Tangled (The Tangled Series)(70)

She picks up her phone and dials. “I’m on it.”

Yes, I said interior designer. You don’t know what that’s for, do you?

It’s the grand finale. My winning move.

You’ll see.

On Saturday night.





Chapter 26

SEE THAT RAKISHLY HANDSOME GUY in the charcoal slacks and black shirt with the sleeves half rolled up? The one arranging the china plates on that table?

That’s me. Drew Evans.

Well, not really. Not the old me. I’m new and improved. This is DAK. Can you guess what that stands for? Half the women in this city would give their left tit to have me where I am right now. * whipped. Obsessed.

In love.

But there’s only one woman who was able to put me here. Now I just need to show her I’m here to stay. I haven’t seen her for two days. Two long, excruciating days. It wasn’t as bad as the seven, but it was close.

Anyway, take a look around. What do you think? Am I missing anything?

Fresh flowers cover every available surface. White daisies. Before, I thought seeing them would remind her of Warren, but I’m not worried about that now. They’re Kate’s favorite, so they’re the only kind here. Bocelli plays softly on the sound system. Candles light the room. Hundreds of them—glass-enclosed.

You can’t go wrong with candles. They make everyone look better. They make everything smell better.

Knock-knock.

That would be Kate. Right on time. I scan the room once more. This is it. My Super Bowl. Game Seven. And everything’s ready. I’m ready. As I’ll ever be. I blow out a deep breath. And open the door.

And then I can’t move. I can’t think. Breathing? That’s not a frigging option either.

Kate’s dark hair is piled high on her head. Elegant tendrils kiss her neck, caressing the very spot that I spent hours nibbling on not so long ago. Her dress is dark red—shiny—maybe satin. It hangs from delicate straps that bridge her shoulders and fall low in back. The bottom rests above her knee, exposing her smooth legs inch by delectable inch.

And her shoes…Mother of Christ…her shoes are all heel, held on by an intricate black bow tied at the back of her ankle.

When I’m actually able to form words, my voice is rough. “Is there any way we could renegotiate the no-ass-grabbing clause? ’Cause I have to tell you, in that dress? It’s going to be hard.”

And it’s not the only thing, if you catch my drift.

She smiles and shakes her head. “All previous stipulations stand.”

I stand back as she walks in, looking me over out the corner of her eye. Watch her face closely. See how her eyes darken? How she licks her lips without realizing it? Like a lioness that just spotted a gazelle in the high grass.

She likes what she sees. She wants to compliment me. She wants to, but she won’t. This is Kate we’re talking about here. Post-my-colossal-foot-in-mouth-f*ck-up Kate. And despite my recent progress, she’s still defensive. Untrusting. On guard.

And that’s okay. I’m not offended. Her eyes tell me everything she won’t let herself say.

I lead her toward the living room, and she bites her lip as she asks, “So, where are we going?”

And then she stops short when she spots the candles. And the flowers. And the perfectly set table for two.

I tell her softly, “We’re already here.”

She gazes around the room. “Wow. It’s…it’s beautiful, Drew.”

I shrug. “The room’s nice. You’re beautiful.”

She blushes. And it’s amazing.

I want to kiss her. Badly.

You ever been thirsty? Really thirsty? Like on a ninety-eight-degree summer day when you don’t have enough spit in your mouth to even swallow? Now imagine somebody puts an ice-cold glass of water in front of you. And you can look at it, and you can picture how perfect it would taste—but you can’t touch it. And you definitely can’t drink it.

That’s pretty much the hell I’m in at the moment.

I tear my eyes away from Kate’s face and hand her a glass of red wine. Then I take a long drink of my own.

“What happened to your fingers?” She’s referring to the Band-Aids that cover four of my ten digits.

“Mushrooms. Spongy little bastards don’t appreciate being sliced.”

She looks surprised. “You cooked?”

I was going to take Kate to a restaurant. The best in the city. But she’s about quality, remember? And I figure she’ll appreciate my effort a hell of a lot more than anything a gourmet chef could come up with.

I smile. “I have many talents. You’ve only seen a few.”

And this might remain true. I’ve never cooked before.

Which reminds me—Martha Stewart? She’s my new idol. Seriously. I used to think her whole deal was a joke. Who becomes a billionaire by showing people how to fold goddamn dinner napkins correctly? But that was before. Before I actually tried to use my oven or set a table.

Now Martha’s a f*cking god. Like Buddha. And if her recipe helps me pull this off? I’ll worship at her pudgy sandaled feet every day for the rest of my life.

Kate and I sit on the couch.

“So…how are things at the office?” I ask.

She sips her wine and brushes nonexistent wrinkles off her dress. “Good. Things have been good. You know…quiet.”