Violet followed his gaze to her ankle boots, blue suede with four-inch heels. She considered the question. “Is ten the most comfortable?”
He nodded. “Ten is slippers, one is wrapping your feet in barbed wire.”
“Four,” she said, then amended it. “No, three.”
“Thought so. Take them off. I don’t allow anything under a five in my home.”
She looked down at his shoes, a little surprised to realize they were the loafers she’d picked out for him and not his usual scuffed boots or sneakers. “How comfortable are yours?”
“Six.”
“That’s all? They look more comfortable than anything I own.”
“I’m sure they are, but I miss my boots.”
Before she could protest, the toe of Cain’s loafer hooked nimbly on the heel of her bootie and kicked it off.
Her mouth dropped open as the several-hundred-dollar shoe dropped indelicately to the hardwood floor. “You did not just.”
“I did just.” His foot tried with her other boot, but she laughingly pulled her leg out of reach. “I’ll do it.”
Lifting her leg, she eased the shoe off, though she hesitated before dropping it to the floor.
“Drop it, Duchess,” he commanded. “Live on the edge.”
“I don’t know that dropping my shoe a couple feet counts as extreme living.”
“For you? It counts.”
“What do you mean, for me?” she asked, looking over at him.
Violet expected him to be mocking, or at the very least amused, but instead Cain’s expression seemed almost… gentle. Encouraging.
She dropped the shoe, then held up her hand dramatically, showing it was empty. Happy now?
“So,” she said, swinging her legs, enjoying the freedom of it. “Is this how Cain Stone spends Saturday nights?”
“Sometimes.”
“I didn’t expect you to be alone,” she said.
He gestured toward the dog on the couch. “I’m not. I’ve got a hot piece of tail right there.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” he said simply. “You eat?”
“I had a late lunch.”
“I was going to order Italian. Want some?”
“I just came to drop off the binder, not to stay for dinner,” she said.
“Noted.” He reached out and flipped open the binder to a random page. “Where do you want to start?”
She glanced at the faded lined paper with Edith’s neat but tiny old-fashioned cursive handwriting, where a photograph of one of the board members wearing a plastic expression and a boring tie smiled blandly back at her.
She let out a little groan of misery at the thought of reviewing it, and Cain snapped the binder shut again. “Thought so,” he said.
“Wi-Fi and cable’s hooked up,” Cain said, apropos of nothing.
She blinked. “Congratulations?”
“How do you feel about Netflix?”
She considered. “I feel that beyond Gossip Girl reruns, I haven’t put it to much use.”
His hand closed over her knee, and he hopped off the counter. He held out a palm. “C’mon.”
“Come on what?”
Their gazes locked for a moment, then Coco let out an excited bark from the couch, her little head poking around the edge, as though to say get over here where it’s comfortable!
Cain removed his proffered palm, but before Violet could register regret that she’d missed the chance to touch him, his hands went to her waist, lifting her easily and setting her on the ground.
Instinctively, her hands went to his upper arms to steady herself as stockinged feet hit hardwood floor. She tilted her head to look up at him, finding him even taller than usual without her typical heels to mitigate their height difference.
She felt very small and soft. He seemed very tall and hard.
Female. Male.
Right.
Cain stepped back quickly, releasing her as though she’d burned him, before nodding jerkily in the direction of the TV. “Pick something. I veto subtitles and British accents. I’ll get you more wine.”
She wandered toward the table, looking for the remote. “Okay, then I get to veto gore.”
“Deal. I also veto anything with kissing.”
She gasped in horror as she picked the remote up off the coffee table and turned toward the enormous flatscreen. “Kissing’s the best part of any film.”
“Nope.” He refilled her glass and got himself another beer. “Not the best part of movies, not the best part of real life either.”
“What is the best part?”
“Fight scenes and sex.”
“Of movies? Or real life?”
“Both.”
She thought about this, then shook her head. “But sex is better with kissing,” she argued, both surprised and delighted to hear herself even having this conversation. It was fun being around Cain when he didn’t have his walls up. Playful, even.
“Maybe you’ve been having sex with the wrong dudes,” he said, coming over and handing her the wineglass.
“Maybe you’ve been kissing the wrong women,” Violet countered.
His eyes narrowed briefly, then he clinked the neck of his beer bottle to her glass in a silent toast and plopped down onto the couch. “Maybe I have.”
The air between them seemed electric, but neither of them mentioned their kiss the other night. Nor did Cain initiate a repeat.
Violet tried really hard to be glad about that fact.