“Then, the dragon roared so loud.” Dawson’s eyes grow wide. His hands lift into the air, and he opens his mouth, baring his teeth. “Rawr.” The sound of his little growl echoes throughout the restaurant.

“Dawson,” Andrew says in warning.

But we pay him no attention.

Not for a moment do I mind his enthusiastic theatrical display. It’s refreshing because I no longer have to make small talk with Andrew. The man’s slowly breaking down my defenses, and it terrifies me. I have to be strong and in control. I have to.

“Would anyone like dessert this evening?”

Dawson and I look up, hopeful, at the waitress.

“We’re fine. Just the check,” Andrew answers before I can say anything.

The waitress nods and begins to turn away to retrieve our check.

“Excuse me,” I say.

She quickly turns back.

“This little man and I would love to see the dessert tray.”

Her face lights up with a genuine smile before she hurries off. I shift in my chair to once again focus on Dawson. Only, in the process, I catch a glimpse of Andrew’s questionable stare.

“What?” I shrug. “You can’t visit a restaurant and not check out the dessert tray. It’s mandatory. Didn’t you know that?”

For the first time since I arrived at Alinea, I smile. Not a forced, doing-my-very-best-to-remain-cordial smile. This is a full-blown, relaxed smile.

I don’t miss the surprise in Andrew’s eyes, but I quickly focus on Dawson instead. He’s clapping his hands, and he looks at Drew and then back to me.

“You have to have dinner with us all the time. Daddy doesn’t really like dessert. I don’t know why. Mommy says he’s too uptight to like anything good, and that’s why he’s mean, but Daddy’s not mean. He’s Superdad!”

I see Andrew smile at his son, and it warms my heart. The love between them is so clear.

“Back to the dragons,” Dawson excitedly says. “My bedroom has dragons.” Dawson doesn’t miss a beat. “Big ones hanging from the ceiling, and Daddy had one painted on my wall, too. It has fire and everything.”

“That sounds awesome,” I tell him just as the waitress arrives with a tray of the most delicious-looking desserts.

I’d have been happy with a cookie or even a slice of pie, but Alinea is definitely more upscale than my usual choice of restaurants. The items look almost too good to eat.

“Chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate,” Dawson says as he gets up on his knees to get a better look.

I couldn’t agree more. When I realize I’m actually nodding my head in response, I feel my cheeks heat. I’m a sweets fanatic.

“You, too, huh?”

I turn my head and look at Andrew. His smile is so big that it’s impossible not to return it.

“What?” I ask with a laugh.

“You’re going to be a bad influence on him, aren’t you?” I can tell he’s being playful. “If Dawson could eat nothing but cake and candy, he’d be the happiest kid in the world. By the way you’re practically drooling over there, I’d say you feel the same.”

For a moment, our eyes remain locked on one another’s, and a fluttering feeling fills my stomach. It’s not out of fear, not even a little. The usual tension and extreme irritation I feel in regard to Andrew is suddenly replaced with curiosity.

“I am, without a doubt, going to be a bad influence on him,” I assure him.

When he chuckles, it sets forth a rush of something I have not felt in a very long time.

Desire.

“We’ll take one of everything,” Dawson states.

And it’s my turn to laugh.

Of course, the waitress looks at us for help, and I’m not about to offer it. Tasting each and every item sounds like the perfect plan to me. It doesn’t matter what Mr. Stick Up His Butt refuses. Desserts are something I’ll never deny myself or the cutest little boy in the world. That’s why the word dessert is spelled with two Ss—because you always have seconds.

I smile at Dawson and hold up my hand, motioning for a high five. He doesn’t hesitate, letting out an excited laugh, as he slaps his hand to mine.

When we look across the table at his father, I find he’s closely watching us. I know both Dawson and I have to look ridiculous, staring back at him, as if we were two children just waiting for permission.

I can see the hesitation in his eyes.

Feeling relaxed and carefree, more than I have in so long, I take it a little step further. Pushing out my lip, dipping my chin toward my chest, I flutter my lashes and give him my best puppy-dog pout.

The sudden sound of his warm laughter makes Dawson laugh, too, but I hold the pose. You would think a grown woman—one who, only a few days ago, could barely tolerate being in the same room as Andrew—wouldn’t be so relaxed, but I am. There’s something about being around him as a father versus him as the arrogant prick with the Powers name.

“Give them what they want,” Andrew finally says.

Immediately, Dawson and I face one another and simultaneously squeal. He throws his hands in the air, and I perform a crazy little shimmy, my arms out to my sides.

“Oh, yeah,” Dawson adds.

“We are so going to taste-test every single thing,” I tell him as I rub my hands together.

“Can you share with me, too?” Andrew asks from across the table, regaining my attention.

The way he looks back at me makes the warm, fuzzy feeling turn to a smoldering flame that pools low in my stomach. Playful, yes, but there’s most definitely something else hidden within those intoxicating eyes.

“I think I can share a bite or two,” I say.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but the weight of fear and confusion lifts off my shoulders, and I’m allowing myself to have fun. There’s definitely a change between us that I’m not sure I’m ready for. The problem with that is, I’m pretty sure Andrew doesn’t care. He strikes me as a man who makes refusal impossible.

* * *

“How was dinner?”

I jump in surprise to the sound of Aimee’s voice.

“Are we a bit skittish?” she asks, stepping away from the refrigerator and cocking her brow at me.

“Creeper,” I say with a laugh. “I didn’t expect you to still be awake.”

“It’s nine!”

The look of curiosity is all over Aimee’s face. I can already hear the questions she’ll ask me, and I’ll stand here, shrugging, because I honestly don’t know the answers.

All I know is, I showed up to dinner, fully intending to have a business conversation with Andrew and Miranda about our trip to California. I was blindsided—no, I was set up. I know that now, but I’m still not sure what Miranda thought she was doing.

“Why are you acting so weird?” Aimee steps around the counter, moving in closer. “You look guilty.”

“Guilty of what?” I say with a laugh. I spin around and move down the hall, toward my room.

“Don’t move. I know you’re hiding something.”

I stop and turn around.

“I’m not sure what you’re hiding,” Aimee says.

She's going to keep following me until I tell her something juicy. Ugh. Rude best friend.

“But what I do know is that I haven’t seen you this nervous in, like…I don’t know. Forever maybe. Something’s up.”

“Nothing is up,” I tell her, turning back to go to my bedroom.

Yet she still follows. “Never once have you come home from dinner with that kind of smile after a night with Mr. Corduroy. So, who is he?” she badgers me with questions as she steps inside my room just enough to keep me from being able to block her out.

“It’s no one. I had a business dinner with Andrew,” I tell her, hoping she’ll drop the conversation and move on.

“Business dinners are never good.”

“Yep. Not fun.” I have to turn my back to her, for fear of her once again seeing right through me.

“My ass,” she challenges me. “You’re like a beacon going off, screaming, I did something dirty. Or maybe it’s that you want to do something dirty.”

I roll my eyes, my back still toward her.

“My question is, who is the man responsible for this smile you’re wearing?”

“Annoying,” I say, refusing to give her any details.

“Evasive. You should know, I won’t stop,” she says in a singsong voice.

“Oh my God, you nosy bitch.” I turn around to face her. “I was supposed to meet Miranda and her son, Andrew. Only Andrew showed up, and Miranda didn’t.” I can practically read her nasty thoughts. “Then, Dawson, his six year old, joined us, and I spent the evening talking about dragons and knights. We shared dessert and laughed. That’s why I’m smiling.”

“Andrew, huh?” she says, practically glowing with questions.

“It was not Andrew. It was Dawson who made the evening enjoyable,” I assure her.

“Okay,” she says, finally backing out of the doorway, “if you say so.”

She holds her hands out, and I say nothing. I move closer to the door, and just as I'm about to shut it, I hear her laugh.

“I think I need to get a glimpse at this Andrew character.”

Instead of responding, I close the door and fall back onto my bed.

“It was Dawson,” I whisper to myself, refusing to accept that Andrew has gotten to me.