“I don’t date them either.”
He finished his drink and rose, too. He was more than a head taller than her, his shoulders wide and powerful. His hair gleamed in the early morning sunshine. “What are you afraid of?”
“I turn you down and you assume I’m afraid? Isn’t that a little arrogant? Maybe I simply don’t want to have dinner with you.”
“Maybe. But then there’s the alternative possibility. That you do want to have dinner with me, and that is freaking you out.” Brutus nudged his leg, hopeful of another game, but Daniel kept his gaze fixed on Molly.
Awareness seeped through her skin and sank deep. “I’m not freaked out.”
“Good. Do you know the little French bistro two blocks from here? I’ll meet you there at eight. It’s a public place, so that should satisfy your ‘is he a stalker or a serial killer’ worries.”
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is salsa dancing.”
“Salsa dancing?”
“I go Tuesday and Friday nights whenever I’m free.”
“Who do you dance with?”
“Anyone. Everyone. It’s pretty casual.” And hot, sweaty, sexy and fun. Harmless fun. Nothing deep. Nothing serious. Nothing that made her feel the way she felt when she was with Daniel.
“So you’re happy to dance with strangers, but you won’t have dinner with one. How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Wednesday.”
“And Wednesday is…? Tango?”
“Wednesday is Italian cooking class.”
“You’re learning Italian cooking?”
“I started recently. I want to make tortellini as well as my neighbor. If you’d tasted his tortellini, you’d understand.”
“Thursday?”
“Thursday is spin class.”
“I never understood the point of cycling hard to get nowhere. Saturday? Don’t tell me—Saturday is quilting.” The paths around them teemed with joggers, walkers and people pushing strollers, but they were focused on each other.
“Saturday I keep free. I usually meet up with friends.”
“Great. Eight o’clock Saturday it is. If you don’t want to meet me in a restaurant, you can cook. I’ll bring the champagne.” He was comfortable and relaxed, whereas she felt as if she was floundering in the deep end of a large swimming pool.
“If you want to eat dinner with me you can join me at Italian cooking class.”
He shook his head regretfully. “Italian cooking is Wednesday, and Wednesday is poker night.”
“You play poker? Of course you do.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Ruthless killer instinct combined with the ability to mask your emotions. I bet you’re good.”
“I’m good.” There was a devil in his eyes. “Want to find out how good?”
Her mouth dried. If he was flirting, she was going to ignore it. “I don’t play poker.”
His smile widened but he let it go. “It’s mostly an excuse to catch up with friends and drink alcoholic substances. I’m not that competitive.”