His grin is boyish now, divulging a hidden agenda. “Mmhmm.” He tilts my chin up with his fingers, leaning in for another tiny, but powerful peck. “Ready for dessert?”
Please let him mean lemon meringue and not a cute little nickname for something sexual! “Um, actually, not yet.” I let it slip out as coolly as possible. That should cover both bases; I’m too stuffed to eat another morsel, even if it is lemon meringue. And even though this man does crazy things to my insides, I’m not ready to take this...whatever it is...to the next level.
“How ‘bout another glass of wine, then?” He asks, as he brings our empty plates to the sink.
“There’s always room for that.” I get up to help, making my way to the center island with the platters of leftover food. His kitchen is a dream. I imagine myself maneuvering around it effortlessly. Sure, my own kitchen was custom built to mine and Declan’s likings, but this is right out of a staged Food Network episode.
“Are you sure you don’t cook? Your kitchen is Rachel Ray’s dream come true.”
He laughs, loading the top-of-the line dishwasher that can probably complete its cycle in four minutes, silently. “I swear. I don’t even know how to use half of this stuff. But when I designed the kitchen, I had a certain someone in mind.”
“Oh. Mind me asking who?”
“My wife.” He says it so plainly, as if I should have known what he meant before he said it.
I’m taken aback, completely confused. “But you said you’d never been married before.”
He laughs again, this time filling my glass with the delicious burgundy wine we drank with dinner. “I meant it figuratively, Mia. I built the kitchen to be every domestic woman’s fantasy. Problem is, I haven’t been able to snag my very own domestic goddess...just yet. I love this house. I poured my heart and soul into it and, one day, I want to share it with my future wife.”
Why, oh why, does he choose this moment to stare at my ring finger? You know, the one that is still covered by the rings from Declan, my husband. The ones that scream out “taken, married, unavailable, not supposed to be on a date!” Embarrassed, I pull my hand behind my back, leaning up against the island.
“Come on. We’re done in here. Let me show you the rest of the house.” He must sense my sudden apprehension and drops the subject of marriage and the future. “We can relax in the game room.”
I nod; a game room sounds innocent enough. I take my wine glass in one hand and Noah places his hand around the other. He entangles his thick, rough fingers in mine as he guides me on the tour of his house. I walk around gaping at his impeccable, and very eclectic, decorating taste. He’s managed to make me feel as if I’ve traveled around the world by visiting the rooms of his home. I’ve gotten a taste of Tuscany, Morocco, and Greece all in a matter of minutes.
But the game room is totally All-American. Sports memorabilia lines the walls. I walk over to a floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet filled with autographed baseballs. As I try to read the names off the bruised, dinged-up balls, Noah comes up behind me, resting both hands at my hips. It surprises me how comfortable this feels already.
“Amongst your man-treasures there must be at least one signed by Mickey Mantle or Babe Ruth. Am I right?” At this moment, I wish I knew more about baseball. That was his thing. It’s obviously still his thing. When I’d go watch Noah and the team play in high school, I wasn’t paying attention to the rules of the sport. I went to those games for the view, not for the love of the game.
His body envelops mine and he leans down, resting his head on my shoulder. “I wish.” He says against my ear. “There’s some impressive stuff in there, but nothing like the Babe. I’m working on it though.” His hands move from my hips to splay across my stomach. Yeah, he’s working on it. Working on getting me all hot and bothered.
I close my eyes to calm my nerves, which feel a lot like Mexican jumping beans right now, and when I reopen them I spot the jukebox on the opposite end of the room. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner. It’s large and colorful, its neon lights illuminating part of the ping pong table in front of it.
I break free of Noah’s warm embrace and dart over to it. “You have a jukebox? Oh my God, this is like the one at...”
“The Room. I know. That’s why I got it. I loved that place when we were kids. Lots of good memories.”
I wonder if he’s talking about that time we ran into each other there. Was that a good memory for him?
I stand in front of the machine with my face practically pushed up against the glass. “What’ve you got in here? Anything good? Or is it filled with the typical doo-wop and fifties crap?”