“Now, hang on a second,” he said, looking wounded. “Just because I am charming and manly and a sensitive ally of the fairer sex doesn’t mean I want to…”
“Let’s go with ‘date,’” she suggested, switching to her beer. It was awesome.
“Date,” he agreed. “Just because I pay attention to another human being doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to date them.”
“That’s a fair point,” she conceded. “However, shouldn’t it be a charming, manly, sensitive ally’s job to read the room and understand that some recipients might take the attention more seriously than others?”
He leaned forward and linked his fingers through hers. She pretended not to notice the “wheeeee” her stomach squealed from its front-row seat on the roller coaster that was Silas Wright’s attention.
“Mags, I think you’re under the misconception that I’m a serial flirt.”
It was her turn to laugh. “What part of that is a misconception? I bet you wink at baristas and that you’ve told at least four of those little old ladies at the table over there that you wished you were twenty years older.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the table of ladies wearing matching Kinship Senior Bowling League shirts. “I think what you’re trying to say is that you don’t believe my intentions.”
“I think that’s exactly what I’m saying,” she said. “You flirt like it’s your first language.”
“You don’t take me seriously,” he said, sounding surprised.
“But Arabella does.”
“Bella takes nonexistent clues to feelings that definitely do not exist and cobbles them into false proof of attraction,” he argued.
“I don’t think she needs to pretend that people find her attractive. She’s stunning and young, and did I mention bubbly?”
“She’s also Michelle’s—my ex-girlfriend’s—first cousin. And she’s nineteen. What the hell would I do, babysit her?”
“I don’t think that’s what she has in mind.” Maggie laughed. “No one knows better at nineteen. And most of us have to learn the hard way.”
“I feel like we should get back to the part where you explain why you don’t think I’m deadly serious about my feelings for you,” he insisted. His thumb was stroking the calluses on her palm. Back and forth like a sexy metronome.
“You’re the boy who cried love.”
“I am not. I’m the reasonably good-looking man who identified an attraction to his stunningly talented, interesting, beautiful client.”
It was her turn to lean in. “Silas. Listen very carefully to your talented, interesting, beautiful client. I’m not into serious relationships. Especially not temporary ones. However, I might not be opposed to having some fun—schedule permitting—with the right guy.”
“The Wright guy,” he said smugly.
“You’re saying your last name again, aren’t you?”
His grin, lightning-quick, should come with its own DANGER signage, she decided.
He was still holding her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers itched to get into those blond curls. The moment was fun. Romantic. And for a second or two, she wondered what it would be like if it were real.
“I’ll settle for whatever you’re willing to give me, Mags.”
“You say that now, when things are nice and neat and flirty. But what’s going to happen when it’s time for me to go?”
“I’m willing to find out if you are.” His grip was warm. His eyes were the bottomless kind of gray that seemed to sparkle like sterling silver. She felt an almost hypnotic pull and found herself leaning toward him, closing the distance between them.
“Finger steaks,” Sean the server announced, reappearing to drop a plate of what apparently were finger steaks in front of them. The scent of deep-fried red meat tantalized Maggie out of her trance, and she leaned back, extricating her hand from his.
Deciding it was safer and smarter to go for the food instead of Sy’s hair or mouth, she reached for a plate.
Thank God she hadn’t gone with the matching underwear set or shaved her legs.
13
“What are you thinking about?” Silas asked an hour later, pushing his plate away and studying Maggie. Her brown eyes shifted from some far-off point across the lake back to his face.
“Well, if you really want to know,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially.