jokes, and he’d kept her warm. That kiss had been …
Well, she’d need to be on her toes tonight, that’s all. If they did end up in bed, which was not a sure thing as there seemed to be a whole different world of signals and innuendos she wasn’t aware of in this rarefied air of his, but if they did, she’d have to be careful.
How Charlie made her feel, that could be dangerous. That was the difference. The other guys, both of them, had been fun in that risky sort of exciting manner when you’ve taken all the safety precautions so you’re not precisely scared, but he was new, and what if he was terrible in bed, or his penis was teeny tiny or he wanted to wear her underpants?
Charlie might have all of those issues, but that wasn’t dangerous. The real fear was that she could like him. The kind of like that meant nothing but trouble. Liking a guy was not part of the five-year plan. In fact, it was the antithesis of the five-year plan, the one thing that could turn even this unbelievable stroke of magnificent luck into a disaster of epic proportions.
After tucking the card back inside her slim wallet, Bree rested her butt on the arm of a gorgeous white leather couch. She continued to wait, wondering what was taking him so long. As her gaze wandered across the cityscape, she reminded herself about Susan. They’d been college roommates their freshmen year, and they’d hit it off from day one. Susan had decided to go into politics. She’d taken prelaw, had already picked out the three schools she would apply to; in fact, it was Susan who’d shown Bree the wisdom and power of the five-year plan. Susan had been brilliant. Formidable memory along with a quick mind and a powerful presence. It was easy to think of her as a potential senator or even president.
And then Nick had come along.
Susan had fallen slowly. Incrementally. But fallen she had, so hard that it had knocked the plan right out of her. She’d gone on to law school, yes, but at UCLA because of Nick. Yale and Harvard had both come calling, but she’d been in love. Bree had been a bridesmaid at her wedding, and the two of them kept in touch on Facebook, but Susan had a baby now, and she was a stay-at-home mom, which was fine. Of course it was fine. But it wasn’t the dream.
If it had only been Susan, Bree wouldn’t have given it too much thought. It wasn’t, though. Almost every friend she’d had in high school and the early years of college, every female friend that is, had somehow, someway subverted their dreams because of love. Her experience might be a statistical anomaly, but it was a damn scary one.
Bree had nothing against relationships, but that was for later. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of marriage before thirty, and quite possibly longer than that. Forget a child in her twenties. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child at all. Not something she had to worry about at the moment, thank goodness, but liking Charlie? That was a distinct possibility.
Of course, his liking her back was highly improbable. On the level of her winning the lottery. Which was worse in some ways, because even though it was one night, and she had a hint of a crush on him, there was every reason to believe there might be sparks in the bedroom. It would be so very Bree to find herself enamored with Charlie, only to crumble in a fit of pining and lovelorn paralysis for however long it would take to get over it. That would also not be good for the plan.
This having-sex decision was more complicated than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t given in to more champagne.
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but Charlie really had been gone a long time. She pushed off the couch and went toward the kitchen, hoping nothing had gone wrong. Two steps later, the door swung open and Charlie came in carrying a silver tray. On it, he’d put a pot, an actual teapot, made of fine china decorated with flowers and vines. There were matching cups, two, and saucers, also two. A little cream pourer, a bowl of sugar lumps, tongs, TONGS, lemon slices, a strainer, and she had to get closer to see that the tins were actually different varieties of tea. She looked up at Charlie, and he looked back. It was a … moment.
Part of her wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of her wanted to know what the hell?
“Seems I have a tea service,” he said, his voice low and wickedly deadpan. “I never knew that. I don’t do a lot of cooking, and someone else put my kitchen together. But I thought, why not? I may never be asked for tea again.”
“I see—oh, that one isn’t tea. That’s biscuits?”
“English shortbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh, according to the package.” He put the tray on the coffee table after she’d scurried to clear off some magazines. “My guess is that my housekeeper is the tea aficionado. She comes in three times a week, and I don’t pay attention to her snacking habits. Makes sense, though. She stocks the fridge. The tea set looks like something my mother would own, and expect me to own.”
“And here I was thinking a mug and a Lipton’s tea bag. But this will do.”
“It will, huh?”
Bree nodded. “So many different kinds,” she said, busy investigating. There was chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and one she had never heard of called British Blend. She pointed to it. “Shall I make a pot?”
“Go for it.”
She was very glad she’d used loose tea before as she poured the leaves into the hot water, then left it to steep. In her cup, she used the tongs to put in two lumps of sugar, poured in a hint of milk and waited nervously as she realized how close together they were on the couch.
This wasn’t like having his arm around her at the party or even sitting pressed up to him in the limo. A bedroom was now involved, only steps away.
She could take one of two approaches to the next minute: she could bring up the decor and keep wondering what was going to happen until he did something obvious, or she could put on her big girl panties and ask if they were going to share more than tea. “So,” she said, “you like art deco.”
Charlie glanced up at her, his own sugar lump tonged and hovering above his cup. “Yes. I do.”
She barely heard him over the cursing in her head, which was frankly not very nice. She wasn’t a wimp and hated to think she was a chicken, but the only way to prove she had cajones was to act like it. “Is the whole place art deco?” she asked, trying to be sexily coy, not creepily stiff. “Your bedroom, for example?”
She winced. She couldn’t help it. A fifteen-year-old could have done better.
The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plunk and Charlie smiled. “Perhaps, after tea, you’d like to see it?”
Bree nodded, then busied herself with straining the leaves and pouring. She decided she’d said enough already, but Charlie didn’t pitch in to fill the silence. He might have been watching her or gazing out the window; she didn’t know because she didn’t dare look up. It was enough to will her hands steady and her thoughts calm and composed. Something had happened in the past few seconds; maybe it was how his voice had lowered and how the husky murmur slid over her skin like a warm vibrant promise—she had no idea.
No, he was definitely zeroed in on her, she decided, as the weight of his stare seemed to change the very air around them. She could actually feel him watching, waiting, missing nothing. She set down the pot, picked up her cup and took a sip, barely tasting more than the warmth as the quiet stretched between them. The element of surreality, what with silver tongs and it being two in the morning, made time shimmer and slow. She drank again, the delicate cup insisting she raise her pinkie.
She
