Page 5 of Not Quite Perfect

“It is,” he said, opening the front door and ushering me through with his palm flattened against the base of my spine. I tried not to shiver at the contact as I stepped over the threshold. “It’s been in my family for three generations, but my mom had it remodeled before she died so you’d never guess it was built in the eighteen hundreds.”

The screen door clanged shut behind me, and a light flicked on, illuminating the space. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

I turned in a circle, taking it in. While I’d grown up in an antique colonial that was on the National Register of Historic Homes for Massachusetts, my tiny cottage was new construction made to look old. David’s place, however, was a perfect mixture of both the old and the new. The fireplaces looked to be original—or damn good replicas—but unlike my childhood home, his floorboards sat flush against one another and his walls were straight. “It’s beautiful.”

He shrugged and tossed his keys into a bowl on the entry table. “I can’t take any credit for it, but I enjoy it.” Taking my hand, he led me toward the kitchen. “Now, I believe I promised you food.”

I hopped up onto a stool at an island that separated the dining area from an open kitchen with gleaming white and gray marble countertops and high-end appliances while David rooted around in the refrigerator. Popping his head out, he asked, “Would you prefer rosé or chardonnay?”

“That depends. What are you feeding me?”

His eyes flashed with heat and dropped to my lips for a brief moment. Raising them back up, he said, “I was thinking spaghetti with lemon and olive oil. I can make an arugula salad too, but I usually just chop it up and sprinkle it over the pasta like you would fresh basil.”

He’s gorgeous, and he can cook?Briefly, I wondered what could possibly be wrong with him … because so far, David Carstairs was my perfect man.

“That sounds fantastic.”

He pulled out both bottles of wine and set them on the counter between us. “Conventional wisdom says we should drink the chardonnay, but I really like this rosé.”

“It’s your wine. Let’s go with the one you like best.” I reached for the bottle, pulling it toward me so I could read the label. “Have you ever been to Provence?” I passed it back to him.

David shook his head. “Afraid not. I’ve been to Paris twice, but both times I was attending a conference, so I only had a couple of days to explore afterward. I’d like to go properly someday though. What about you?” He pulled down two wine glasses and began filling them.

After he passed one to me, I took a sip and held it back for inspection. “Nice and crisp, and not too sweet.”

I took another drink and then set the glass down. “My parents took us to Paris when I was a little girl. My youngest brother Drew was just a baby. I was ten, but I don’t remember much of the trip. According to legend, we were monsters who demanded all our meals come from McDonald’s. My father threatened to throw Theo, Drew, and me in the Seine.”

David laughed and took a drink of his wine. “I can’t imagine you as anything but a perfect little angel. You’re the only girl, right?”

“Yes, which means I was a terrible tomboy. I don’t think I wore a dress until homecoming my sophomore year. Iwasdaddy’s little girl, but not in the way most people think. He used to take me golfing every Sunday, and we’d sit together in the clubhouse afterward while he had drinks with his friends and I sipped Shirley Temples.” I took another sip of my wine, sitting up tall and proud like I’d done when I was a little girl at my father’s side. “I thought I was a sophisticated little miss, but leave me alone with my brothers for ten minutes, and I turned into a perfect little hellion.” I laughed and shook my head as memories of those happy times washed over me. “I once knocked two of Theo’s teeth out with a golf club.”

“I’m sure he deserved it,” David said, stepping over to the stove to begin whipping up our meal.

I was having such a lovely time talking to him that my stomach hadn’t complained even once since I’d sat down. With my wine glass in one hand, I propped my chin on the other and watched him prepare our food. This wasn’t at all how I’d pictured tonight going, but there were few sights more welcome than an attractive man cooking for you. The only thing that would make it better was if we talked less about me and more about him. “You said you were in Paris for work?”

He nodded and returned to the counter while the noodles boiled. Zesting a bright yellow lemon the size of a softball, he said, “My area of expertise is early twentieth century American literature, so I was invited to speak about ‘The Lost Generation’ and their time in Paris.”

“That’s Gertrude Stein, the Fitzgeralds, and Ernest Hemingway, right?”

David stopped his zesting, and his eyes shot up. He studied me intently, his eyes raking over my face for several long seconds. Eventually, he set the lemon aside and wiped his hands on a dishtowel before making his way around the island. Stepping close, he took the glass from my hand and set it on the counter. “You are absolutely delightful, Victoria Witherspoon, and I really want to kiss you right now.” He took hold of my hand and raised it to his mouth. His eyes locked on mine, and he set his lips to my pulse before settling my hand back onto my lap.

I hadn’t breathed once in the last thirty seconds, and he hadn’t stepped away. Our connection was electric. Lust zinged between us, hot and bright.

My gaze dropped to his lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, and I imagined what it would be like to have him kiss me everywhere. I didn't want to get too far ahead of myself, but he was everything I'd ever wanted in a partner: smart, articulate, caring, and yes, easy on the eyes.

While I wanted nothing more than for him to lead me to his bedroom and strip me naked, I wanted other things with David, too. I wanted to take him to my favorite farmer's market and then cook him my favorite meal; I wanted us to celebrate the Fourth of July out on my brother’s boat; I wanted to spend autumn weekends antiquing in Vermont.

I leaned forward and rested my forearms lightly on his shoulders, my hands meeting behind his neck. “You are absolutely wonderful, David Carstairs, and I really want you to kiss me right now too.”

Just before his lips met mine, he paused. “I know it sounds crazy, but I've never felt like this before about anyone.”

His words filled me with a bright, shining warmth. At thirty-two, I'd nearly given up on finding someone who looked at me the way David did. “Me neither. Are you for real?”

“I’m real,” he answered with a gentle nod, his lips finally meeting mine in a feather-light caress. “Thisis real.”

I tangled my fingers in the hair at his nape, urging him closer. He stepped between my knees, my skirt riding high up on my thighs, and took the kiss deeper. Cradling my face in his palms, he feasted on my lips before licking the seam, asking me to open for him. When I did, our tongues twirled together, and he groaned low in the back of his throat.

I tightened my hold on him, and our kiss heightened in intensity. My nipples pebbled to hard points beneath my blouse, and I grew damp and achy with need.

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