She looked at him for a long moment, pinning him with that clear, dark green gaze that didn’t flinch and didn’t deflect, just took things in and processed them.
It waspast ten when she stood to help him clear the table. He didn’t argue, knowing she needed time and space to process what he’d told her. She washed, he dried, standing close in the narrow space between the sink and the counter, passing dishes back and forth with the easy rhythm of people who’d been doing it for years. It felt, like everything else involving Morgan, right.
Dishes complete, she turned to dry her hands, and he was right there. Shorter than him by at least six inches, the top of her head reached his jawline. She was close enough that he could feel her breath at the base of his throat.
She didn’t step back.
He lifted his hand and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, slowly enough that she could have moved away from it if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“Patrick,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Morgan,” he said.
A pause. Then: “I’m not sure I should drive back to Frank’s tonight.”
His heart began to pound. “Probably not.”
“The wine.”
“Sure,” he said. “The wine.”
She held his gaze, and the almost-smile appeared, and this time she didn’t pull it back. “Show me the rest of the house?”
He held out his hand.
She took it.
He walked her through the first floor. The turret room, the living room, the library that currently functioned as an office.
Then he led her upstairs, to the only other room he’d be showing her tonight.
31
A STANDING YES
MORGAN
The banister wascool and smooth under her hand as they made their way up the steps. A few squeaked, but they were sturdy and had no give.
Was she really doing this?
Yes. Yes, she was.
She could pretend this was just the next part of the house tour, but she was a smart woman who didn’t make a habit of deluding herself. After a handsome man cooked her dinner, after they shared wine and talked for hours like they’d known each other for years instead of days… she knew exactly where they were headed.
And yes, she was going willingly.
The second floor was as impressive—and in as much need of work—as the first. Faded wallpaper. Wainscoting that looked as if it had been hand carved. Accent alcoves, decorative wood trim, and heavy doors with glass knobs.
Straight ahead, a small walkway led to a Juliet balcony. Turning around, she saw what had probably been a small sitting area in the curve of the turret. To the left and right, closed doors that she guessed to be bedrooms.
“Which one is yours?” she asked.
He pointed to the end of the hall, to a closed door to the right of the turret.
“Can I see it?”
He searched her face, his eyes meeting hers, asking a silent question. “Sure.”