Page 78 of Seducing Hope (The Hope Legacy)

I slice my avocado, cursing the slippery texture. “This is like trying to slice a Brolog’s penis.”

He barks out a laugh. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

I shrug. “Brologs’ penises are on their faces; removing it is the easiest way to kill them. But they’re sticky and slimy…” I mock shiver, “not my finest moment.”

He lays out a baking sheet, and we line it with seaweed. Then he pours us each a glass of wine—it’s cold, crisp, and clean. The rice is placed on the heat, and we retreat to the sofa to share the rest of the platter.

As I unwind the ham off the asparagus, he asks, “Tell me about your childhood. How did it come to pass that your grandparents raised you?”

I don’t react. It’s something I get asked a lot. “My parents left to live in Florida when I was two. They weren’t prepared for parenthood, so my grandparents offered to look after me. I barely remember my actual parents; they stopped visiting when I was ten. My grandparents gave me a wonderful childhood. I love them immensely.”

He turns toward me and props one ankle on his opposite knee. “And your grandmother passed away?”

My shoulders tense. “Yes.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every. Single. Day,” I whisper, glancing away and cursing the telltale sting in the corners of my eyes.

He puts his wine glass down on the table and runs a hand through my hair before cupping my nape and studying my face. He opens his mouth but is cut off by the alarm dinging. He places a chaste kiss on my forehead, gets up, stops the alarm, then glances over his shoulder.

“Come, we haven’t finished cooking.”

Sipping my wine, I ignore his demand. The next few minutes pass in silence, making me believe I’ve escaped the madness of the kitchen.

“If you don’t come here, I will come and get you, and you may not like it,” he pauses, his voice deepening, “then again, maybe you would.”

I hurry to the kitchen, not wanting to test his theory. I’m following his instructions to place the avocado on the bed of rice, when I feel his hands at my hips, pulling me back into his body. My eyes widen, as my body reacts to his hand gliding across my stomach. He pulls open the drawer that my body was blocking and retrieves cutlery. I look over my shoulder and glower.

“You could’ve asked me to move.”

He chuckles, the sound low and sensual against my ear. “Yes, I suppose I could have.”

I’m not sure I’m going to survive the rest of this date.

Releasing me, he startles me with his next question. “You have only had one sexual partner. Why?” My blood starts to boil, and Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” bounces around my mind, reinforcing my shields.

Answering my choice of song, Archan mumbles softly, “He betrayed you.”

I focus on my avocado and stay silent, afraid I may prove him wrong and use the knife in front of me after all.

“It’s been five years, Natia. But you’ve had no more lovers. You’re a stunning, intelligent, and passionate young woman. Why?”

“I’m overqualified,” I mutter, finishing the avocado layer. I wipe my fingers on a dishcloth, fold my arms, and turn to face him; he’s wearing his serious face, so I provide the complex answer he’s seeking. “I spent too much time loving the wrong person, or what I thought was love. I’ve not met anybody I’m willing to give that power to again. I want someone who will love me with a madness that scares us both sometimes, but not to where we fear it. I need someone to trust to unmask my every desire.”Someone who awakens me, like you, my stupid brain inserts.Don’t fall for it, I warn myself. “I don’t see the point in one- night stands or half-hearted relationships. I don’t judge those who have them—it’s just not me. I can’t even kiss half-hearted. I’ll wait an eternity for that one person, even if it means being alone.”

He’s staring at me with a mix of wonder and confusion. I sigh. “I don’t need a psychological assessment, Archan. I’m happy as I am. What’s next?”

It’s his turn to be unbalanced; his eyebrows pull together. “Excuse me?”

I point at the food. “What’s next?”

We finish the sushi and slice it into bite-sized pieces. I get my phone and take a photo; he raises an eyebrow.

“If I don’t take a photo, the guys won’t believe me.”

He adds a side salad to our plates and carries them outside. Following him with our wine glasses, I mumble about the cold, but when we reach the deck, it’s being warmed by heaters and is toasty. A table has been set in the center. “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra drifts from speakers set in the floor, and the twinkling fairy lights finish off the romantic atmosphere. I take the chair he’s offering.

Last hurdle, Natia, then home.

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