Affecting a similar pose, Micah crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you the outdoorsy type?”
Tessa’s pouty lips formed an attractive moue, and Micah’s midnight gaze lingered on her mouth. He’d found her face incredibly beautiful in the light, but with the glow of flickering candlelight she’d become mesmerizing.
A mysterious smile crinkled the corners of Tessa’s eyes as she stared at the tall man standing only a few feet away. “My favorite outdoor activities include sitting under an umbrella sipping a tropical concoction or grabbing a few winks with the sound of water lapping up on a beach as background music.”
Throwing back his head, Micah laughed, the warm sound bubbling up from his broad chest. “I suppose I’d never find you on a ski slope.”
She wrinkled her pert nose. “Never,” she confirmed. “Do you ski?”
He nodded. “Yes. My parents are avid skiers.”
It was obvious the Sanborns liked cold weather. Why else would Bridget schedule a New Year’s Eve wedding in the northeast? Thinking of Micah’s sister reminded Tessa why he was in her kitchen.
She straightened. “Speaking of cold weather, I think we’d better talk about your sister’s wedding.” She’d planned to give Micah an informational packet for his sister, but that along with the other literature she usually gave to prospective brides was in her office.
Reaching for his jacket on the stool, Micah withdrew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Tessa. “I took a few notes when I last spoke to Bridget.”
She unfolded the single sheet of paper, holding it close to the flickering flames. She could hardly read the scribble. Her arching eyebrows lifted. “What language is this?”
Micah’s jaw tightened. “It’s English,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
Tessa handed him the paper. “You’re going to have to translate this for me.”
He scowled. He knew he didn’t have the most legible handwriting, but no one had ever mistaken it for a foreign language. “You’ve got jokes, Ms-s-s. Whitfield?” He had drawn out the Ms. to several syllables.
“No, I don’t. And it’s Miss Whitfield.”
“I thought running your own company would make you a liberated woman.”
Tessa pulled back her shoulders. “I am liberated—but not so much so that I don’t expect a man to hold a door open for me, push and pull back my chair and stand up whenever I enter a room.”
A slow smile parted his mobile mouth at the same time he angled his head. “That’s what I like—an old-fashioned woman.”
“I’m not old-fashioned,” she countered. “It’s just that I like my men to have home training.”
“Does your man have home training, Tessa?”
There was a pulse beat of silence before she said, “No.” The single word was barely a whisper.
“And why doesn’t he have home training, Tessa?” Micah asked, his deep baritone voice dropping an octave.
Because right now I don’t have a man, she mused.
She wanted to tell Micah he should mind his business but couldn’t. He was the brother of her client, and the courtesy she afforded her clients extended to family members. Ninety-five percent of her business came from referrals.
Tilting her chin in what she hoped was an arrogant gesture, she affected a supercilious smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was led to believe your purpose for coming to Signature Bridals was to discuss your sister’s upcoming nuptials.”
Micah went completely still. Nothing moved. Not even his eyes. “Your assumption is correct.”
Moving closer, close enough for several strands of her wayward hairstyle to graze his chin, Tessa gave him a direct stare. “Then it should be your sister’s wedding that we should be talking about, not what I like in a man.”
Micah inhaled the sweet scent clinging to her hair and a different woodsy fragrance on her body. Not only did she look good but she also smelled delicious.
“You can say that I’m just curious.”
“I hope you’re familiar with the saying about curiosity and the cat.”
“I am,” he shot back smugly, “but I’m also quite familiar with what brought her back.”
“Wasn’t the cat a he?”
Micah’s mysterious smile was back. “Not in this case.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Your hair, eyes and coloring remind of a lioness.”
Tessa wanted to tell Micah that he also reminded her of a predatory jungle cat but wanted to steer the conversation away from that of a personal nature.
“Have you eaten dinner?” she asked him.
He blinked once, seemingly startled by her question. “No, I haven’t. Why?”
She turned and walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. “I don’t know how long the electricity is going to be out, and rather than have my dinner spoil, I’m going to share it with you. Meanwhile you can tell me about your sister.” She glanced at Micah over her shoulder. She knew she’d surprised him with her offer. “Do you eat red meat?”
“Yes, I do.”
“How do you like your steak?”
“Medium-well.”
He peered at Tessa’s slender body outlined in a flickering golden glow. There was something about Tessa Whitfield’s exquisite face, beautifully modulated voice and aloof manner that he liked—a lot.
“Would you like some help?”
Tessa removed a platter with the marinated steak from a shelf. “No, thank you. I have everything under control,” she said, placing the platter on the counter next to the stove-top grill.
“What if I set the table?” Micah asked. He wanted and needed to do more than just stand around and stare at her.
She gave him a warm, open smile for the first time. “Okay.”
“Where can I wash my hands?”
She pointed to the cooking island. “Use that sink. I’m going to put a few candles in the downstairs bathroom before I go upstairs for the flashlight.”
Turning back his shirt cuffs, Micah washed his hands in a stainless-steel sink. He knew Rosalind Sanborn would have a hissy fit if she saw him washing his hands in the kitchen, but he was certain she would forgive this one infraction. What would have shocked his mother more was that he’d finally met a woman who had caught his interest even before she’d opened her mouth. And when she did speak, she’d enthralled him with the low, throaty timbre.
He smiled. Tessa Whitfield’s voice was the perfect match for her sultry look.
Tessa handed Micah a towel to dry his hands. “The dishes are in the cabinet above the dishwasher. And you’ll find flatware in a drawer under the butcher-block counter.”
She turned on the oven, then concentrated on draining the water from the potatoes and patting them dry before she placed the wedges in a plastic bag filled with an herb-and-olive-oil mixture. What she didn’t want to do was think about the tall man moving about her kitchen as if he had done it before. She placed the potatoes on a cookie sheet and put it into the preheated oven.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked.
“What are my choices?”
“You can have either water or wine.”
“Wine is good.”
“Red