“Sit down. I’ll pour the coffee,” she said, turning toward the coffeemaker. And then she stopped and whacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Oh, darn. I forgot. You don’t drink coffee.”
He laughed and patted her shoulder on his way to the table. “No. But feel free to have some yourself.”
“I drink too much coffee, anyway. It’s my one vice.” And because that sounded like such a foolish statement after last night, she blushed again.
She tried to hide it by turning her back to him and opening the refrigerator door. “I have juice. Apple or grape. Eric loves fruit juices, so I try to keep plenty on hand.”
Stop babbling, Cecilia. She really did have to get a stronger grip on her emotions this morning.
“Apple juice sounds good. Thanks.”
They finally settled at the table—she with her coffee, he with a glass of apple juice.
“Looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” Geoff remarked, nodding toward the window over the sink. His light tone indicated that he was trying to start a casual conversation. Maybe he sensed that she was tense this morning. If so, he probably attributed it to morning-after jitters, maybe after-the-fact misgivings.
He had no clue, of course, what was really making her so nervous. If he did, he couldn’t have looked so calm.
Trying to put on a show of being completely relaxed, she responded to his comments in kind and toyed with her breakfast, making a pretense of enjoying it. Actually, her throat was so tight she thought she might choke if she tried to eat much.
When he had finished his meal, Geoff pushed his plate aside and laced his hands on the table. “Okay,” he said, leveling a look at her. “What’s wrong? Second thoughts about last night? Regrets?”
“No. As uncharacteristic as it was for me, I don’t regret anything that happened last night.”
His smile turned gentle. “I never doubted that the night was hardly routine for you.”
And now she worried that he was misinterpreting her admission that she wasn’t exactly a party girl. “It isn’t as if I’m making too big a deal out of what happened between us last night,” she assured him hastily. “I mean, I am a thirty-seven-year-old divorcee.”
He reached out to cover her hand with his. “It was a big deal, Cecilia. One of the best nights I’ve had in a very long time.”
She laced her fingers with his. “For me, too.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m sort of afraid of ruining everything now.”
“Not possible.”
“You haven’t heard what I want to ask you yet.”
Though she saw a touch of wariness enter his eyes—poor guy, she couldn’t blame him, considering how awkwardly she was handling this—he managed to keep his expression politely encouraging. “What do you want to ask?”
She drew her hand from his and reached for her coffee cup, relieved to see that it was steady when she lifted it to her lips. After a bracing sip, she began, “I’m thirty-seven years old.”
“Yes, so you said.”
“I was married once. A long time ago. It didn’t work out.”
“You mentioned that, too.” He sipped his juice, eyeing her curiously over the rim of his glass.
She was really making a hash of this. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “The thing is, I’ve never had an overwhelming urge to remarry. I love my home and my work and I would rather be contentedly single than unhappily married.”
“We agree on that point. My family’s been nagging me to marry for years, but to be honest, I simply have no desire to do so at this point. I just don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s happiness and welfare.” He still looked a bit wary as he clearly spelled out his position.
Realizing the direction his thoughts were taking, she laughed a little and held up her hands. “Relax, Geoff. I’m not asking you to marry me. As pleasant as our night together was, it hasn’t turned me into a starry-eyed romantic with foolish dreams of happily ever after.”
Though he looked marginally relieved, he seemed contradictorily perturbed with her choice of adjectives. “Pleasant?”
“Very pleasant,” she clarified a bit impatiently. She had almost forgotten to make allowances for the male ego during this impromptu proposition.