ragged from wiping a sticky face.
It made her feel feminine just to look at it, to slip her feet into
impractical heeled sandals--oh, she'd be scrambling to pay off her
charge card when the bill came--to turn in front of the mirror and watch
her skirt follow the movement.
When she heard his truck pull up outside, she dashed across the room.
Made herself stop. No, she wasn't going to race to the door like an
eager puppy. She would wait right here until he knocked. And give her
heart a chance to beat normally again.
When he did knock, it was still thundering in her ears. But she stepped
out, smiled at him through the screen, and moved toward the door.
He remembered watching her walk to the door like this before, on the
night they'd made love the first time. She'd looked so lovely, so lonely
with the candlelight flickering around her.
But tonight she lookeda he didn't think he had words for it.
Everything about her seemed to glow--skin, hair, eyes. It made him feel
awkward, humble, reverent. He wanted to kiss her to be certain she was
real, and yet was afraid to touch.
He stepped back as she opened the screen, then took the hand she held
out carefully. "You look different."
No, it wasn't poetry. And it made her smile. "I wanted to." She pulled
the door closed behind her and let him lead her to his truck.
He wished immediately that he'd borrowed the 'Vette.
"The truck doesn't suit that dress," he said as she climbed in.
"It suits me." She swept her skirts in to be certain they didn't catch
in the door. "I may look different, Ethan, but I'm still the same."
She settled back and prepared for the most beautiful evening of her
life.
the sun was still up and bright when they arrived in Princess Anne. The
restaurant he'd chosen was in one of the old, refurbished houses where
the ceilings were high and the windows tall and narrow. Candles yet to
be lighted stood on tables draped in white linen, and the waiters wore
jackets and formal black ties. Conversations from other diners were
muted, as in church. She could hear her heels click on the polished
floor as they were led to their table.
She wanted to remember every detail. The way the little table sat snug
by the window, the painting of the Bay that hung on the wall behind
Ethan. The friendly twinkle in the waiter's eyes when he offered them
menus and asked if they'd like a cocktail.
But most of all she wanted to remember Ethan. The quiet smile in his
eyes when he looked across the table at her, the way his fingertips
continued to brush hers on the white linen.
"Would you like to have some wine?" he asked her.
Wine, candles, flowers. "Yes, that would be nice."
He opened the wine list, studied it thoughtfully. He knew she preferred
white, and one or two of the types were familiar. Phillip always kept a
couple of bottles chilling. Though God knew why any reasonable man would
pay that much money on a regular basis for a drink.
Grateful that the selections were numbered and he wouldn't have to
attempt to pronounce any French, he gave the waiter the order, privately