had been a long, long time since he’d tried to romance a woman. He wondered whether he still had the touch.
Kara stood before Michael’s door, her fist raised, ready to knock. She watched a moth frantically try to penetrate the yellow globe of the porch light.
Was the glow a welcome or warning? She couldn’t be sure. What was she doing here? Why had she agreed to have dinner with him? To be neighborly, she reminded herself. But good grief, Lizzie was a neighbor. Mr. Radcliff was a neighbor. Michael was a stranger.
Oh, sure, he had a warm smile and a gentle touch, but that was all the more reason she had no business having dinner with him. Just the two of them.
Alone.
Get a grip, she told herself. It’s only a friendly dinner. And certainly not a date, for goodness sake. Dates had always made her uneasy, but when the last one ended in humiliation and tears, she’d vowed to steer clear of men and romantic notions.
Her stomach knotted at the memory of the family dinner party Jason Baker had taken her to. When he’d first asked her, she’d declined, not wanting him to think she was serious about him. But he’d prodded her until she agreed. I want you to meet my family, he’d told her. You’ll like them.
But he’d been wrong.
When she arrived at the house, she’d been unprepared for the formality, the suspicious evaluations, the snide remarks.
You remember Kara, don’t you, Mom?
Oh, yes. The cocktail waitress.
At first, the accusations had been silent—a haughty grin, rolled eyes. Then a few heartless comments and innuendoes were made about Kara and her cunning attempt to snag a wealthy husband.
Marriage? To Jason Baker? She hadn’t given it any thought at all. And after she’d met his family, particularly his snobbish, sharp-tongued mother, she knew she’d rather die than have anything to do with the man or his family again.
The dinner had turned into a social inquisition, and Kara, nails clawing her palms, had excused herself and slipped out before dessert was served. No, she would never put herself in that position again. Nor would she date someone whose parents considered themselves socially and financially superior to her.
She’d probably date again. Someday. When she had Ashley and Eric living in her own home. Those precious children were her priority, not romance and glitter.
She placed a hand on the doorjamb of Michael’s cottage and closed her eyes, reminding herself of the precious good-night kisses she’d just given and received. The gentle sway of the old oak rocking chair, the scent of baby powder, a dribble of milk on baby Ashley’s tiny chin. A sleepy-eyed grin that sported two little white teeth had filled Kara’s heart with enough love to last a lifetime.
After laying the baby in the crib, Kara had sat on the edge of Eric’s bed and read him another chapter of Charlotte’s Web. She’d listened to his prayers, cupped his cheek and kissed him good-night. The ritual was as pleasant and restful for her as it was for the brave little boy she had come to love.
Kara slowly opened her eyes, then scanned Michael’s porch. Two lawn chairs flanked a small outdoor table. A beer can and a magazine rested upon the glass tabletop.
The Aviator. Why would Michael be reading that? Was he an aspiring pilot? She’d never been one to judge a man by the car he drove, but an old Ford didn’t seem like the kind of vehicle a pilot would drive. But what did she know about pilots? And what did she know about Michael?
She struggled with the urge to turn and go home, to call him with an excuse as to why she couldn’t come to his house tonight, but she’d agreed to join him for dinner. She couldn’t back out now. He was expecting her.
Once again, she reminded herself this wasn’t a date. And it certainly wouldn’t turn out like the dinner party at Jason Baker’s house. Garnering her courage, she knocked on the door.
Michael answered, wearing a pair of jeans, a crisply pressed white shirt and a smile that reached the golden hue of his eyes. He’d showered. And shaved.
She rather missed that salty, sea dog air he’d worn before.
His eyes swept her body in an appreciative caress. “Come in.”
He appeared genuinely glad to see her, and it both pleased and unnerved her. Impulsively, she turned and snatched the magazine and empty can from the table and thrust them toward him in an effort to put some distance between them, between him and her thoughts. “You left these outside.”
“Thanks.” He took them from her and stepped aside, holding the magazine and soda can against his chest.
Kara moved across the threshold and into the small but tastefully decorated cottage Lizzie had just refurbished. A fire crackled softly in the living room, and the easy sound of something classical played upon the stereo.
Just friends. Neighbors. Yet the romantic ambiance told her otherwise. As did the light, musky scent of aftershave. Her heart fluttered to a zip-a-dee-do-dah beat.
“Can I pour you a glass of wine?”
Wine? For a moment, Kara wondered if Michael’s expectations for the dinner were different than hers. She certainly hadn’t planned on a romantic encounter, and she quickly sought his eyes, hoping to see he hadn’t, either.
He flashed her a warm, friendly smile, and she wondered if she’d made more out of the offer than he’d intended.
She slowly ran her hands down the sides of her long, loose-fitting cotton skirt. We’re just newfound friends having dinner. And maybe a few laughs. What harm can there be in that?
“Sure,” she said. “Wine sounds great.”
Chapter Three
Michael stood like a starstruck teen as Kara entered his temporary home. Her simple cotton dress fit like a curtain flowing in the breeze. The soft peach fabric lay against ivory-colored skin blessed with a faint scatter of freckles, setting off that fiery shade of hair. When had plain cotton stood out as lovely, breathtaking?
Denise, his dark-haired, provocative ex-wife, had worn a lot of red and black, Lycra and silk. She’d chosen colors and tight-fitting material to make her stand out in a crowd. But had Michael been mingling in a banquet hall with elegant and notable guests, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his eyes from the petite redhead who smelled of peach blossoms and taunted his senses with a plain, wholesome appeal. Had she chosen a dress to match her scent in an attempt to tantalize him?
She cocked her head and looked at him in a strange and fidgety way. Had he made her nervous? He hadn’t meant to.
Wine. He’d asked her if she wanted some, and she’d said yes. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa? I’ll bring you a glass. Is chardonnay all right?”
“Sure.” She swept into the living room, the gentle sway of her hem brushing small but shapely calves, and took a seat.
Michael placed the magazine on the counter and tossed the empty can into the trash. He withdrew a bottle of chilled wine from the refrigerator, pulled the cork and poured two glasses. As he handed one to Kara, he noticed how close she sat
