The Single Dad (The Dalton Brothers 3)

“I believe that,” I whispered. “But I believe that to be true for both of you.”

He said nothing as he pulled into the restaurant, and we got out of the car, his hand moving to my lower back as we walked inside.

The silence finally broke when he said, “Should we start in the bar?”

I wanted the evening to last as long as possible.

So, I nodded, and he led us into that section, where there were two barstools along the far side of the bar. He stood behind me while I sat, making sure the seat didn’t shift as I got comfortable.

Before he left that position and got onto his own stool, he breathed, “That dress, Sydney …” His tone turned hoarse, gritty. “Fuck.”

The air from each of his syllables swished against my neck, like it was being carried off a lake, the echoes hitting the walls inside my chest, sending goose bumps down my back.

“I’m glad you like it.”

He sat on his stool and turned the base of the seat toward me, our knees brushing. “Do you drink wine? They have quite an extensive list here.”

“I do, and I prefer red.” I smiled. “I don’t peg you as a white wine drinker.”

He chuckled. “You’re right about that.” He took the leather-bound menu the bartender handed to him and continued, “Do you have a preference, or should I choose one for us?”

“Surprise me.”

I hadn’t been in a relationship since high school. The few dates I’d been on since were with guys closer to my age. They took initiative without asking my opinion. They just assumed and dealt with the consequences.

Ford was different.

He was older.

Thoughtful, considerate.

And when the bartender approached, Ford requested two glasses of a Cab I didn’t recognize and turned back toward me. His eyes filled the silence, speaking so loudly as they roamed across my face that I found it almost hard to breathe.

“You’re getting into education,” he said, his stare dipping to my lips, his hand following with the gentlest touch as he grazed my chin. “You come from a family of numbers. You have an older brother. What else should I know about you, Sydney?”

My heart began to race even faster.

I felt like I was keeping a vital piece of information from him by not mentioning my upcoming interview with his assistant. The last four years were such an important milestone in my life, so it seemed disingenuous to not discuss it.

But I didn’t want to go against Hannah, so I reluctantly steered him toward my other hobbies by saying, “I love to bake. Run. Work out. Travel—that’s a big one. And swim in all oceans and seas—I don’t have a preference, although the Dead Sea was incredibly badass.” My breath hitched as his thumb pulled at my bottom lip. “And I have the most fabulous best friend, who you’ve met. Hmm, what else …”

“You bake.”

“Out of all things, that’s what you focused on?”

“I have a sweet tooth.”

I got the sense that he was talking about something other than chocolate.

And it made me wiggle, recrossing my legs, my knee hitting his in the process. I didn’t move it away. I kept it locked against him. “Yes, I do.”

The Turners had had a personal chef. Meals that she mastered for their entire family and me, but desserts were her weakness, so I’d learned how to bake to give the family something sweet after every dinner.

Details Ford didn’t need to know.

But details that had been such a big part of my job since the kids often helped me in the kitchen.

“Here’s your wine,” the bartender said, pulling my attention away from Ford as two glasses were set in front of us.

I lifted mine and held it toward Ford.

“To new memories, starting with this …” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine.

The kiss was unexpected, like a fire that had erupted out of nowhere, the flames quickly moving through my body.

I wasn’t just breathless.

I was wet.

And neither sensation faded when he pulled his mouth away and took a sip.

I took a drink as well, trying to cool myself off, tasting the rich, bold red.

“Tell me what you bake.”

What I bake, I repeated in my head, forcing my brain to register his question.

“What, are you wondering if my cookies will trump Hannah’s?”

“The thought might have crossed my mind.”

I twirled the stem of the glass between my fingers, watching the dark wine slosh against the sides. “I’m not one to boast, but I’m pretty good. I can make just about anything.”

“You’re tempting me to take you home.”

I laughed. “To wrap an apron around my waist and make you cookies that will rival anything you’ve ever tasted?”

“Sydney …” His hand returned to my mouth. This time swiping across my lip. Slowly. “I said nothing about putting you in my kitchen.”