Blackjack and Moonlight: A Contemporary Romance (13 page)

Jack laughed. “Trust me, when it comes to falling madly in love, once is enough for me. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“C’mon, Jack.”

Elise’s look implored him to understand it from her perspective, but he didn’t. He couldn’t imagine why she thought her logic was glaringly obvious. “Okay, explain it to me.”

“You have to accept that I can’t believe you’re in love with me. Not because I have low self-esteem, which I don’t, but because I don’t believe love works that way. Maybe you can feel lust at first sight. It’s well known that men rate women by their looks first. Then why wouldn’t you pick Christine? She’s almost laughably stunning. I’ve seen men’s eyes glaze over when they see her. It’s like they lose fifty IQ points on the spot. I keep expecting them to drool.”

Now he really was confused. He leaned toward her. “You don’t have low self-esteem, but you believe she’s prettier than you are? That makes no sense.”

“Jack. She’s a ten. You’re a ten. You guys match. On a good day, I’m maybe a seven. I try to stick to the five-to-eight range in the men I date.”

“A ten? Like that movie with whatsername running on the beach in slow motion?” Jack struggled to understand this. “And isn’t it sexist and demeaning to reduce people to scores?”

Elise sighed. Before she could explain, the first plates of food arrived. The waitress identified everything and left them with a brief nod.

For someone who didn’t obsess about food, Elise looked at everything with keen interest, hardly indifferent to it as an art form. She tried the warm goat cheese drizzled with honey and closed her eyes.

“Good?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Really good.” Very slowly, she licked her fork clean. Her pleasure was sensual and contagious. Suddenly he was much happier with this date—and he hadn’t even tried the food.

“Okay, so explain this seven-ten nonsense to me,” Jack said.

“Silly. Seven-ten is a split in bowling.” She wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Look, it’s not a competition. It’s just been my experience that good-looking people want to date good-looking people. And if the pictures of you in the local glossy magazines are anything to go by, you date seriously good-looking women. Tens, if you will.”

“Well, if they’re tens, then you’re an eleven,” he said. “Because I think you’re better-looking than they are.”

Elise’s expression of impatience said it all.

“You don’t believe me?” At her look, Jack waved her off. “Withdrawn. I can see you don’t believe me. But I’m telling you the truth. Why would I lie?”

“That’s the one question I don’t have the answer for,” she said. “My current theory is new-judge jitters.”

“What?”

“Of course I don’t think you’re deliberately telling me something you know to be false. The way I see it, though, you must be confused, and it’s causing you to interpret this situation between us as ‘the L-word.’”

She used air-quotes for the emotion formerly known as “love.”

She continued, “So I’ve asked myself the same thing. Why do you persist in this crazy idea that you’re—that you’ve fallen for me? And now you tell me that I’m better-looking than the news anchor, for example? You have to see how incredible that sounds to me.” She went back to eating.

Jack pressed on his temples to quell the tension building in his head, then ran his hands through his hair. Elise was beautiful. Maybe he hadn’t thought that immediately. Maybe he’d a momentary sense that she wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d seen, but he couldn’t see it now. She was startlingly lovely. Her eyes were a deep, clear blue, she had perfect skin, her lips were cherry-pink and deliciously soft. And they really were that color—he’d kissed off her lipstick on more than one occasion.

Her best feature, though, was her hair. It was an unusual color, not quite blonde but definitely not the gray of old age. He’d played with it, very gingerly, while she slept on Saturday night. It curled a little, at the ends, where it nestled against her neck. Even in the dark of her bedroom, it seemed to glow. It reminded him of something specific. Moonlight, sure, but some specific moonlight. It had taken him a long time to dredge the memory from childhood—the shimmer of moonlight on Eagles Mere Lake on cloudless summer nights when he’d been unable to sleep.

Had her moonlight hair kept him from sleeping last Saturday? Was that what triggered a sleep-deprived compulsion to propose marriage?

“Okay. Maybe I didn’t fall in love with you,” he said to appease her. “Maybe I just fell in love with your hair.”

She put a hand up to check that her hair was still the same, pulling a lock forward to stare at. “It’s unusual, I’ll grant you. But lovable? Really? Mostly I just get asked stupid questions about it.”

“What sort of questions?”

“When did I go prematurely gray? What color was it originally? Did I go gray overnight after a hideous fright? That kind of thing.”

“What do you tell them?” He sipped his wine, watching her face reflect her impatience with people’s questions.

“Early twenties, light brown, and no.”

“I love your hair.”

“So I gather.” She grinned. “And you know what? I find your hair very sexy.” She leaned toward him, ready to confide. “In fact, I have a favor to ask.”

This could either be very good for him, or very bad. He was a little afraid to find out which.

He bent forward. “What?”

“Will you let your hair grow?” She added swiftly, “Just a little. Maybe go an extra month without getting it cut, and then tell your barber to leave it a teeny bit longer?”

The idea was crazy. He’d had the same haircut since high school. Any longer and his hair started to think about going all curly, like one of those black lambs.

But if Elise wanted him to…

“Okay.”

“That’s wonderful.” She beamed. Then she squinted at him. “Why are you smiling?”

“I just thought of the upside for me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You’ll have to stick around long enough to see what it looks like.”

She glared at him. “Sometimes I really hate how your mind works, Your Honor.”

Elise stood on the step, staring at the door knocker. She looked down at her phone’s display. The text that included his address couldn’t be right. There had to be a digit missing, or the street was wrong. No, it said he lived in Society Hill, so this had to be right.

She stepped back and looked up. Three floors, wider than her house, and in the most historic neighborhood in Philly. She wasn’t a fan of real estate porn the way Christine was, but even Elise knew she was standing in front of a very expensive townhouse. A house that would have been way out of her price range when she’d bought the Fitler Square property. How’d he manage it on a government salary?

Maybe it was flats. When she looked back at the door, there was just one doorbell. Which she rang, a bit tentatively. Half convinced it was the wrong house, Elise rehearsed a graceful apology.

She exhaled noisily when Jack answered the door. “Thank God. I was so convinced the address had to be wrong, I’d concocted a story for when someone else answered.”

“Jehovah’s Witness?”

“Candygram,” she joked, stepping into the doorway.

He kissed her lightly, then waved her into the house. Like hers, it opened onto the living room. Elise had a hard time finding any other similarities. This place had the aura of old money. Antiques, oriental carpets, rich fabrics, and really good lighting.

“Come into the kitchen. I’m working on dinner.” Jack walked back toward French doors leading to a generous courtyard garden. An island separated the kitchen from the dining room.

She drew in a long sniff. “It smells incredible. Herbs and things.”

He smiled at her. In truth, he smelled even more delicious than the food, and that was saying something. Best to double-check, though. She walked around to his side of the island, put a hand gently on his arm to prevent him from chopping at her with his knife, and brought his head down for another kiss. Mmm. Tasted good too.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Just a test to see if you smell better than your cooking,” she said.

“What are your scientific findings?”

“This close to the kitchen, it’s hard to be completely certain. I’d like to take more samples elsewhere in the house.” She was teasing, but he promptly put the knife down.

“I’ll give you the tour. Sample all you want.”

She followed him out of the kitchen, which was twice the size of hers and even boasted a table of its own.

“Dining room,” he said solemnly.

“The table and chairs are a clue, right?”

He smiled briefly. “Your ability to provoke me is slowly diminishing, I’m pleased to say.”

He moved toward the wide arch into the living room again, but she stopped him to get a sample kiss. She could still smell whatever was roasting in the oven, but his scent—the unique Blackjack smell that intoxicated her—was stronger here. And he tasted just as good. She released him.

His eyes were laughing at her but his face remained solemn. “I believe you already have a sample from the living room.” He gestured at the stairs, motioning for her to precede him.

On the landing, he pushed open a door at the front of the house. “Guest room.” Perfectly appointed, with nothing to suggest anyone had slept in it for a long time. Elise poked her head in the guest bath, just to be thorough.

There was a laundry room on the second floor. As she pushed his hips toward the washer, she whispered against his mouth, “This is so erotic.”

He smirked, and whispered back, “What is?”

“A laundry room on the same floor as the bedroom.” She ran her hands up his shirt and into his hair. “It makes me want to get naked just for the convenience of leaving my dirty clothes here.”

Jack struggled not to laugh. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She kissed him, savoring the way his lips softened when she touched them. She pulled back, forcing herself to keep the tone light. “Hard to tell if I’m getting some interference from your laundry detergent.” She sniffed the collar of his shirt. The smell of his skin was going to her head, like brandy fumes. “Yeah, that could be it. Next room?”

His bedroom was huge and had a fireplace, French doors leading to a balcony, even a chaise. It was tidy and elegant, with little evidence that he did more than sleep there.

“Oh, c’mon, Jack.” She pointed accusingly at the chaise, upholstered in a yellowy-cream color. “I’m willing to let the clothes and the cooking and the fine-wine crap go, but if you tell me you have ever, even once, lounged on that chaise, I will leave now on the grounds that you
have
to be gay.”

“That’s the worst sort of stereotyping,” he scolded.

“Have you, or have you not, ever lounged on that chaise?”

He shook his head slowly, as if dismayed. “I really shouldn’t encourage you, but no, I haven’t. The decorator seemed convinced I’d marry the moment she installed the last pelmet and draped that cashmere throw, so I let her talk me into buying a chaise for this room. It’s a reading area, by the way.” He waved at a floor lamp and a small table. It did look cozy. If she ever picked up a fashion magazine or a romance novel, this would be the place to read it in.

She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me here? You know, for science?”

The wave of desire was so strong, she felt its vibrations down to her toes. “With a bed right over there? Are you crazy? I’m struggling to keep myself from ripping your clothes off as it is.” She shook her head. “I will not be responsible for ruining dinner. Next room?”

There was a less fancy flight of stairs to the third floor, which had Jack’s library or study or office or whatever he called it filled with books, leather furniture, and another fireplace. Who brought up the wood? Someone must—there were ashes in the grate. On a cold winter’s night, this must be a wonderful place to work. She eyed the leather sofa critically. If the chaise downstairs was perfect for reading novels, this would be just right for reading case law or reviewing discovery.

She stopped herself.
Do not fall in love with his house.
Bad enough she already loved his hair. That was probably his plan—to get her to fall for another bit on every romantic date until it was too late for her to insist she wasn’t in love with the entire package.

“I won’t assume, so let me ask. Safe to kiss here?” he said.

“Sure. I’m pretty adventurous sexually, but naked on leather furniture is a no-no.” At his look, she explained, “They go together well enough, it’s getting them apart that’s the problem. Give me high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets every time.”

“Mm. The decorator bought my sheets. They seem nice enough, but I rely on you to tell me what their uh, thread count is.”

“Now, there you go, spoiling the mood. I could have kissed you here, but now I’m thinking about the sheets on that bed of yours, and it occurs to me that we have to walk past your bedroom to get back to the kitchen, and I’m still trying not to ruin dinner…”

“Okay, I can solve that problem. I’ll be responsible for resisting your efforts to pull me into the bedroom to slake your lust. In exchange, you’ll let me kiss you.” He was close enough for her to revel in the combination of his body warmth and scent.