Nancy Thompson - Texas Magic

Then again, he could’ve waited one more night—or at least until after the paper was put to bed—to see Caroline again.

Hell, he had not wanted to wait. And Bia was right: being late wasn’t the best way to make a good first impression. So why rush the Sugar Hill story that Jeff Thomas was ironing out?

“Jeff just sent me the preliminary copy,” Drew said. “That’s what I was looking at before you knocked. Do you think you can edit and format it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, I’ll email it to you. He shortened it a little bit, but I think we probably need to cut it by at least a hundred and fifty words. Maybe a little more, depending on how much additional stuff he needs to add.”

Bia nodded.

Drew attached the file to an email and sent it to her. “If you could just give it a look and see where you think he could trim it that would be a lot of help.”

“Sure,” Bia said. “I was looking over the profile on George Hildebrand for next week. Soon as I put this one to bed, I’ll get right to that one.

* * *

It was close to 5:45 by the time Drew was finally able to extract himself from the office. He had an hour and fifteen minutes to go home, shower and shave before he picked up Caroline at seven. He made record time. Soon, the two of them were walking into Bistro Saint-Germain in downtown Celebration.

It was an upscale spot with floor-to-ceiling glass doors that folded open so that the dining room spilled out onto the patio and sidewalk outside the restaurant. The tables were covered with crisp white linens and sported small votive candles and vases hosting single red rosebuds.

As they approached the maitre d’ stand, soft strains of a jazz quartet and muted conversation buzzed in the air. The bistro was hopping on this fine Thursday night. The place obviously wasn’t hurting for business, as was evidenced by the small crowd that waited at the bar. Drew was glad he’d made a reservation.

As they waited for the hostess to gather menus, Caroline leaned in and asked, “Where’s your pumpkin tie?”

He looked down at his chest and feigned surprise.

“Probably the same place as your pumpkin dress,” he said.

She smiled. “Well, I hope they’re having a wonderful time. Wherever they are tonight, I’m sure they make a handsome couple.”

He gazed at her, taking in her emerald-green eyes and the striking contrast they made paired with her chestnut hair. Her lush lips—the top lip just a little fuller than the bottom—and the way her delicate jaw curved into her slender neck. “I’m sure they do.”

As the hostess seated them at a table for two in a quiet corner of the garden patio, he realized he’d never believed in love at first sight...until now.

He’d fallen in love with Caroline the moment he’d first set eyes on her.

It had not been that way with Joan. In fact, with Joan, he’d believed there was no such thing as a soul mate or destiny. His philosophy had conformed to the idea that people were too damaged or too busy or too self-absorbed to make room in their souls for one perfect mate. Love had always been about two damaged people finding each other at the precise moment in their lives when their flaws and needs were arranged in a pattern where they could mesh and a relationship could grow.

Not very romantic, he admitted.

He and Joan had fallen together in the workplace and had given the best of themselves to the job. They made no pretense of romance. Their flaws had mingled and aligned in the residual of what really mattered to them. When their needs shifted, their new patterns didn’t fit, and everything ended.

Then he met Caroline and his beliefs tipped on their axis.

The crazy part was he did not even know her beyond the ethereal, beyond the fact that she was damn good at making him feel equal parts electrically charged and at ease around her. There was something magical here.

Here was a woman he’d met a week ago, and already he found himself daydreaming about a future with her. Those daydreams seemed more real than anything in his past.

After ordering a bottle of wine, he gazed at her across the table.

“So tell me about yourself.”

He grimaced. He had not meant to make it sound so formal, and he racked his brain for a way to reframe his comment, to make it more personal, less...professional.

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m interviewing you. I just want to know you better. Because I don’t know much about you except that your sister just married my best friend, you seem to have an aversion to the color pumpkin and you seem to love champagne. Who is Caroline Coopersmith?”

* * *

She gazed at him across the table, pondering the question.

Who was she? Well, that was a loaded question.

Mercifully, the server brought the wine and went through the tasting formalities, buying her time to think.

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