Page 16 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Because it interests me." I don't step back, forcing her to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact. "Because brilliant minds fascinate me."
For a moment, neither of us moves. I can see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, her pupils dilating slightly. Then she steps sideways, putting distance between us.
"I should freshen up before dinner," she says, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
"Of course. Your room is upstairs, first door on the right of the guest wing." I gesture toward the grand staircase. "Take your time. Dinner won't be ready for another hour."
I watch her ascend the stairs, admiring the graceful way she moves, the subtle curve of her hips in her jeans. When she disappears from view, I move to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations.
The meal I've planned is designed to impress without seeming deliberately seductive. Penne arrabbiata with fresh basil and perfectly balanced heat—the pasta dish she mentioned loving during a family dinner last year. A Barolo wine that will complement the flavors while relaxing her defenses. Everything chosen with careful precision.
By six-thirty, everything is perfect. The table is set, candles providing warm ambient light. The wine is breathing, the pasta is al dente, and the sauce has reached that perfect balance that demonstrates attention to detail.
I hear her footsteps on the stairs and turn as she appears in the doorway. She's changed into a simple black dress I've seen her wear at family dinners before, though the context makes it feel more intimate now.
"Penne arrabbiata," she says with a smile of recognition. "You remembered."
"From the dinner at Marcello's last year," I confirm, pleased she recalls the occasion. "You mentioned it was your favorite."
Surprise flickers across her face, quickly replaced by something warmer. "You remembered that?"
"I remember everything you tell me, Kyra."
The meal begins as planned. The wine loosens her reserve, the familiar comfort food puts her at ease, and the setting encourages conversation. But she's not as passive as I expected.
"When did you last speak with Aaron?" she asks after we've covered safer topics like the cabin's history and the current snowstorm.
"This afternoon, before you arrived," I say, watching her over the rim of my wineglass.
"Did he say exactly when he'd get here?" There's a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"He was vague about timing. Said he needed to finish shopping first." I observe her reaction carefully. "Is something bothering you, Kyra?"
She twirls pasta around her fork. "When he broke up with me, he seemed so certain. It's hard to believe he'd change his mind so quickly."
"Young men often speak without thinking," I offer. "They realize too late what they've thrown away."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced. "He mentioned feeling pressure from you recently. About his future."
I keep my expression neutral. "I've always encouraged Aaron to live up to his potential. Just as I'd encourage anyone with promise."
"The two situations don't seem comparable."
"Don't they?" I lean forward slightly. "We all face expectations, Kyra. The question is whether we have the strength to meet them."
She takes a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of her glass. "And if those expectations come with strings attached?"
"Everything in life comes with strings," I say, holding her gaze. "The trick is knowing who's holding them."
The conversation shifts to safer ground—her academic aspirations, the latest developments in her field—but the undercurrent of tension remains. She's probing, testing boundaries, looking for inconsistencies in my story. It's both frustrating and arousing. The hunt is always more satisfying when the prey is worthy.
After dinner, I suggest brandy by the fire. She accepts, though I notice she's only sipped at her wine, maintaining clarity despite the relaxed atmosphere I've tried to create.
"I don't think I've ever seen the snow this heavy," she comments, looking out at the white landscape illuminated by the outdoor lights.
"The mountains have their own weather patterns," I reply, handing her a snifter of amber liquid. "Beautiful but unpredictable."
She takes the glass, our fingers brushing briefly. "Like most beautiful things, I suppose."
