so.” He lifted his juice glass. “Here’s to our second date.”
Vickie had automatically picked up her glass, but hesitated over the toast. “It’s not a date.”
He leaned forward and clinked the edges of the crystal. “Let a guy have his fantasies, will you?”
She chuckled and took a sip of juice. “This really does look fabulous. You didn’t have to cook for me, though.”
“I like to cook. It’s creative and relaxing.”
“That’s a commonality we don’t share.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Sure. I’m an ace with the microwave. If it comes out of the freezer and has instructions on the package, I’m right up there in a class with the Naked Chef.”
“Hmm. I’ve seen that guy’s cooking show on cable and I don’t recall him ever instructing on frozen meals.”
“Maybe I should write in and put it in the suggestion box.”
“Maybe you should just marry me and let me cook for you.”
She choked on a bite of egg and spinach soufflé. Her eyes watering, she gave him a dark look and waited for him to say, “just kidding.” When he didn’t, just sat there and smiled with his lips canted to the left and his dimples winking, she looked away and took a sip of water.
“Has anybody ever accused you of sounding like a broken record?”
“Mmm.” He speared a cube of melon and popped it in his mouth. “Once a competitor got a little nasty at a meeting and said our cell phones sounded like a static-ridden LP album with a scratch etched in the grooves. Does that count?”
She stared at him for a full two seconds. Then she laughed. “Your mother probably spoiled you rotten as a kid, didn’t she?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everyone’s?” The minute he said the words, she could see he wanted to take them back. “Ah, man, Vickie. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault you had parents who kept you.”
“I feel like a jerk.”
“Don’t. I love it when you laugh and clown around. And I’m not sensitive about that area of my life.” Others, perhaps, but she’d come to terms with the abandonment.
“Does it bother you to talk about it?”
She shrugged. “Not much to talk about, really. I never knew who my father was. When I was about five, my mother decided she couldn’t afford me anymore, so she turned me over to the state.”
“When you were five?”
He was so stunned and appalled on her behalf, she wanted to reach across the table and hug him. “Yes. Old enough to remember. That was the unforgivable thing during my growing-up years. She was a drug addict. Had more boyfriends than there were days in the week. Drugs won out over maternal instincts, I guess.”
“Did you ever try to look her up when you were older?”
“Yes. It’s strange how we cling to hope, even when bad things happen to us. I found out that she died two years after she gave me away.”
He reached for her hand. Not in pity. She could tell the difference. His touch was gentle, yet strong. The slight squeeze held compassion, yes, but mainly support.
“You’ve got to be proud of yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve lived your life and made good choices when you could have dwelled on the negative and taken a different turn like so many others do.”
She felt the immediate twinge of shame pour over her,