There. She had said it. Holly stared hard at the tabletop, braced for his reaction. A laugh, perhaps an awkward cough, followed by either a polite suggestion to call it a night or a poorly veiled offer to help her with some “research.”

Seconds ticked by in silence. He didn’t say or do anything.

Was he shocked? Stunned into silence because he had thought she seemed like such a nice, intelligent, sensible woman? Or maybe he had been taken aback by the fact that he could have been so wrong.

Holly felt the color creeping up her neck, hating that she still cared so much what other people thought.

No, not other people, she corrected. Him. Because, she realized, she really liked this guy, and for whatever reason, his opinion mattered.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore and raised her eyes.

Adam was watching her intently, his face relatively neutral, but his eyes sparkled with ... something. What was that? Interest? Amusement?

* * *

HOLY SHIT, he thought. That look. Those eyes. Like those of someone already found guilty and awaiting sentence, knowing it was going to be bad yet determined to take it with dignity. She was waiting for his reaction and clearly wasn’t expecting it to be good. She didn’t strike him as the type of person to care too much what other people thought. Dare he hope that he was different in her eyes? That she might be feeling the same unexplainable spark he was and care about his opinion?

“Do you like it?” he asked.

She blinked, nonplussed. “Like it?”

“Yeah. Do you like writing romance novels?”

“Yes,” she admitted warily.

“Does it pay your bills?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are among the fortunate minority who enjoy what they do for a living. It’s not really work if you love what you do, right?”

“Right,” she agreed, but her voice still held a trace of doubt. That hint of vulnerability tweaked something primal inside him, something that appealed to his inner caveman. Without conscious effort, this woman continued to draw him in further and further, and she didn’t even know it.

“What about you?” she asked, tossing the ball back into his court.

“I, too, am pretty fortunate. I love what I do.”

“And what is that?” she asked, her eyes less doubtful now and sparkling with ... mischief? “You’re not a Dom, are you? A real-life Christian Grey?”

He chuckled. “More like Ty Pennington.” He would be lying if he said the idea of dominating this particular woman in the bedroom didn’t hold some appeal. It was an effort to remember they were in a public coffee shop and had just met.

“I renovate old houses. The older, the better. They-don’t-make-them-like-they-used-to types. Real stone from local quarries. Huge, hand-hewn beams. Hardwood floors instead of sheets of plywood. Plaster walls instead of drywall ...” He paused, giving her a sheepish look when he realized he was running on. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she told him, “I love old houses. So much so, I bought one.”

Adam felt another twinge deep inside, like a lock tumbler clicking into place. Had he discovered something else they had in common?

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. A small stone cottage. It was built in the late 1700s, or so they say, to replace the original building, which was destroyed in a fire in the late 1600s. I’m still doing the research on that. It used to be part of a much bigger estate.”

“Not the gamekeeper’s cottage on the old Penn estate?”

She nodded. “Yep, that’s the one. You know of it?”

He laughed. “I do. I was actually hoping no one would buy it and I could talk them down on the price.” He shook his head in disbelief. Any moment now, he was going to wake up. “Tell me. What’s it like? The inside, I mean.”

* * *

IS HE REALLY INTERESTED, or is he just being polite? she wondered.

Holly loved her place. Liz often told her that, when she talked about it, she got this dreamy look on her face. That was usually when Liz admitted to zoning out.

Holly didn’t want to bore the man to distraction, but he might as well know up front what he was dealing with. He had handled the “I’m a romance writer” thing better than expected, and he had admitted to a penchant for old houses, as well.

Of course, since he renovated old places for a living, he might be asking out of professional rather than personal interest. Inwardly, she shook her head. It didn’t matter. He was interested, and she liked being the focus of his interest, underlying motivation be damned.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said aloud. “It’s been upgraded over the years, of course—wired for electricity and fitted for indoor plumbing—but it’s retained its old-world charm. The house needs a lot of work, though. I’ve been there nearly six months and I’ve barely made a dent.”

An idea formed in her head. So far, this man had managed to ace every question on her mental male potential quiz, which was a first. Plus, she liked him enough to want to see him again. This might be the perfect way to do just that without actually asking him out. Whatever genetic trait predisposed her to alpha male type romance novel writing also prevented her from taking the initiative in situations like this.

“Adam, would you be interested in seeing it? Maybe you could offer some professional advice. I want to keep as much of the original look and feel as possible, and I’m afraid I’ve just kind of been winging it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Seconds ticked by in silence, feeling more like minutes, and with each one, Holly’s disappointment grew. Things had been going so well. She should have just kept her big mouth shut. Obviously, she had misread the situation. The only thing she could do at this point was backtrack and try to regain some of that easy back-and-forth they’d had going on before she had ruined it by pushing too hard.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“I’d love to.”

She blinked, her eyes snapping back up to his.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, they were intensely blue, darker than they had been just a little while ago. Those eyes were borderline hypnotic and blatantly powerful. If she wasn’t careful, she could easily lose herself in them.

“You would?”

“Absolutely.” Those blue eyes continued to bore into her, holding her captive.

He had said yes, which meant she hadn’t messed this up yet, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see her again, too.

“That would be great!” she said, trying desperately to sound like the mature adult woman she was and not some crushing teen.

She mentally ran through her calendar for the week, which was kind of silly, really. The only thing that was ever on her schedule was her weekly girls’ night out dinner with Liz on Tuesdays. He didn’t need to know that, though. She could let him think she had a very busy, rewarding social calendar.

“What works for you?”

“Pretty much any night is good for me,” he said, apparently having fewer self-confidence issues than her. “Except for Wednesdays. I’m in a pick-up league at the YMCA with a couple guys I subcontract with.”

It was Sunday evening. Monday was too soon. She would seem too eager. Plus, she wanted a chance to clean the place up before he saw it. Living alone didn’t provide a lot of incentive to keep things spick and span. Tuesday and Wednesday were out. If she suggested Friday, it might sound more like a date. He seemed interested, but she didn’t want to push her luck.

“Thursday night?” she asked.

She felt the effects of his slow smile all the way down to her toes. “Thursday night it is.”