“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he remarked grimly. “She’s been doing the hard sell, hasn’t she?”
Delphie felt her lips twitch and hesitated long enough for him to swear under his breath. “She’s been very proud of you, that’s all.”
He rolled his eyes. “Nothing is more embarrassing than having your mother interfere with your game,” he said with a put-upon sigh.
“You’re doing well enough on your own,” she conceded, quirking a brow at him.
He looked up at her and smiled, the grin eternally slow and lethally sexy and filled with so much heat she felt her toes curl once again. “That’s good to know,” he remarked.
“So what about me?” she asked. “You haven’t been getting the hard sell on me?”
“I have.” He winced. “But to tell you the truth, I didn’t pay that much attention.”
She felt a droll smile curl her lips. “Because anyone your mother would pitch couldn’t be someone you’d be interested in?”
He poked his tongue in his cheek. “Are you psychic or am I just that easy to read?”
“Neither,” she told him. “I am diametrically opposed to anyone my mother suggests, as well.” She took a sip of wine. “But you never answered my question.”
“What was that?”
“Had you always wanted to join the military?”
He nodded. “Always,” he confirmed. “The year I got a G.I. Joe for Christmas changed the course of my life,” he joked, smiling. “Aside from being away from home, I love everything about it. I love knowing that I’m doing something that’s honorable, that I believe in. That I’m standing in the gap, fighting for something bigger than myself, until the next group of like-minded men come along.” He peered at her above the rim of his glass. “Sounds trite, I know, but…”
“It doesn’t sound trite at all,” she said, swallowing. It was noble and good and she was thankful there were men like him willing to serve.
“So no wedding festivities tonight?” he asked. “Don’t they typically have a rehearsal and dinner or something?”
“Actually, no. A friend of Lena’s is performing the service and it’s very straightforward. She goes in, we follow. They say the I-dos and then we party.”
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Sounds simple enough.”
“Instead of doing the stag party and bachelorette thing, Lena and Theo are partying together tonight, hosting their own intimate wake for the passing of their single days.”
He nodded. “Interesting idea. They sound like a very…different couple.”
Finished eating, she settled more firmly into her seat. She laughed softly and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “They’re perfect for each other. It’s disgusting.”
“How long have they been dating?”
“Just a few months.”
“So long enough for the new to still be there, but not long enough to discover any annoying habits.” He nodded once. “Probably for the best.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You sound like you’ve put a good deal of thought into this. Any particular reason you aren’t married yet? Don’t have enough land for the livestock you anticipate as a dowry?” she quipped.
Silas laughed again, the sound sexy and soothing, one that she knew she could easily get used to hearing. His gaze tangled with hers. “Honestly, I’ve just never met the right girl and haven’t had time to truly look. I’m not opposed to it, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not so attached to being single that I don’t ever want to get married.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “But I’d rather be alone than married to someone who wasn’t right, you know?”
She did know. She had a couple of friends who’d rushed into marriage—more thrilled with having a wedding than having a husband—only to realize that the men they’d promised to love till death did them part weren’t as wonderful as they had originally imagined.
He blew out a small breath. “And when I make a promise, then…I make a promise.” A little frown creased his brow. “I think too many people go into a marriage believing there’s a quick way out of it. That the vows are just pretty words, not the oath it’s intended to be.”
My goodness, Delphie thought, staring at him with a new appreciation. A man of his word. How novel.
He looked up and caught her staring at him, then an adorably self-conscious smile curled his lips. “What?” he said. “You think I’m old-fashioned, don’t you?”
“I do,” she said with nod. “And I think the world could use a lot more men like you.”
Pity she wasn’t going to have time to get to know him better, she thought, a pinprick of disappointment nicking her heart. Silas Davenport was handsome and funny, smart and charming and held on to antiquated beliefs that she happened to share. He was good, she realized. Genuinely good. And good guys were getting harder and harder to find.
Thankfully, though, she still had time to get to know him as well as she could.
She looked up then and caught him staring hungrily at her mouth, as though the dinner they’d just shared had been nice but not enough. Heat flashed over the tops of her thighs and a breathless gasp slipped out of her lungs. Her palms suddenly itched to touch him, to see if the skin on the back of his neck was as warm as it looked. If it could possibly taste as good as she’d imagined.
She’d been thinking about him all day. Anticipated seeing him again more and more with each passing second. She’d been keenly aware of her body, the way the air felt moving in and out of her lungs, the tight fit of her bra, the slide of silk over her hips. She’d worked, yes, but she’d also spent a great deal of time peeking out of her window, trying to catch a glimpse of him. And she’d spent just as much time watching the clock, waiting until the hour hand struck five and the countdown to having him had officially started.
Yes, she still had a little time to get to know him.
And if they were nak*d, then all the better.
5
SILAS KNEW THE EXACT moment he was going to get lucky. Something in her gaze shifted, became more open, less guarded…and a lot hotter.
“Thank you for dinner,” he told her. “That’s the best meal I’ve had in a very long time.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “It was the least I could do considering you’re braving the wedding for me. You’re going to make me look considerably less pitiable and for that I am forever grateful.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, waving negligently. “I think you and I could find something to laugh at anywhere.” He leaned forward. “And just think of all the material we’re going to have to work with at a wedding. There’s certain to be a crazy uncle, a drunken aunt and a too-blunt grandmother to provide entertainment.” His gaze tangled purposely with hers. “And as an added bonus, I get to dance with you. Win, win,” he told her.
“How did you know about Uncle Harry?” she quipped, her eyes widening.
“It’s a given. There’s always a crazy uncle at these things.”
“Are you a good dancer?” she asked, her gaze lingering on his mouth again. Honestly, if she didn’t stop looking at him like that, he was going to clear the table and have her for dessert.
He studied her for a moment, let his gaze drift over her face, along the slim line of her throat, the gentle swells of her br**sts. And honestly, why didn’t he do just that? They both knew that he wasn’t here to eat fried chicken—he was here to make a meal out of her.
He stood and offered her his hand. “Why don’t you turn the music up and find out?”
She visibly swallowed, then bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. She knew where this was going. What sort of dance he really had in mind.
And she wanted it, too, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
With a simple inclination of her head, she picked up the remote control to the stereo and increased the volume. The music was bluesy and low, the perfect background for making love. The next second, she placed her hand in his and he drew her close, savoring the feel of her body next to his. Soft, warm, womanly. He inhaled, tasting her scent—musky with a citrusy finish. Something inside of him tightened and released, as though a lock had been thrown, the tumbler rolling into place.
She felt…right. Better. More significant than any other woman he’d ever held before.
“You smell nice,” he said, whispering the compliment into her ear. Gratifyingly, she shivered and murmured a thanks. “Who is this?” he asked her, nodding toward the stereo. He wrapped his arm more snugly around her waist, knowing that it was going to make him harder and she was going to be able to tell. He could feel the tension gathering along her spine, her need pinging his, making it all the more potent, all the more intense.
“Marc Broussard.”
“I like him.”
She drew back and looked up at him. “I’m breaking my own rules for you, you know,” she said, as if unable to prevent the disclaimer.
“Rules?” he scoffed playfully. “What rules?”