Page 35 of Landing Love

He held her closer and met her gaze. “Do you?”

If only there was a simple answer to that question. But she wanted a night to forget her woes—needed it. She had struggled for so long. Was it so very wrong for her to live a little? The music buoyed them across the dance floor in a sea of other couples.

“No,” she said at last.

“That took far too much thought. I assure you that just because I am being attentive, that doesn’t mean I cease to be a gentleman. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean…that is…”

Oh, bother! Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

“Do you care for me, Mrs. Prince?” He maneuvered them around a cluster of couples.

Her cheeks heated as she fumbled for a response, but there was no hiding from the truth, not with him gazing into her eyes with so much hope and adoration. “I would have thought that was rather clear by now.”

“So, you do?” His whole face brightened, and he spun her around.

“Yes.” She clasped his hand again, knowing she’d confessed too much but unable to resist the romance of the evening.

“I care for you too, Ann.”

Even though she already knew, it was a thrill to hear the words. “I thought so.”

“Imagine for a moment what it could be like if tonight’s dream didn’t have to end.”

This was exactly what she was afraid of. One night of letting go was excusable, but more simply wasn’t possible.

“Bill—”

“Before you argue, hear me out.”

She had a sinking feeling. This was why she oughtn’t to have loosened up in the first place.

He looked into her eyes, a mischievous smile twitching on his lips. “If it didn’t have to end, how much strawberry cake do you think we’d eat?”

Her mind stuttered. “What?”

“How much strawberry cake versus how much baked Alaska?”

She laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. “All the strawberry cake, and none of the baked Alaska.”

“That’s what I thought. How about champagne versus lemonade?”

“No champagne. Only lemonade.” What was he up to?

The foxtrot ended and gave way to a waltz. They stayed on the dance floor moving with the music as if no one else was there.

“Would I be more likely to kiss your right elbow or your left thumb?”

She giggled and tried to ignore the warmth coiling within her at the mere thought of his lips on any part of her. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“I think your left thumb. More accessible,” he said sagely, as if this was a perfectly reasonable conversation. “Would we be more likely to name our son Kermit or Everard?”

She tried not to feel wistful about the thought of raising a child with him. It was abundantly clear he would be an excellent father. “Kermit, I think.”

“Really? Interesting.”

“Oh? Which would you pick?”