Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Hudson

I paced the living room and smoothed a damp palm down the front of my cashmere sweater. I hadn't been so nervous about a date since senior prom, when I'd had a pocket full of condoms, an excess of teenage hormones, and high hopes.

I didn't expect this date to end with a bang as well. But after that afternoon's kiss, maybe we were inching closer.

I might not love my wife—and never would—but I enjoyed her warmth, easy smile, and quick wit. And I longed to do more than snuggle with her at night. We could have a lot of fun together, without messy emotions getting in the way.

The bedroom door opened, and I sucked in a breath. A royal blue satin dress flowed from Whitney's narrow shoulders, draped across the curves of her breasts, wrapped around her slender waist, and ended in a whimsical, flouncy hem above her knee. Long sleeves ballooned at her delicate wrists. Stylish black chunky heels made her already-long legs seem endless. Whitney was always beautiful no matter what she wore, but tonight she seemed even more radiant.

And I wasn't immune to its effect. My groin tightened. "You look?—"

She ran a trembling hand down her hip, seeming just as nervous as I was.

"Stunning."

She beamed. "You like it?"

"I love it." I held out a hand for the coat hanging over her arm. "May I?" She passed it to me, and I slid it onto her shoulders, squeezing gently once it was in place.

Just to make sure it stayed put. Of course.

And when I took her hand to lead her to the car, it was just to make sure she found her footing in her high heels. Naturally.

And when I…oh, fuck it. Who was I fooling? I just wanted to hold her delicate hand in the car and into the restaurant. And she held onto my hand as if it were a lifeline, a dainty smile on her lips.

I opened the sleek steel-and-glass door to the restaurant, and Whitney slipped inside on a subtle cloud of lavender that teased my senses and heightened my hunger for her.

"Good evening, Mr. Talbott. I'm so glad you could join us." The hostess greeted us with a warm smile, took Whitney's coat, and led us to our table to the accompaniment of a tinkling grand piano. I pulled out Whitney's chair for her and seated myself at her side. A server handed us menus, took our drink orders, and retreated.

Whitney opened the menu, and a strangled gurgle escaped her throat.

I leaned close and said in a low voice, "Don't look at the prices. Order whatever you want."

"But fifteen dollars for a side of mashed potatoes?" she whispered. "I would have been happy with pizza. "

I placed my hand on her knee, the bare skin smooth beneath my palm. I resisted the urge to tease the inside of her knee with my fingers. We weren't at that point. Yet. I removed my hand. "This is a special occasion, and I can afford it. The side dishes are large and meant to be shared. How does filet mignon with a side of lobster mac and cheese sound? You can choose the veggie."

Her eyes widened. "That sounds fantastic." She perused the menu. "Roasted Brussels sprouts?" She wrinkled her nose. "How about the sautéed spinach?"

I snapped my menu shut. "Done." The server returned with our drinks, and we ordered dinner.

I raised my glass of sparkling water. "To a successful release day."

She raised her glass. "To the start of playoffs."

My stomach clenched, and my appetite died. Our first playoff game, against Las Vegas, began the next evening at home. My calm professionalism deserted me, and my nerves jangled. Playoff games were cutthroat, and a different level of play. And so much of the game rode on my shoulders. I had to clear my head, or I wouldn't enjoy dinner. "Let's celebrate you this evening."

"Okay, then tomorrow night, we'll celebrate your win."

Fuck, I hoped so.

"How is Gramps doing? Will he be at the game?" Her brows drew together.

Her concern for my grandfather touched me, easing my nerves. "Corazon said that after two days of cold packs and regular meals, he's doing much better. I'll check with him tomorrow, but I think he'll be there."

"I'm glad." She picked up her water goblet.

"So…" I lowered my voice and leaned closer. "Gramps told me I could learn a thing or two from your sex scenes." I scowled in mock indignation .

Whitney choked on her water. Laughing and coughing, she wheezed, "He asked me how I knew about the sex."

I raised an eyebrow. "And?"

She placed her glass on the table, shoulders still shaking with laughter. "It's not autobiographical, if that's what you're wondering. Disappointed?" She winked.

"Then how do you write such…" I looked around to see if anyone was listening. "Scorching sex scenes?"

"First of all, they're not just sex scenes—they're love scenes. My characters are already halfway in love before they even get to that point. I mix emotions in with the physical gymnastics. But I'm a storyteller." She whispered in my ear, "And I have a very…active…imagination."

Her warm breath puffed against the shell of my ear, and a shiver ran down my spine, straight to my cock. I groaned quietly and shifted in my seat.

She sat back, her eyes twinkling in the lamplight.

Two could play at that game. I traced a finger along her silky knee and dropped my voice an octave. "Want to show me how…active…your imagination is when we get home?"

Her voice breathy, she asked, "Are you halfway in love with me?" Hope shone in her eyes.

Yes. I mentally shook the thought from my head. "You know I can't offer you love." I removed my hand and missed the warmth. "But I am…fond of you."

The light in her eyes dimmed, and I kicked myself for being such an ass. But love led to heartache. I just couldn't open myself up to it again.

A throng of servers arrived with our food, placing hot plates with sizzling steaks in front of us and spooning creamy lobster mac and cheese and tender sautéed spinach onto our dishes. The savory aromas filled the air and made my mouth water. Whitney's stomach growled in the quiet restaurant. She placed a hand on her tummy, and a flush rose on her cheeks, making me grin. When the servers disappeared, we tucked into our food.

Whitney hummed. "This is the best steak I've ever had."

The rich lobster mac and cheese tasted decadent. "You'll love this." I scooped a forkful and held it to her mouth. She opened, I fed her the morsel, and she closed her lips around the tines. I slowly slid the fork out in a sensual glide, holding her gaze captive. Hunger shone in her eyes, but not for the velvety indulgence. I was sure her desire reflected in my eyes.

She moaned. Her eyes slipped shut and her head fell back, giving me a glimpse of how she would react in bed. My cock twitched to life.

She chewed and swallowed. "That's yummy." Her voice was reverent.

We continued to indulge in our meal, but my mind was now consumed with thoughts of Whitney in bed. Trying to distract myself from temptation, I asked, "What's a bluestocking?"

"Basically, a bluestocking was a woman who broke out of the expected roles of wife and mother, seeking a career or interest held by men. She was an independent woman who thought for herself and was ahead of her time. My heroine has written a novel and is trying to get it published. I went down many rabbit holes of research into publishing in the era." She then described the characters and plot.

"What's the twist? Your plots always have twists."

She held up a finger, smiling, her eyes dancing. "Uh-uh. You'll have to read the book to find out."

I was looking forward to it. I never thought I'd be caught dead reading a romance novel, but Whitney's writing captured me like a puck snagged in my glove. Besides, it was Whitney's writing, which made all the difference.

She sliced into her steak. "Just a heads up. I won't be home on Thursday evening. I'm signing books at Keeper's Bookstore."

I raised my eyebrows. "Impressive. Would you mind if I came? I don't want to step on your toes."

Her eyes widened. "You want to?"

"Sure!" Anything important to Whitney was important to me.

"I'd love to have you, but I'll put you to work." She winked.

We finished dinner in companionable conversation and laughter that flowed easily, and I enjoyed a relaxing evening before the stress of playoffs began. I garnered a few curious looks from the other diners, but no one had the bad manners to interrupt my date with my wife.

I drove us home, content, holding Whitney's hand the whole way. She squeezed and held tight.

After changing into comfortable clothes, I settled on the sofa to read Bluestocking. The words came alive while Whitney disappeared into her office to check her sales stats. "Whoo-hoo!" she cried, and I chuckled.

When we slid into bed, I took the initiative. I pulled her willing body close and spooned her, my bare chest against the delicate curve of her back. "This okay?"

"Yes, but what are you doing?"

"Nothing's going to happen unless you want it to." I rubbed my hand from her smooth shoulder down her soft arm. "But every morning you end up in my arms. Might as well start the night that way."

She relaxed and snuggled into me. Soon, her breaths came deep and even, but I lay awake.

What was I doing? I wasn't defending my heart.

Whitney was taking her shot at the net, and if I wasn't careful, she would score.