Table for Two (11 page)

Angela Graham despaired of her middle daughter's struggle with weight. On family trips her mother would take her other children on outings, but leave Cassie in the hotel with the caretaker and her studious father. Her father was more absentminded than forgetful of her presence. He would pat her on the head occasionally, as he would a beloved pet, and would then add to her problem by secretly offering her sweets, which she ate with fervor.

Her attempts to be close to her mother by losing weight always ended when the weight snuck back like a bad rash. The only time she thought they had a chance of forming a relationship was when she had married Timothy. At last she seemed to do something right, something her mother approved of. They had never talked on the phone so often or spoken of getting together so frequently. However, that camaraderie began to fray when she told her mother about Timothy's hurtful remarks. Her mother told her that she was too sensitive, that Timothy meant well. When she divorced, her mother stopped speaking to her altogether. Cassie admitted that she didn't miss her. She'd already felt inadequate and didn't need someone else to give voice to her thoughts. Timothy was right. Drake knew nothing about her and now he never would.

She grabbed a pint of French vanilla ice cream from the freezer. It was two-thirds finished due to her binge when Timothy's flowers had arrived. However, it would suit. She threw in some colored sprinkles and peanuts, wrapped herself in a gold chenille throw, and turned on the TV. There was a rerun of a seventies comedy she'd never really liked, but she watched it anyway, not wanting to do anything that involved thinking.

She had finished the carton and a handful of cookies when someone pounded on the door demanding entrance. She wrapped the throw tighter and raised the volume on the TV. She didn't feel like talking to Adriana and having to tell her how the date went or in her case didn't go. She didn't want to explain why she hadn't gone and then have her friend lecture her on what a jerk Timothy was, as if she didn't know.

The pounding continued. "Cassie, I know you're in there. Open the door."

She paused with a cookie halfway to her mouth. She knew the voice, knew the command, but didn't want to see him. She buried herself deeper into the cushions as if she could disappear.

"Fine," he said casually. "I'll just talk to the manager."

Her manager was a nosey gossip who would give her no peace if a strange man demanded entrance into her place. "Wait!" She rushed to the door, unlatched the locks, and opened it.

She had expected him to be angry. So the fact that he stood on her doorstep, looking very tantalizing in a classy gray suit, wearing an expression that was both annoyed and worried, for an instant made her want to run into his arms and confess all. Nevertheless, she refused to weaken and rested her hip against the door.

His gaze was sharp and determined. "What happened? If you're sick you could have called and told me."

She boldly met his gaze. "I'm not sick."

A slight hesitation crossed his face. "Then what's wrong?"

She shrugged, not willing to explain herself. "Nothing."

"Then why didn't you meet me for lunch?"

"I changed my mind," she said simply.

He knew there was more to the story than that. Behind her, he saw an empty ice cream carton and a bag of cookies. Her dress shoes sat in the corner and she was wearing makeup and dangling earrings. She had meant to come, he concluded, but something had stopped her. He wouldn't leave until he found out what. He held up a large bag. "I brought lunch."

Seeing the determination in his eyes, she decided to combat it with flippancy. "Ah, the man thinks my weakness is food and who am I to prove him wrong?" She held out her hand to take the bag.

"May I come in?" he asked out of courtesy. They both knew he was coming in no matter the reply.

She reluctantly moved aside to let him pass. Drake stepped in and glanced around. Her apartment had a modern look, but instead of it being full of neutral colors, she had gone to the other extreme—purple and lilac with big red pillows on the couch. A silver bowl full of tiny shells sat on her coffee table and various brightly colored paintings hung on the wall. There didn't seem to be a central theme, but it worked.

"You have a nice place," he said.

Cassie fell on the couch. "Please stop with the pleasantries. There's nothing more trying than a rogue playacting the role of a gentleman."

Drake took off his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch, then removed the empty ice cream carton and bag of cookies from the table and went into the kitchen. He spread out the cartons of food on the counter. She had organized her kitchen nicely, but her chopping board was old and she needed a better knife set. He made a mental note to pick them up for her. He poured two bowls of shrimp and corn chowder, buttered the bread, placed it on a tray, then returned to the living room, where he found Cassie wrapped up in the corner of the couch looking bored.

"Here," he said, handing her the tray.

"Thank you." She took a sip of the soup and focused on the television. Drake waited a moment to see whether she would give her opinion of the meal. After a few seconds he realized she wouldn't. Annoyed, he returned to the kitchen.

Cassie watched him go and sighed. She was being petty, but the only way to deal with him was to be glib, nothing more serious. She finished the soup and placed the tray down. He had been kind and couldn't help it if he imagined himself attracted to her. When he didn't return to the living room, she went into the kitchen and found him halfway inside the stove.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, alarmed.

He hit his head and swore. He scrambled out and glared at her. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Committing suicide."

He held up a scrub brush. "I'm cleaning your stove."

She kneeled in front of him. "Why?"

He frowned, believing the answer obvious. "Because it's filthy."

Cassie grabbed the scrub brush from him. "Listen, dear. All you have to do is feed me. This other stuff is overdoing it. Hell, even my ex-husband only cleaned himself. Wait, I think he once cleaned the toaster, but I fainted, so I'm not sure whether that was a dream or not."

Drake glanced at the toaster, pensive. "I can do that too, if you want."

"I was joking." She stood and headed for the sink. "You need to learn to laugh more."

He grasped her hand as she passed him. He gazed up at her with mesmerizing eyes. His voice was low. "I'm willing to learn, if you're willing to teach me."

Her heart began to dance. Oh, boy.

A loud whirring sound erupted in the air, breaking the spell. Suddenly, the refrigerator started vibrating and moving from the wall.

Drake leaped to his feet, pushed Cassie behind him and stared in shock. "What the hell is going on?"

Cassie went up to it and kicked it. It shuddered, then quieted. "It does that sometimes."

"That's dangerous."

"Not at all. I know how to handle it."

He still looked unsure. "You have to get rid of it."

"No way. It has character and keeps me company."

He took her chin. "If you're that lonely, I'll move in with you."

She laughed, but knew he was only half joking. "Come on, let me show you something."

He went to the sink and retrieved the scrub brush. "Let me just finish this first."

She snatched the brush from him. "No, you'll get your clothes dirty. I'll finish it later."

He took the brush back. "I sincerely doubt it."

"We are not going to have an argument about this."

"Good." He disappeared into the stove again.

Cassie sat down on the floor next to him, resting against the cupboards. "Boy, are you stubborn!"

"Why didn't you meet me for lunch?"

"I already told you," she said, watching the sleek muscles work in his back. She wished his trousers weren't so loose so she could see the muscles there as well.

"Yes, but you lied."

"I did not."

He sighed. "Okay, then let me rephrase my question. What made you change your mind?"

"Common sense."

He was quiet.

"I'm not what you're looking for, especially if you want to marry. My ex-husband could tell you that." She rested her head back, trying not to remember her encounter with Timothy. "I'm too much woman for most men."

Once again Drake didn't respond as she expected. He threw down the scrub brush with such force that the boom echoed throughout the kitchen. He swore and sat back on his heels, pinning her with intense eyes. "That bastard called or came by and made you change your mind about me, didn't he?"

"He didn't make me do anything," Cassie protested, stunned by his vehemence. "I'm just telling you the truth."

Drake didn't hear her, he was scrubbing the oven again, too busy cursing Timothy under his breath and creating various scenarios of what he would do if he ever saw him.

"Drake," she sanctioned after hearing a rather vicious scenario.

His tone was hard. "What?"

It was clear he was in no mood to be scolded. "Never mind."

He completed cleaning the stove, washed his hands, then headed for the living room. "What did you want to show me?" He sat on the couch.

Cassie placed an album on his lap and opened it.

"This is my family," she said. "This is my mother." She pointed to a striking woman stretched out on a garden lounger. "This is my father." He stood next to her mother with a smile barely touching his somber face. "These are my two brothers and sister." She gestured to two kids, posing like models for a magazine, and one young man with his face turned away. "And this is me." She tapped the image of a girl smiling shyly at the camera, hidden behind her father. "Now all you have to do is figure out what is wrong with this picture. And please don't worry about hurting my feelings. They need to get trampled on every once in a while or they feel deprived."

Drake felt his stomach clench. He frantically searched the picture trying to find what she wanted him to respond to. She had presented him with a test. Instinctively, he knew he was going to fail.

"I need to make a comparison first," he said, turning to the next page.

Cassie anxiously watched him, wondering what he would say that would end their acquaintance. That would give her the fuel and stamina to throw him out of her life forever. Impatience threatened to consume her as she stared at him. Her anxiety soon turned to bewilderment—he was enjoying himself.

He went through her album as if he had discovered an antique volume. He carefully turned the pages and lightly ran his hands over certain photos, mostly pictures of her, at times asking questions about the other people in them and nodding absently when she replied.

Not once did he mention how out of place she looked. He didn't say, "Wow! This is your mom?" or "You don't look anything like your family" or "You were a big girl." Instead, he commented on the different trips and the things they did as a family, sounding almost awestruck.

"This is a great album," he said, bending over a picture that celebrated her sister Melody's sixteenth birthday. "I don't see anything wrong with it. Thanks for sharing it with me. No one has ever shown me their family album before. You have a wonderful family."

"You could conclude this from a few pictures?" she asked dryly. She knew she was being unfair to him, but couldn't help it. He annoyed her by being purposefully obtuse. She wanted his true reaction. He could mask his feelings so well. "My mother is disgusted with me. My father ignores me, as do my siblings, Melody and Lewis, unless they want something, and I haven't seen or heard from my older brother, Clarence, in years. My mother calls only to complain."

He closed the album and laid it on the table. "That shows she cares."

Cassie tapped her foot. "What are you, an orphan? Any parent is a good parent?" She held up her hands before he could reply. "No, wait. I bet you had the perfect parents and that's why you can't imagine how I can whine about mine. You're convinced I'm overreacting because you believe in marriage and family and all the wonderful things it brings. Without love of course, just a sense of duty and commitment."

Drake’s expression didn't change, but his amber eyes darkened like a hot flame. He glanced away before she could read the expression, but she knew she had hurt him. Somehow, she had hit upon a wound that he had carefully hidden and that she had now forced open to bleed. Remorse struck her. Many words of apology came to her lips, but she didn't know how to apologize without embarrassing him.

She reached for the album, eager to end the afternoon. The man made her feel and say things she always ended up regretting. "Thanks for lunch."

He rested a hand on her arm, stopping her. "Is that my cue to leave? Because I'm not."

"Why?"

"I don't want to," he said simply.

Cassie chewed on her lip. "I'm sorry about what I said."

He removed his hand and offered her a quick forgiving smile. "Don't worry. My shoulders are wide."

Not that wide, she thought. She'd never seen such a flash of pain cross through someone's eyes—tangible enough to cause her heart to constrict.

"I know I failed your test," he said. "But I'm not leaving until I know what's going on."

"Nothing." She scooted away from him. "I'm just not interested in you. Besides, I'm seeing someone," she added hastily.

"But the other day you said—"

"I know, things change."

Drake shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm not surprised. You're an attractive woman. Of course you'll have casual dates, but I doubt you'll need them anymore."

Cassie feigned a cough to keep from laughing. He spoke as if her social life were filled with a man every night. Poor disillusioned man. "Drake, I'll say this once more. I'm not interested."

He sent her a black layered look. "If you weren't so scared, you'd be on me like sweet on a sugarcane."

She sucked in a sharp, astonished breath. "That's not true."

"All right." He drew her close, his eyes professing a test of his own. "Then resist me."

Her heart shuddered unexpectedly. "What?"