Rachel gaped. “Seriously? I love the Museum of Contemporary Art. Would I have seen your mom’s work?”
“Maybe.” He watched as she lifted her wineglass for a sip, liking the way her eyes closed for a moment as if the taste was incomparable. “She’s Titania Summerhill.”
She choked on her wine. When she could speak, she croaked, “Oh my gosh, I’ve heard of her.”
“I’ll have to introduce you to her.” Then because he could tell she was starting to fret—the way she bit her lip was a dead giveaway—he said, “What color?”
She blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Your knickers.” He ran a finger along her knee, where her hem exposed her skin. “What color are they?”
“Pink.”
“That’s my new favorite color.” He touched the soft skin of the inside of her thigh before removing his hand. “We should talk about something else or I won’t be able to eat.”
She rested her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I know you don’t want to talk about the presentation, but tell me about your work.”
She made a face. “That’s not very interesting.”
“It’s interesting to me. You do it every day, and sometimes for very long hours.” He studied her. “You must like it.”
“I used to love it. I stopped working after I was married, and I missed it every day. It used to be a challenge to me, and I loved helping people succeed.” She leaned in like she was making a confession. “It’s not like I remember it being.”
He nodded. “Is that because it’s different, or is it because you’re different?”
“Good question.” She pursed her lips.
He had to use all his discipline not to plunder that mouth.
Unaware, she tapped her finger on the bottom of her wineglass as she thought. Then she said, “It’d be fair to say both. I’m not who I was before I was married, and the company is definitely different. We were bought out by a New York firm.”
“That’d change the culture.”
“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes. Then she tipped her head, looking at him curiously. “That was a very intuitive question.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been through a lot of psychiatrists.”
“Were you a problem child?”
“No. I was an expensive player and the club wanted to make sure my head was always in the game. I learned a thing or two while I was there.”
“Like what?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“Like that psychiatrists are just people and have flaws and imperfections too. They’re supposed to be nonjudgmental but they have opinions on how things are supposed to be. Lots of opinions. And they don’t take kindly to having that pointed out.” He smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t a very good client.”
She laughed softly. “I can imagine.”
He shrugged, taking her hand again. He’d never felt anything like her skin. “But I learned a lot from them, and that enabled me to help my teammates.”
She studied him so closely he wondered what she saw. “You genuinely care about them,” she said finally.
“We’re a team.”
She shook her head. “You say that like it’s a given, but most people aren’t that loyal. At my firm, we’re all supposed to work together, but the only person I’d trust to have my back is Alice.”
“Then maybe you should consider doing something else.”