The Matchmaker's Sister. Karen Whittenburg Toller
was?”
A soft touch of color bloomed on her cheeks and despite every effort to stay unaffected, Nate was charmed to the core. She had felt it, too, that moment of awareness. It might have been a long time since he’d shared that first recognition of electric attraction, but it wasn’t the sort of thing a man forgot.
“Was he explaining how I ruined his shirt? I still can’t believe that happened.”
“Our tongs collided,” Nate informed his mother, pointing to the stain, which until that minute he’d forgotten was there. “It was fate.”
Charleigh glanced at his shirtfront. “Fate?”
“I was hungry. She was tossing salmon.”
“How serendipitous.” Charleigh’s smile turned to Miranda. “No, actually he was wondering aloud if I thought you might dance with him. If he asked. I was just telling him I was sure you would when, suddenly, here you are.”
Miranda looked surprised, but she didn’t seem appalled by the thought of dancing with him. Nate considered that a positive sign. Below the drape of the tablecloth, his mother’s foot nudged his. “Miranda,” he asked obediently, “would you like to dance?”
“Um, sure,” she replied doubtfully, her gaze flickering to his chest, then back to his face. “Unless you’d rather get some club soda on that stain.”
“Probably best to let the dry cleaners treat it,” Charleigh said, apparently believing he’d take any excuse to get out of dancing.
But even mothers were wrong on occasion. And although he might be on the shady side of forty, he was a long way from passing up the opportunity to hold a beautiful woman in his arms. “The club soda will wait for me,” he said. “The music won’t.”
He took her hand, seeking, and finding, that shiver of electric response, and led her to the dance floor, where he drew her into his arms. The song was as soft as the night air around them. And Nate felt like a young man at his first formal dance. Expectant. Excited. Uncertain.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “It’s been quite a while since I was in this position.”
She held herself rather stiffly, not exactly melting against him, but she looked up at that and smiled. And his heart skipped a beat. Maybe he was too old for this. “What position?” she asked. “Dancing?”
“Having my mother kick me in the instep until I asked you to dance. She thinks I’m backward with women.”
Miranda’s eyebrow arched prettily. “And are you?”
“I don’t know. I never thought so before.”
“Before she kicked you?”
He grinned. “Sometime around then, yes.” Relaxing into the rhythm of the music, he tried to draw Miranda closer, but she resisted, one palm pressed rather solidly against his chest. He didn’t insist, of course, but wondered if maybe she hadn’t wanted to dance with him. Maybe Mark had been right and women like Miranda viewed men over forty with suspicion. Or distaste.
But he knew he hadn’t imagined the attraction. Or the subtle blush still lingering in her cheeks. He felt the attraction now, was reasonably sure she was feeling it, too. And she didn’t seem the type to be nervous about dancing with a man, even if he wasn’t exactly the Prince Charming she might have had in mind.
On the other hand…there was her palm maintaining a curious, if not completely unreasonable, distance between them.
And then it hit him.
The stain on his shirt bothered her. She either didn’t want to come into contact with it or she felt afraid of making it worse if she did. He had to restrain a ridiculous grin from eating up his entire face. Either reason was perfectly acceptable to him as utterly, unexpectedly charming. She was worried about the stupid stain and it was all she could do to be out here dancing, instead of inside, at one sink or another, scrubbing salmon juice out of his shirt.
He stopped in midstep. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her hand and turning toward the house. “But I can’t concentrate on anything except getting that club soda on this shirt.”
Her relief was instant and companionable. “I was thinking the same thing. The longer it sets, the harder it will be to get out.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he replied, intrigued by the warmth in her hand and completely captivated by the smile in her eyes.
Chapter Two
Nate snapped the front pages of the Providence Journal to a comfortable reading position and settled in to enjoy his morning coffee with the news. He got through the headlines and one paragraph of the lead article before getting up to top off the coffee and check the fridge for orange juice. Back to the table, he reread the paragraph, then decided a little toast would go well with the juice and tide him over until breakfast. Once the bread was in the toaster, he stood, somewhat impatiently, and waited for it to brown. He wondered what Miranda Danville was having for breakfast or if she ate breakfast at all. Lots of girls didn’t.
Not that Miranda was a girl.
Oh, no. She was a woman. Definitely. He could still feel the soft, very womanly curve of her in his arms.
Not that she’d really been in his arms.
The dance hadn’t lasted a minute. But the memory of her serious, somber expression as she’d watched him dab club soda onto his shirt stayed with him. She’d been so intent on the stain, so concerned about her part in ruining his shirt, that he wasn’t even startled when she’d grabbed the towel from his inept hands and worked diligently on blotting the stain herself.
Not that he hadn’t been startled.
The sheer force of the attraction that had cut through him at her touch was enough to scare any man. Any man with good sense, that is.
Not that standing here thinking about her like this showed particularly good sense.
She was too young for him. Or more aptly, he was too old for her. He was the father of two thirteen-year-olds and two seven-year-olds. He’d been several years into his career before she was out of braces. He’d been married since she was in grade school. If he were going to date—and he wasn’t sure as yet that he was ready—it ought to be with someone closer to his age and experience. A widow, maybe. A single mother. Someone who understood the intricacies of family life, the challenges of parenting. That couldn’t happen with someone like Miranda.
Not that it couldn’t happen. But it didn’t seem very likely.
Why was he even thinking about her? The truth was, she couldn’t be the least bit interested in dating someone with his experience. His years and years of experience.
Not that experience meant he had nothing to offer. He was, after all, a hell of a nice guy. Angie had told him that repeatedly and he had no reason to believe she’d lied about it. He had means, too—a decent retirement income on top of the substantial wealth he’d inherited by virtue of being born his father’s son. He had a Juris Doctorate, too, so he could practice law again, if he wanted. That wasn’t too shabby a list of qualifications, he thought, and then wondered why he was listing all he had to offer a woman when he’d already pretty much decided he wasn’t even ready to date.
The encounter with Miranda Danville had spooked him, that was it. He hadn’t expected to feel that sort of instantaneous, animal attraction, wouldn’t have thought he could feel it again. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to feel it. Attraction led to liking and liking led to intimacy and intimacy led to love and…well, loving someone again seemed like one hell of a commitment. It was one thing to think he might want to marry again someday but a whole other thing to realize love—and the inevitable possibility of losing that love—was part of the deal.
But he was getting way ahead of himself. Worrying about something so far-fetched seemed