The Perfect Hope Part 57

True to her word, she was done in five. "I don't see any difference except for the dress."

"Good. You're not supposed to."

"How do you like your steak?"

"Rare."

"That makes it simple." He tossed a couple of enormous potatoes in the microwave, punched b.u.t.tons, then pulled the salad out of the fridge.

"Would you like me to dress that?"

"I got a bottle of Italian and a bottle of blue cheese."

Considering, she poked her head in the fridge, took stock. "I can do better, if you've got olive oil."

"Yeah. Up there." He pointed to a cabinet.

She opened the cabinet, found a couple other things that met with her approval and took them out. "Little bowl, a whisk?"

"I got the bowl."

"That and a fork then."

She went to work, smooth and quick, and looked nothing like a woman who'd fogged his brain only minutes before. He left her to throw the steaks on. When he stepped back in, she was tossing the salad. "I couldn't find your salad set."

"I don't have one. I use forks."

"Well then." She angled the forks she'd used in the bowl.

"I thought we'd eat out on the deck."

"Perfect." She carried out the salad, went back for plates, flatware. By the time he pulled the steaks off the grill, she'd set the table-with the flowers-topped off their wine. She'd managed to find his b.u.t.ter, sour cream, salt, pepper. And plated the potatoes.

He had to admit, the table looked just a little cla.s.sier than it would have left to him. "What was your talent in that beauty pageant? Magic tricks?"

She only smiled as he slid her steak on her plate. "This looks great."

She served his salad, then served herself before lifting her gla.s.s, tapping it to his. "To long summer nights. My favorite."

"I'm a fan. What was your talent?" he repeated. "That's part of the deal, right? I bet you tossed flaming batons."

"You'd be wrong."

She sipped her wine, picked up her fork.

"Give it up, princess. I'll just get Owen to find out. He's better at searching the Internet than I am."

"I sang."

"You can sing?"

She lifted her shoulders as she ate. "I didn't win the talent portion."

"You can't sing."

"I can sing," she countered with some force. "I can also play the piano, and tap. But I wanted to focus on one element." She smiled as she ate her salad. "And the girl who tapped while tossing flaming batons won the talent."

"You're making that up."

"You could search the Internet for it."

"How'd you win if you lost the talent?"

"By sweeping the rest. I killed the interview."

"I bet you killed the swimsuit deal."

She smiled again, that slow, sultry look. "You could say so. Anyway, long time ago."

"I bet you still have the crown."

"My mother has it. More important, I got the scholarship. That was the goal. I didn't like the idea of putting myself and my parents into debt. They already had two children going to college, and moving to grad school. Winning made a big difference, and I earned it. Those pageants are brutal. Still, I earned and I learned."

"Sing something."

"No." Fl.u.s.tered and amused, she shook her head. "I'm eating. The steak's perfect, by the way. Hey!" she made a grab, but he was fast, and pulled her plate up and out of reach.

"Sing for your supper."

"You're being ridiculous."

"I want to hear you, judge for myself."

"Fine, fine." She thought a moment, then gave him a couple bars of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep," since it had played in her car on the drive over.

Throaty, s.e.xy, rich. He wondered why he was surprised. "You can sing. Keep going."

"I'm hungry."

"I don't have a piano." He set her plate in front of her again. "But you're definitely going to tap-dance after dinner."

Her eyes narrowed when he tossed a bite of steak to the dog. "Your mother taught you better than that."

"She's not here. What else can you do?"

Hope shook her head again. "No. Your turn. What can you do besides what I already know?"

"I can kick."