“Yes, please,” she said.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the bar area.
She hopped up on one of the stools and noticed that his kitchen was state of the art, with a professional-grade cooktop. “Do you cook?”
“No, but I have a personal chef I use for dinner parties and events I hold here. She insisted that the kitchen must be like this. Mainly I use the microwave to heat things up following Mrs. Plumb’s instructions.”
“I use my microwave a lot, too. I just don’t have the time to cook at home,” she said, taking the Corona from him when he handed it to her with a wedge of lime in the top. She pushed the lime into the bottle and then took a swallow of the beer.
“Is Jane the chef you use?”
“Yes, she is,” Conner said, coming over to lean against the counter across from her.
“Why didn’t you just use her name?” she asked.
“I’m used to never talking about her.”
She had known Conner was going to be a tough interview, but she hadn’t realized how much he kept up his guard. If he was never going to let her in, how the hell was she going to get the information she needed?
“It’s okay to use her name with me,” Nichole said.
“I know that. Force of habit,” Conner said. He took a long swallow of his beer and then set the bottle on the countertop. “Let’s see what we have for dinner.”
He opened the bottom warming oven, bending down to see what was inside. She enjoyed the view of his backside and gave a little wolf whistle to let him know. She didn’t want Conner to feel pressured to answer her questions and she knew the only way to make sure he didn’t was to (1) keep him off guard and (2) keep things light. He expected her to go for the hard questions and she would. But not at first.
“Like the view?” he asked, shaking his hips.
“Yes, I do. So what’s on the menu other than you?” she asked.
“Salmon en croute. Mrs. Plumb has been experimenting with some different recipes lately.”
“Sounds good. How long has Mrs. Plumb worked for you?”
“Eight years. I’ve lived here that long, too,” he said. Using oven mitts, he removed two dishes from the oven and set them on the countertop.
“Can you carry both our beers?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He led the way to the glass door with the automatic sensor that opened it when he approached. Once they were outside, he set the plates on the table, which was already set with glasses, napkins and flatware.
“I like that door,” she said. “Very high tech.”
“I like convenience and I have the money to get what I want,” he said. “Be right back.”
She set the beers down at each of their spots and then took a seat and waited for him to come. He returned with two salad plates, setting one next to her dish and one at his place.
“I probably should serve wine with this, but I don’t care for it.”
“Any wine?” she asked.
“Not really. I’ll drink it at dinner parties because it’s expected, but when I’m at home I don’t touch it.”
“I really love a dry wine, but mainly I drink it with my girlfriends when we’re hanging out.”
“You mentioned that Jane was good friends with Willow and Willow is one of your friends?”
“Yes. Willow and Gail Little and I all grew up together,” Nichole said. “We all ended up going to college in New York and just have grown closer over the years. It’s really nice having them here with me. It makes me feel like I’ve got a little bit of home close by.”
“I have some good friends, but they are mainly business associates who have the same hobbies I do,” Conner said.
Nichole relaxed as dinner progressed and noticed that Conner did, too. It was almost like any other first date, except that they both knew they’d sleep together tonight.
“What are your hobbies?” she asked.
“Sailing,” he said. “I love being out on my yacht.”
“What do you like about it?” She suspected it probably had a lot to do with the fact that when he was out there no one could bother him.
He shrugged and took a bite of his dinner. She watched him chew and then realized that she was fascinated by everything about this man.
“I guess the solitude. There’s usually poor cell phone reception so no one can reach me from the office. I tend to go out alone or with a very small crew so no one bothers me.”
She could see why that would appeal to him. Conner had been shaped into the man he was today by a very intrusive incident in his past. He’d always need to be alone to feel safe.
Maybe that was why he wanted her as his mistress instead of his girlfriend. Maybe that added layer gave him the security of knowing that he’d still have the assurance of being alone when their time together ended.
She knew there was no maybe about it. That was exactly why he’d set it up the way he had. But what did it say about her that she’d agreed to his terms?
She knew she wanted her career to continue to be her focus, but having met Conner, she doubted it would satisfy her the way that he did. Oh, that wasn’t right. It was more the way she imagined he would fill her life if she let herself really care for him.
He made her want things that she didn’t think she ever would. And no matter how hard she tried to switch back to the way she’d been before, she knew she couldn’t. Something inside her had been irrevocably changed by Conner Macafee. That should bother her. Strangely, it didn’t.
Conner enjoyed the evening with Nichole. But it felt homey in a way and that bothered him a lot. He didn’t want to feel too comfortable with her.
Turned on by her, of course, but comfortable, no way. He needed to keep his edge and his wits about him. She’d thrown him with her casual sexiness and it was time for him to start regaining the ground he’d lost earlier.
She’d asked him questions, but he tried to keep them on even footing by learning just as much about her. Nichole was a mystery to him and each new thing he uncovered only brought more questions. She had a natural elegance to all her moves and she was funny and had a sharp wit.
She was giving him the rundown on the person who sat behind her at work. A sportswriter who, in Nichole’s words, spent most of his time trying to relive his glory days. “The thing is, he’s a great guy and a terrific writer. If he didn’t talk so much about his failed career in baseball, people would like him. He should be more like Jack Crown.”
“In what way?” Conner asked as he made coffee for them both.
“Jack doesn’t dwell on the fact that he didn’t have the career playing pro football that he should have had. He just lives in the now.”
“I see what you mean. That’s why I don’t like to talk about my past. What’s important is what’s happening now,” Conner said.
She gave him a sardonic look. “Your past influences everything you do today. Being a jock in high school and telling everyone about how you were the reason your team won the state championship is a totally different story.”
He shook his head as he added cream and sugar to his coffee and just cream to hers. “It’s only different because you want to know about my past. If I was Joe Schmoe and you’d never heard of my dad, you wouldn’t care