Reluctantly, she dialed his number. The phone rang and rang before he grabbed it up.
“Hey, Gracie,” he said, as if he’d been as sure of her call as she’d been of Max’s.
“How’d you know…Never mind. Caller I.D., I presume.”
He chuckled. “Nope, lucky guesswork. Maybe a little wishful thinking.”
She ignored that. “About dinner?”
“What time shall I pick you up?”
“Did I say yes?”
“You wouldn’t be calling if you weren’t going to say yes,” he said reasonably. “Seven o’clock. How does that sound?”
“You mean you don’t already know?”
“Darlin’, sarcasm doesn’t suit you. Settle down or you’ll ruin your digestion.”
“You let me worry about my digestion,” she said grimly, already regretting her decision to call. “Seven will be fine.”
“Dress casual. We’re going for crabs and it’s going to be messy.”
“What if I don’t eat crabs?”
“Then it must mean you’ve never had ’em here. See you soon.”
He hung up, which was just as well since she didn’t have a smart retort to his confident comment.
She dressed in the most casual outfit she owned, linen pants and an expensive, starched cotton blouse. Kevin shook his head when he saw her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you own a T-shirt and some jeans?”
“No.”
“We’ll stop at the bargain store.”
“Kevin, I’m not buying a cheap T-shirt to go to dinner. I’m not a messy eater.”
“Whatever you say. I suppose it’ll give the dry cleaner in town some business.”
Gracie scowled. She set out to hate the crabs. She really did. But the next thing she knew she was up to her elbows in shells and butter and sweet, rich crabmeat. Kevin was right. She’d never had anything quite like them before.
He was also right about the T-shirt. There was no tidy way to eat the crabs. Picking them was messy and slow, but the reward was wonderful. There was also a certain amount of stress reduction in wielding that mallet she’d been given. Kevin, to his credit, didn’t give her a single reason to want to use it on his head. Of course, the conversation had been mostly limited to his patient explanation of the best way to go about getting all the crabmeat out of the shells.
When there was a mound of red shells in front of her and she’d emptied two bottles of the locally produced ginger ale, Gracie sat back with a sigh of pure contentment.
“Enjoy yourself?” Kevin asked.
“Oh my, yes.”
“Told you so.”
“Are you one of those annoying men who has to be right about everything?”
“I don’t have to be, but I usually am.” He grinned at her. “How about dessert? Homemade pie, maybe? There’s almost any kind you could want.”
“Not a chance,” she insisted. She looked at the pile of shells in front of him. It was at least double her own. “What about you?”
“I wouldn’t miss a slice of the strawberry pie. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ll be sorry,” he warned.
Gracie couldn’t imagine ever being hungry again. “I don’t think so.”
Naturally, though, when the pie came, with its huge strawberries and its whipped cream topping, her mouth began to water. Kevin took a first bite and then a second, before glancing her way and grinning.
“Change your mind?”
She scowled at him. “Yes, dammit.”
“You want a bite of this or your own slice?”
The thought of sharing whipped-cream-coated strawberries with Kevin aroused images that were way too provocative. “I want one all my own,” she said quickly.
His knowing expression made her regret her decision. “Never mind. I’ll share yours.”
Still grinning, he stabbed a huge strawberry, made sure it was dipped in the whipped cream and held it out. When Gracie reached for the fork, he shook his head. His gaze locked with hers as he waited for her to take a bite.
Two could play at that game. Swallowing hard, Gracie reached out a hand to cover his and hold the fork steady. She was pretty sure his skin heated a good ten degrees at the contact. She oh-so-slowly licked every trace of cream off the berry, then bit into the sweet, juicy flesh. By then there was no mistaking the rapid acceleration of his breathing. She ran her tongue over her lips.
“That was—”
“Exhilarating?” Kevin suggested, that amused expression firmly back in place.
“I was going to say wonderful,” she contradicted.
“Same difference.”
Gracie didn’t like the gleam in his eye or the direction of the conversation.
“About the house—”
“Off limits,” he reminded her.
“But—”
“Ms. MacDougal, surely you are not so conversationally challenged that that’s the only thing you can think of to talk about.”
“It’s all we have in common.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Mr. Daniels, I’m a workaholic. As near as I can tell, you avoid anything remotely resembling work. All you do is laze around in a hammock.”
“I’m surprised at you. Don’t you know appearances can be deceiving.”
“I doubt it in this instance. The state of that house proves my point.”
He sighed heavily. “We’re back to that again. I’m beginning to think you don’t have a very vivid imagination.”
“My imagination is just fine.”
“One-track mind then?”
“I have a lot of varied interests.”
“Name one,” he challenged.
Gracie desperately searched for something unrelated to the hotel industry or at least something that could be perceived as unrelated.
“Flowers,” she said finally. “I love flowers.”
Kevin looked skeptical. “You do much gardening?”
“I didn’t say I gardened. I said I like flowers.”
“Looking at them, smelling them, what?”
“Mr. Daniels, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Sure it is, darlin’. We’re getting to know each other.”
“But I don’t want to get to know you,” she said.
“Then you have a lot to learn about business. It always pays to know the man sitting across the desk from you when you’re doing a deal.”
“As if I’d take business advice from you,” she muttered.
“Maybe you should. You might