Rebecca laughed again. “Did they tell you about our Christmas Eve with the mannequin?”
“How Charlie stayed up all night and moved it from chair to chair to convince the neighbors that it was real?”
“What about the Brazilian fry cook I hired to impersonate our dad for parent-teacher night? He had gray eyes, which was perfect, but he barely knew English. We pretended he had laryngitis and couldn’t speak.”
“That one I didn’t hear.”
Rebecca leaned back against the bench, her shoulders almost relaxed. “He was illegal and really sweet. I promised I’d sponsor him for a green card as soon as I was old enough and had a job where I could.”
“And did you?”
“I did. He works in LA now for Wolfgang Puck. That frosts me a little. He was a damn good cook. I’d be happy if he was still with me.”
Her smile was wry but totally beautiful. “You must have been scared,” he said softly. “Raising two boys by yourself at sixteen.”
“Terrified,” she said humorously. “Sometimes I still am.”
They smiled at each other, and something inside his chest swooped like a wave dropping. He’d had Trey to help him through his nightmare years. This woman had no one. “Your brothers were lucky to have you.”
“Oh no.” She shook her head in disagreement. “I’m lucky to have them. They’re such great kids. I don’t know how they turned out so good.”
Zane knew. The love she felt for them shone like a sun from her. Whatever mistakes she’d made, her brothers wouldn’t have doubted that. To him, who’d been anything but loved, it was no wonder they’d flourished. He wanted to touch her, more than the hand he’d left resting on her knee. Her cheek looked like it would be soft to stroke, her lips a dream to kiss.
“Would you have dinner with me?” he asked before he’d quite planned to.
She jerked in surprise. “Oh. I—”
“Coffee is fine too, if that seems lower key.”
She laughed and covered her lips. “It’s not that . . . I don’t know if you know this. It’s kind of a funny coincidence. Your CFO, Trey Hayworth, recently hired me to run your new restaurant.”
Zane sat straighter, drawing his hand back from her knee. “The Bad Boys Lounge on Charles Street?”
“That’s right. So I don’t know. Maybe you’re my employer too?”
Zane supposed he shouldn’t be taken aback by not knowing. The restaurant—their first that wasn’t part of a resort—was more Trey’s project than his. It was odd Trey hadn’t kept Zane in the loop, but not overly. “I’m . . . more of a silent partner there,” he said. “I’m pretty sure us having dinner wouldn’t break any rules.”
Rebecca stuck a thumbnail between her teeth, obviously considering this. Zane wasn’t accustomed to hesitation, certainly not from women who showed signs of finding him attractive.
“Should I reiterate the coffee option?” he offered, trying not to sound insulted.
Rebecca removed the thumbnail she was gnawing. “Sorry. I—” She squared her shoulders with a crispness that would have amused if it hadn’t been his ego that was stinging. “I’d be very happy to have dinner with you. I just feel obliged to warn you I’m not in practice for dating.”
Not in practice sounded like Rebecca wouldn’t be his usual speedy catch-and-release conquest. But maybe that was all right. He hadn’t lied to Trey the other night. He was tired of chasing females, only to leave them by the roadside. Admittedly, if this one let him bed her right away, he wouldn’t turn her down, but maybe actually talking to a woman on a date, with no expectations beyond that, wouldn’t be awful. He could relax and let her relax too. If she were as tightly wound as today’s exchange suggested, she needed it.
~
Like his CFO, Zane Alexander packed an extra punch in person. For one thing, he was plain old big—6’4” or 5” with muscle packed onto his muscle and shoulders she was certain could still play quarterback. Staring at him from her height-challenged state easily could have overwhelmed her.
Rebecca was fortunate she was ballsier than she looked.
Her hormones had a harder time digging in their heels. He was a hunk and a half. Great body. Great face. Killer smile and blue eyes. If Trey was quirkily good-looking, Zane was flat out handsome. His hair was a thick sandy color, expertly styled to create a just-rolled-out-of-bed, finger-combed casualness. He wore the same uniform as the rest of the magazine staff: straight-legged jeans topped by a short sleeve Henley with the Bad Boys logo on the left breast. No one looked bad in it, but as he leaned forward over his knees on that willow-shaded bench—the better to meet her gaze—he was drool worthy.