Page 62 of Backlash

“Um, not really,” she admits.

“Why don’t you grab another place setting for yourself? I stacked all the extras over there.” Francie points to the end of the kitchen counter. “They set the damn table like it was Buckingham Palace.”

“The Eatons can go a little overboard,” Adair says, carrying over a place setting and arranging it precisely.

“I want to hear all about them,” Francie says, brandishing a carving knife a little too dramatically. “I need to know who my Sterling is hanging around. Do you know them well?”

“You could say that.”

My Sterling? She’s never called me that before. Never claimed me like I was hers. I shrug it off, trying not to get attached to the idea, and help Adair finish adjusting the table.

We eat at one end only, so we can actually talk,. Although we DO agree that we should have a very formal dinner and pretend we’re aristocrats, before our time in the suite is up. Adair probably attends dinners like that regularly, but she’s the most enthusiastic proponent of the plan.

If I had any qualms about what Francie thinks of Adair, they’re all gone by the end of dinner, mostly because they discover a common ground: trying to embarrass me. I play the part, pretending to be horrified at every revelation, from the time I got stuck sneaking out a window when I first moved in with Francie—a story she mortifyingly refers to as the Winnie-the-Pooh incident—to Adair’s impression of me riding a horse for the first time, which sends Francie into a fit of howling laughter.

“City boy on a horse. Next time take pictures.”

“I promise,” Adair laughs.

After pie, Francie opens a bottle of wine.

“I’m going to get acquainted with that bathtub,” she tells us.

“Already cheating on the Viking?” I ask, earning a quizzical look from Adair.

“I’m too old to settle down,” she says with a wink. “Behave yourselves.”

I settle onto the couch and pat the spot next to me. Adair slides off her shoes and sits, curling her legs up and molding against me. My arm drops around her and lands on her pooling skirt.

“There is a lot of dress here,” I say.

“Thanksgiving is a formal affair at Windfall,” she says with a groan. “I didn’t really think when I left. I just took off.”

I pause. We’ve studiously avoided talk of what sent her running to my door tonight. I’m not sure if that’s because Francie was around. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Honestly? No.” She peeks up at me, dark lashes framing her eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” I kiss her forehead, earning a soft sigh. “Is it selfish that part of me is glad, because it means you’re here now?”

“Terribly selfish.” She grins. “But that means I’m selfish, too, because I’d much rather be here with you.”

“How would you feel about getting out of that dress?” I ask her.

“Sterling Ford, you were told to behave.” Even as she teases me, her warm hand slides across my thigh.

It takes some mental—and physical—adjustment to remember what I was saying. “I have something you could put on.”

I untangle myself from her and go into the bedroom I’m using. Digging in my duffel bag, I find a clean, ribbed undershirt and boxers and toss them on the bed. She watches from the doorway.

“Here. Get comfy. You can sleep here tonight,” I say.

Her eyes flicker past me, and I know what she’s seeing. Not the clothes I’ve found for her, but the king-sized bed.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I say quickly.

“No,” she blurts out, “I can sleep on the couch.”

Part of me wants to pick her up and carry her to the bed and undress her myself, putting to rest our feeble attempts at propriety.