“Sit tight. I’ll get better.”

She didn’t tug her hand away. It seemed wrong, a small, mean gesture when he’d gone to such trouble to give her something special. “It’s not going to mean anything, Jordan. We’re in different places than we were.”

“Seems to me we’re both right here. Why don’t we relax and enjoy it?” He nodded to the waiter stationed discreetly just outside the room. “You said you were hungry.”

She took the offered menu. “You’ve got that one right.”

IT would, Dana discovered, take considerable effort and a great deal of determination not to relax and enjoy. And it would be mean-spirited. He might have cornered her into the date, but he’d gone out of his way to make it a memorable, even magical one.

Then there was the fact that, by his own terms, he was romancing her. That was something new. As long as they’d been together, as much as they’d meant to each other, old-fashioned romance had never been particularly a part of their relationship.

Oh, he’d certainly been capable of sweetness, if he was in the mood. And surprise. But no one, not even the most sympathetic, would ever have called the Jordan Hawke she remembered smooth or traditionally romantic.

Then again, she’d liked his edges. They’d attracted her and they’d aroused her.

Still, she wasn’t about to complain about being courted for one evening by a charming, entertaining man who seemed intent on providing her with a dream date.

“Tell me what you want for the bookstore.”

She took another bite of truly incredible sea bass. “How much time do you have?”

“All you need.”

“Well, first I want it to be accessible. The kind of place people feel free to stroll into, just browse around, maybe settle in for a while and read. But at the same time, I don’t want them to treat it like their private library. What I want to establish is the neighborhood bookstore, where customer service is the priority, where people like to gather.”

“I wonder why no one ever tried that in the heart of the Valley before.”

“I’m trying not to think about that,” she admitted. “If no one did, there might be a good reason.”

“They weren’t you,” he said simply. “What else are you after? Are you shooting for general stock, or are you going to specialize?”

“General. I want a lot of variety, but I worked in the library long enough to know what people in this area lean toward. So certain sections—romance, mystery, local interest—will outweigh some of the more esoteric titles. I want to coordinate with the local schools, know what teachers are assigning, and see if I can get at least one book club formed within the first six months.”

She picked up her wine. “And that’s just for starters. Mal and Zoe and I will be working together, and ideally we’ll overlap our customer base. You know, somebody comes in for a book and thinks, Wow, look at that terrific blown-glass vase. It’s just perfect for my sister’s birthday. Or someone’s going up to Zoe’s for a haircut and picks up a paperback to read while she’s getting done.”

“Or they come in to look at paintings and decide they could really use a manicure.”

She toasted him, sipped. “That’s the plan.”

“It’s a good one. The three of you look good together. You fit together, complement each other. You’ve all got different styles, but they mesh nicely.”

“Funny, I was thinking almost exactly that just the other day. It’s like if anyone had suggested I’d be going into business—putting basically every penny I have on the line—with two women I’ve known only about a month, I’d have laughed my butt off. But here I am. And it’s right. That’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of.”

“As far as the bookstore goes, I’d bet on you any day of the week.”

“Save your money. I may have to borrow some before it’s done. But following along, tell me what you would look for in a good neighborhood bookstore. From a writer’s perspective.”

Like Dana, he sat back, a signal to the waiter to clear. “You called me a writer without any derogatory adjectives.”

“Don’t get cocky. I’m just maintaining the mood of the evening.”

“Then let’s order dessert and coffee, and I’ll tell you.”

BY the time they were done, she was wishing she’d brought a notebook. He was good, she had to give him that. He touched on aspects she hadn’t thought of, expanded on others that she had.

When they spoke of books themselves, she realized how much she’d missed that perk. Having someone who shared her absolute devotion to stories. To devouring and dissecting them, to savoring and wallowing in them.

“It’s a nice night,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “Why don’t we walk around the grounds before we drive back?”

“Is that your way of saying that I ate so much I need to walk it off?”

“No. It’s my way of stretching out the time I have alone with you.”

“You really have gotten better at this,” she replied as he led her from the room.

Her coat reappeared nearly as quickly as it had been whisked away. And, she noted, Jordan didn’t miss a beat when the maître d’ presented one of his books and asked to have it signed.

He did that well, too, she thought. He kept it light, friendly, added some casual chatter and his thanks for the evening.

“How does it feel?” she asked when they’d stepped outside. “When someone asks you to sign a book?”

“A hell of a lot better than it does if they don’t give a damn.”

“No, seriously. Don’t brush the question off. What’s it like?”

“Satisfying.” Absently, he smoothed down the collar of her coat. “Flattering. Surprising. Unless they’ve got a crazed look in their eye and an unpublished manuscript under their arm.”

“Does that happen?”

“Often enough. But mostly it just feels good. Hey, here’s somebody who’s read my stuff, or is about to. And they think it’d be cool if I signed it.” He shrugged. “What’s not good about that?”

“That’s not very temperamental of you.”

“I’m not a temperamental guy.”