LITMIR.BIZ

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weeks to check in with each other, met up for coffee or lunch once a month and invited each other to casual get-togethers.

      That was all about to change. It was past time they discovered if they were meant to be more.

      He joined her, reaching for the sugar bowl in an upper cabinet, his shirt riding up slightly to show the ridges of his stomach. She’d touched him, she remembered, her fingers tingling with the memory. Last night she’d slapped his chest, then had kept her hand there, had felt the smoothness of his skin, the coarse hair dusting his chest.

      The first time she’d touched him in anything other than a friendly, hey-we’re-buddies-and-sort-of-but-not-really-related sort of way in years. Since her high school graduation.

      Progress. At long, long last.

      She added sugar to her coffee then gulped it down gratefully. “That’s better,” she murmured as Oakes poured himself a fresh cup. “Now, what about that toast?”

      “I ordered from Pitter Patterson’s Bakery,” he said, mentioning the name of one of her favorite breakfast restaurants. “I thought you might want something in your stomach other than wine.”

      “You,” she said, setting her cup down, “are a prince among men. Thank you. But there’s no wine in my stomach. I don’t drink it.”

      “You don’t?”

      Was that what the women he usually dated drank? Probably. He went for the socialite types or the well-educated, high-powered corporate woman. Tall, thin and blonde, though that one VP he’d dated two years ago had been a petite brunette, the kind who worked out regularly and was going back to school for her third degree.

      Daphne shook off the feelings of inadequacy. She was just as good as anyone. Better than most, certainly, at least when it came to being good enough for Oakes. Now all she needed to figure out was if she was right for him. And if, as her instincts told her, he was right for her, too.

      “Nope,” she said. “Wine gives me a headache.” Plus, she never knew what to order, what color went with her dinner or the whole sniff-sip-swish routine that went with drinking it. “The credit for last night’s buzz belongs solely to tequila.”

      “Tequila?” he repeated, staring at her as if she’d admitted to downing an entire bottle of the stuff in one sitting.

      “The other nectar of the gods,” she assured him. “Anyway, I think I’ll take a moment to freshen up before we eat. Be right back.”

      She grabbed her purse from the coffee table then padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. Flipped on the light, turned, and jumped at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. “Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered, horrified, her hand going to her crazy, frizzy hair. It stuck out straight in spots, was plastered to her head in others.

      “Seriously?” she asked God through gritted teeth, her gaze on the ceiling as though she could see through it to heaven. “You let him see me like this? Whose side are you on?”

      No wonder the man hadn’t wanted to kiss her.

      Pulling a small brush from her bag, she attacked her hair, pulling the bristles through snarls that fought back valiantly. Too bad no amount of brushing could get the thick, naturally wavy strands to behave. Her makeup was long gone, except, of course, for the dark smudges of black eyeliner on her temples, the mascara caked on her lashes and rimming her lower lids. Sleep marks marred her cheek like a road map. She rubbed at them but that only made her face red.

      Triple crap.

      By the time she took care of personal business, washed her hands and face, tucked her hair behind both ears to get it to stop winging out like she had a bat on her head and went back to the kitchen, Oakes had set plates at the bar.

      “Bless you,” she told him fervently as he handed her a glass of orange juice. “Seriously, you are definitely going to heaven for this.”

      He poured juice into a second glass and as she sat she noticed he had silverware, cloth napkins, the whole shebang set out for them. Lessons from his mother, Daphne was sure. She didn’t know Rosalyn Moore personally, but she’d gleaned enough information about the woman from Oakes to know she believed in making the best out of any situation—such as having an uninvited, overnight guest. She also put a lot of stock into making a good impression and keeping up appearances.

      Daphne wondered which one of those had kept Rosalyn married to Oakes’s father after he’d cheated on her with Daphne’s mom.

      Oakes joined her on the other high-backed stool, his thigh pressing against hers for a brief moment before he shifted, ever so subtly away.

      “Really, Oakes, thank you,” she said, sipping her orange juice. He’d poured her more coffee and had the cream and sugar on the counter. “You’re so sweet to take care of me this morning and for not kicking me out last night.”

      “We’re family.”

      She squeezed her glass. Hard. They weren’t family. Yes, yes, they had similar relatives but they were not related. Not in any way, shape or form. “You had every right to tell me to get lost,” she said, wanting him to say something, anything, that would give her some hope, some idea that he felt what she felt. That he, too, wanted to take a chance on whatever this was between them. “No one would have blamed you.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure Zach would agree with you on that.”

      And that was not what she’d had in mind.

      Zach. Right. The brother they shared. The bane of her existence and, she was fairly certain, the reason Oakes had yet to make a move on her. It was a tricky situation, undoubtedly. Oakes’s father, the very wealthy, very powerful Clinton Bartasavich, Sr. had four sons: Clinton, Jr. and Kane, both with his first wife; Oakes with Rosalyn, his second wife; and Zach with Susan, who’d been Oakes’s nanny at the time of the affair.

      Rosalyn had eventually divorced Senior, after ten years and numerous infidelities on his part. She’d remarried and had two younger sons. Susan, too, had moved on, marrying Michael Lynch. And having Daphne.

      Yes, sir. Tricky, tricky, tricky.

      “I don’t think even Zach could blame you if you’d turned me away,” Daphne said to Oakes, although her brother did have a sanctimonious and judgmental streak, especially when it came to her. And a major stick up his butt when it came to the Bartasavich side of his family. “I mean, I did show up at your house in the middle of the night, drunk.”

      Oakes lifted a shoulder. Always a good guy, he didn’t seem to want her gratitude. “It’s no big deal.” He turned, grinned at her. “Livened up my night, that was for sure.”

      She stared at her spoon, concentrated on stirring and stirring and stirring her coffee. Cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I shouldn’t have done it.” Especially now that she realized she could have easily interrupted something. What if he’d had a woman over? He’d been seeing Sylvie Green the past few weeks. Sylvie, with her shiny, golden hair and tiny waist. What if she’d been here, in his house, in his bed, when Daphne showed up?

      She wasn’t sure she could have handled that, not in her inebriated state.

      Ah, the clarity of sobriety. Too little, too late.

      “Anyway, I really appreciate you taking me in,” she continued, the thought of him being with Sylvie making her sound less grateful and more annoyed. “It meant a lot to me.”

      “Like I said, I couldn’t turn you away.”

      No, he couldn’t. Not Oakes. Hadn’t she counted on that, realized that even while drunk? He’d never do anything to hurt anyone.

      “I’m still not sure how you ended up here, though,” he said. “You said you wanted to see me.”

      Pretending it took all her concentration, she sipped her coffee. Had she said that? Well, at least she hadn’t told him the real reason she’d come here—to declare

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