“Clearly.” He closed his eyes and waited for inspiration. None came. So, he tried the truth. Looking straight into her eyes, he said, “I want you. More than that, I like you. And so when I say I want you, I mean all of you. Not just what I can get in the dark.”
She sighed. “This isn’t a ploy to get me to put on an apron and stand barefoot in the kitchen, is it?”
“That depends.”
She eyed him warily. “On?”
He grinned. “What’s under the apron?”
She snorted, then rolled into him and fit herself against his side. “I like you, too.”
“Then have dinner with me. It’s just a meal, served sometime after lunch but before you go to sleep. You ate ice cream with me. Just bump it up a little to something more substantial and we’ve got ourselves a compromise.”
“Dinner,” she muttered, lips brushing against his neck. “The man wants dinner. I can bring up leftovers from—”
“Nope. That’s cheating.”
She groaned, a low sound deep in her throat, and bit him on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “You win.”
“I pick the restaurant,” he said quickly. Knowing her, she’d choose something with a drive-thru and insist on eating in the freaking car. “I won’t take you too far, but I think we can do better than the diner down the street.”
She shrugged. “Fine. Let me know when you want to go.”
“Don’t have to wait for a night off?”
She smiled and dragged herself over him, her warm body pressing into his in all the right areas. “Sweetie, that’s the beauty of owning your own business. It can always be my night off.”
Trace left an hour later, his body loose and relaxed as he climbed into the cab of his truck. Anticipation already filled him for the next time he’d see her. But he’d have to wait on that. They both would. He’d already been gone enough nights lately.
It irked him again, remembering how hard he’d had to argue to get her to agree to one single date. Jesus, the woman was stubborn. But that was probably part of her charm.
Maybe forever wasn’t in the cards for them. But hell, who could say until they both laid their hands down on the table?
Dinner. A real restaurant. Something nice, but nothing to sweat over. Trace used the powers of Google to search out restaurants in the nearby area—which were slim to none—and extended the search a little farther out.
Something tugged on his pant leg. He smiled. Seth’s crawling had taken on a new ninja status if he’d managed to get into the office without being heard. “Just a minute, buddy. I’m trying to find a nice spot for some dinner.”
Tug. Tug.
“I know, I know. Hold on.” He clicked one more link, jotted down the possibility. “Gimme a second.”
Tug. Rip.
“Seth. What the …” He looked down and stared into the biggest bug eyes he’d ever seen. “Aw, hell. Seriously?”
The dog picked up a stuffed frog and stared at him with four long, neon green legs dangling from his mouth. Then, with a mouth full of frog, he whimper-whined.
“Don’t do that.”
More whining, louder now. The tip of one ear flipped up a little, as if in silent plea, before folding back over.
Trace sighed and scratched the top of the pathetic dog’s head. “You’re a sad case, you know that? Have some pride.”
Pride was a nonissue for the dog, apparently, as he tried to jump into Trace’s lap for more attention. His too-short legs wouldn’t allow it, though, and so the whining started all over again. Muffled through the stuffing, of course.
“You’re a little shit.” He reached down for the frog, thinking if he played fetch, he could toss the toy out of the room and shut the door behind him. But the dog evaded him, not letting go of the toy.
Next plan. Trace scraped the chair back from Peyton’s desk and yelled, “Bea!”
Bea’s head popped in. “Have you seen Milton? Emma’s going to slaughter me if I lose sight of him again.”
“Who the hell is Milton?”
She stared at him as if he’d just asked who the president was. “My dog.”
“You named your dog Milton?”
She sniffed. “It’s distinguished. He’s a gentleman.”
Trace looked down and grimaced. “Your distinguished gentleman just pissed on Peyton’s office rug.”
“Oh, my God.” Bea ran around the corner of the desk and stared at him. The dog, not Trace. “Milton! Why? We were outside five seconds ago! Why!”
The dog bounced happily, frog legs flopping around his jowls, pleased to show off his puddle.