graduated from Wisconsin; I was sick of the cold.”
“But then you moved here? Where it’s cold.”
“Yes, but the winters aren’t as long as back home. Besides, it’s New York.”
“So I’m guessing you’re what? Late twenty-something?”
“Thirty,” he said.
“A baby,” I said as much to myself as to him.
“Really?” he challenged. There was nothing about Jake Randall that wasn’t all man candy and he knew it. “So if I’m a baby, that makes you how old?”
“None of your damn business.” I had not blushed this much in a long time.
“Should I guess?”
“Please don’t.” Why didn’t I say yes to that wine? It would be easier to hide behind the flirting, which I was obviously terrible at. And what in the hell was I doing flirting with Jake anyway? Even if Jim was gone, I was still married.
“Let me see your hands.”
“No.” I snatched them off of the table and into my lap. I gardened and played tennis and wrote books. I had old hands, really really old hands. And if he did get my age or if he guessed on the high side, I’d die right there in front of him or would spend the next twenty-nine days in total embarrassment.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m older than you, A lot older.”
“So? I bet you dessert I can guess your age.”
“And remind me just how old I really am? I thought you were done with being an ass, Jake Randall.”
He held out his hand, and I made the mistake of looking into those whiskey eyes. “Give me your hand, Tara.” It wasn’t an order, but I couldn’t have disobeyed even if I wanted to. I turned my palm up so he couldn’t see the freckles, and the lines, and the little scar across the back of two of my knuckles. He studied it for a moment and then closed my palm. “I know you’re forty because I read your Wiki page. Otherwise I would have guessed thirty.”
This was too much. I pulled my hand back and tried to laugh it off. “You suck at this game, Jake Randall, and you still owe me dessert.”
He let her deflect his compliment because she’d blushed from head to toe, at least from what he could see. But it wasn’t just a line. She was gorgeous, with long dark hair that hung down her back, stopping just above her slender waist. A heart shaped face that lit up constantly with things she seemed to want to say but didn’t. Why was that? Had she always been that way, or had someone conditioned her to be like that? Then he remembered how she’d barked at him earlier for going through her clothes and almost laughed at the idea that anybody could train Tara Jordan.
And why in the hell was he even thinking about her? She was married and had even written a book about how great it was to be married. But when Jake was with her, she hadn’t mentioned her husband once. And when Kathie Lee Gifford made some crack about her husband, Frank, leaving the toilet seat up and asked Tara if she had the same problem, she seemed relieved when the producer cut to a commercial break before she could answer.
If Tara’s husband wasn’t able be there for her big moments today, why didn’t he at least call her afterwards? When Jake was with her, she took a couple of calls but didn’t talk more than a few minutes. And she didn’t react to any of the calls the way he thought she would if she’d been talking to the man who inspired her to write the book.
And what was up with all the flirting? Maybe Tara just did it because she was good at it or because she’d devoted two chapters to how important it was in a relationship. Not that he had any complaints, hell, no. There was no doubt he was flirting with her, but why in the hell was she flirting with him?
“So, Jake Randall, what do you like to read?”
“A little bit of everything.”
She was obviously enjoying her crab cakes, shoulders scrunched around her ears with every bite. “That’s what people say who don’t read or they read romance and they’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Nothing wrong with
“But then you moved here? Where it’s cold.”
“Yes, but the winters aren’t as long as back home. Besides, it’s New York.”
“So I’m guessing you’re what? Late twenty-something?”
“Thirty,” he said.
“A baby,” I said as much to myself as to him.
“Really?” he challenged. There was nothing about Jake Randall that wasn’t all man candy and he knew it. “So if I’m a baby, that makes you how old?”
“None of your damn business.” I had not blushed this much in a long time.
“Should I guess?”
“Please don’t.” Why didn’t I say yes to that wine? It would be easier to hide behind the flirting, which I was obviously terrible at. And what in the hell was I doing flirting with Jake anyway? Even if Jim was gone, I was still married.
“Let me see your hands.”
“No.” I snatched them off of the table and into my lap. I gardened and played tennis and wrote books. I had old hands, really really old hands. And if he did get my age or if he guessed on the high side, I’d die right there in front of him or would spend the next twenty-nine days in total embarrassment.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m older than you, A lot older.”
“So? I bet you dessert I can guess your age.”
“And remind me just how old I really am? I thought you were done with being an ass, Jake Randall.”
He held out his hand, and I made the mistake of looking into those whiskey eyes. “Give me your hand, Tara.” It wasn’t an order, but I couldn’t have disobeyed even if I wanted to. I turned my palm up so he couldn’t see the freckles, and the lines, and the little scar across the back of two of my knuckles. He studied it for a moment and then closed my palm. “I know you’re forty because I read your Wiki page. Otherwise I would have guessed thirty.”
This was too much. I pulled my hand back and tried to laugh it off. “You suck at this game, Jake Randall, and you still owe me dessert.”
He let her deflect his compliment because she’d blushed from head to toe, at least from what he could see. But it wasn’t just a line. She was gorgeous, with long dark hair that hung down her back, stopping just above her slender waist. A heart shaped face that lit up constantly with things she seemed to want to say but didn’t. Why was that? Had she always been that way, or had someone conditioned her to be like that? Then he remembered how she’d barked at him earlier for going through her clothes and almost laughed at the idea that anybody could train Tara Jordan.
And why in the hell was he even thinking about her? She was married and had even written a book about how great it was to be married. But when Jake was with her, she hadn’t mentioned her husband once. And when Kathie Lee Gifford made some crack about her husband, Frank, leaving the toilet seat up and asked Tara if she had the same problem, she seemed relieved when the producer cut to a commercial break before she could answer.
If Tara’s husband wasn’t able be there for her big moments today, why didn’t he at least call her afterwards? When Jake was with her, she took a couple of calls but didn’t talk more than a few minutes. And she didn’t react to any of the calls the way he thought she would if she’d been talking to the man who inspired her to write the book.
And what was up with all the flirting? Maybe Tara just did it because she was good at it or because she’d devoted two chapters to how important it was in a relationship. Not that he had any complaints, hell, no. There was no doubt he was flirting with her, but why in the hell was she flirting with him?
“So, Jake Randall, what do you like to read?”
“A little bit of everything.”
She was obviously enjoying her crab cakes, shoulders scrunched around her ears with every bite. “That’s what people say who don’t read or they read romance and they’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Nothing wrong with
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