Christine Rimmer - The Reluctant Cinderella

His tone was personal. And so was that gleam in his eyes. Megan knew she should say something, should make it clear right then and there that, for Carly’s sake, she could never allow anything personal to go on between them. At the very least, she should sit up straight, stop leaning toward him across the table, stop smiling into those beautiful eyes of his.

But she said nothing. And she went on smiling, went on leaning eagerly toward him, went on wishing with every fiber of her being that he wasn’t Carly Alderson’s ex.

Greg wanted to stay in that restaurant forever, to sit across from Megan and stare into those clear green eyes, to listen to that slightly husky voice of hers and try to make her laugh. She had the best damn laugh, free and full-throated.

But after she refused dessert and finished her coffee, well, he could see that she thought it was time to go. He called Jerry and paid the bill and they went out into the glaring brightness of the afternoon.

“Take the limo,” Greg said.

She looked adorably bewildered, those round, soft cheeks slightly flushed, and confusion in her eyes. “But there’s no point. I can catch the train right here at—”

“You’re not taking the train. Jerry will take you home to Rosewood—or on up to Poughkeepsie, if that’s where you’re headed from here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t….”

He caught her hand. Heat sizzled up his arm. “Yes, you could.”

She swallowed, pressed those sweet lips together—and then broke into a smile. “Well, okay then. I’ll take the limo gladly. And thank you.” Since he still held her hand firmly in his, she shook it, pumping her arm up and down with great enthusiasm.

He finally got the message and reluctantly let her go. “You’re welcome.” He opened the limo door for her. She ducked inside. He shut the door. She rolled down the window and smiled up at him.

He passed her his card, the one with all his numbers on it—office, cell and home. “Next Monday.”

She took the card. “Ten o’clock.” Those lips of hers seemed to beg for a kiss.

“Gotcha.” He tore his gaze from her mouth to keep himself from doing something completely unacceptable. “Till then…”

She nodded and rolled up the window. He tapped on the passenger window. Jerry rolled it down. Greg passed the chauffeur another big tip. “Take Megan upstate. She’ll tell you where.”

“Will do, Mr. Banning.”

Greg stepped back from the car. The limo rolled away from the curb. He stood staring after it until it turned the corner.

As the hot afternoon faded into a muggy evening, Greg began to wonder what the hell had gotten into him. Damned if he hadn’t gone completely gaga over Angela Schumacher’s sister. He’d come that close to dragging Megan out of that limousine and into his arms. That close to kissing her—a hard, long, wet kiss—right there on the street.

Maybe it was the wine….

But he knew it wasn’t. He’d been long-gone over the woman from the moment he’d glanced up from his computer and found her standing in the doorway to his office. There’d been no wine then. He’d been stone-cold sober.

Unbelievable. Unacceptable. And impossible.

He was never going to go out with Megan Schumacher. She was from the neighborhood, for pity’s sake. She lived three houses up from Carly….

No way. Couldn’t happen. If he and Megan started seeing each other, there would be talk. And Carly would be hurt even more than he’d already hurt her.

Greg would never go back to Carly. It was over between them and had been for a long time. He did, however, feel a certain…tenderness toward her. A certain responsibility. She was a good woman, just not the woman for him. Somehow, sweet Carly Alderson had turned out to be the perfect wife. Greg didn’t want perfect. He’d never wanted perfect. He’d grown up with perfect and it was a cold, sterile way to live.

He knew that Carly had yet to accept that it was over. But in time, she would. Until then, though, he owed it to her to stay away, to keep himself the hell out of her life—which meant not dating someone she considered her friend. Whatever had happened to him at the sight of sexy Megan Schumacher, it couldn’t be allowed to happen again.

Greg stood in the darkness of his apartment and stared out at the Manhattan night and considered calling Megan to tell her he’d changed his mind about using Design Solutions.

But no. That would not only be a bad business decision for Banning’s, it wouldn’t be right. Her work was top-notch. Her ideas were brilliant. She’d never been anything but strictly professional during the meeting and the lunch that followed. He was the one who’d come within an inch of stepping over the line.

Megan deserved this opportunity. And he had zero doubt that once his father and the others saw what she could do, she would get the contract. They’d be lucky to have her.

Uh-uh. It wasn’t Megan Schumacher’s fault that Greg Banning had gone crazy over her. It was Greg’s problem and he would handle it.

From now on, when it came to Megan, Greg was keeping his mind on business and business alone.

In Rosewood late that night, Megan lay in her bed and stared at the silvery half-moon out the window and thought the same things that Greg was thinking seventy-five miles away.

How could this have happened? She’d truly believed that the silly crush she’d once had on Carly’s husband was over. And yet, since she’d left Greg on the street outside the restaurant, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. His name played over and over in an endless loop inside her head: Greg, Greg, Greg…

Which was dumb, dumb, dumb. She didn’t need a boyfriend. She didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Her life was jam-packed and then some. She hardly had time to get her legs waxed. There wasn’t a minute left over for romance—especially not for a romance with Carly Alderson’s ex.

This was bad. Megan was way too attracted. Much more attracted than she’d been back when Greg and Carly were married. Then, it had only been a kind of now-and-then dreamy fantasy of what it might be like if…

And now? Well, to reiterate: Greg, Greg, Greg…

But it didn’t matter. This crazy feeling she had for him was going nowhere. When she saw him next Monday, she’d make sure it was business and only business.

Period. End of story.

“Pancakes, pancakes. I love pancakes….” Michael sang the words and then poked a great big wad of pancake, dripping syrup, into his mouth.

“Eeww,” remarked Olivia. “You’ve got syrup on your chin and it’s rude to sing at the table.”

“We’re not at the table,” Michael corrected with the pure and literal logic of a five-year-old, the words mushy with that mouthful of pancake. He swallowed. Hard. “We’re at the breakfast counter.” Angela’s roomy kitchen had an L-shaped eating area along one section of the main counter.

“It’s the same,” insisted Olivia. “The breakfast counter is the same as the table when it comes to singing—so you just quit it.”

“Pancakes, pancakes,” Michael sang some more.

“Mo-om. He’s sing-ing.” Olivia turned on her stool to stick her chin out at her mother, who stood by the electric griddle down at the end of the counter, flipping another batch of blueberry pancakes.

“Eat your breakfast, honey,” said her mother. “And Michael, stop singing and finish eating.”

“Humph.” Michael forked up another huge bite and shoved it in his mouth. Olivia flounced around to face front again and delicately picked up her own fork. Anthony ate in silence, staring at his plate.

The doorbell rang. Anthony’s head jerked up. “It’s Dad!” he crowed, brown eyes suddenly alight. “He’s early.” Jerome was due at ten to take the kids to the Catskills for the day.