Minutes later, he finished tucking Zachary into his crib, leaving Otis posted across the open doorway, and returned to the kitchen to find Amber with a dozen chocolate-dipped strawberries lined up on waxed paper. She was sprinkling “gold” on the sticky chocolate.
“I’m impressed,” he told her, coming up behind her.
“They turned out pretty good.” She sounded happy, and that made him smile.
The scent of chocolate and strawberries floated around them. Her hair brushed his arm. He knew he was standing too close, but he hadn’t the slightest desire to move.
He wanted to touch her, to wrap his arms around her, kiss the back of her neck, then turn her around and kiss her mouth. Forget the strawberries, he wanted to strip her naked and make love to her all night long.
“I was thinking a pesto pizza,” she said. “Maybe with mushrooms and dried tomatoes, nothing too overpowering.”
“Whatever you want,” said Cole, realizing he meant it in every sense of the word.
“And feta cheese?”
He could see the corner of her widening grin. “Why is that funny?”
“Makes it more expensive.”
“Now you’re catching on. We’ll definitely get some feta.”
It was time to step back. It was time for him to step back from Amber and call a pizza place. He drew a deep breath to brace himself, telling his feet to get a move on. But he inhaled her scent above the strawberries.
And then she turned. She turned, and she was right there, in front of him, her lips only inches away.
“Do you want to change out of your wet clothes?” she asked. “There might be something around here of Samuel’s that—”
“No.” The question was like a bucket of cold water. “I’m not wearing Samuel’s clothes.”
Amber looked slightly hurt. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. He wasn’t good to my mother, but it’s a long story.” Cole extracted his phone. “I’ll order the pizza.”
“You don’t want to talk about it.”
He didn’t. Then again, it wasn’t some big, painful secret that he couldn’t discuss.
Samuel was a jerk who never deserved Lauren’s love. But Cole wasn’t going to waste any emotional energy hating the man, either. He didn’t care. And he hadn’t cared for a very long time. There was no reason not to tell Amber the story.
“I’m fine to talk about it. But let’s pour the champagne first.”
Eleven
They were on their second glass of champagne, munching their way through the pizza before Amber asked him again.
“You don’t mind telling me about Samuel?”
She was at one end of the sofa, Cole at the other. She’d turned sideways to face him, crossing her legs beneath her. His body was canted sideways, one leg up on the leather cushion.