by Lisa Plumley
Dubiously, Natasha examined the table again. Beside her with one hand on the small of her back, Damon nodded with pride.
“Also, officially we’re having dairy-free chocolate fondue for dinner.” Damon gave her an abashed look. “Chocolate is the only thing I can make besides sandwiches. And we can too have chocolate for dinner. Europeans eat chocolate for breakfast.”
“With bread,” Natasha pointed out, still unconvinced by all this. “In croissants or spread on toast or with fruit.”
“We’ve got toast.” With great fanfare—and a sweep of his arm—Damon offered up the food he’d prepared. “Gluten-free toast. Also, oranges, apples, grapes, bananas … you name it.” He crossed his arms. “We’ve got all the components of a nutritious meal.”
“And chocolate.” Stumped by Damon’s reasons for doing this, Natasha stared at it. “You really made chocolate for dinner.”
“Only a little chocolate. It helps the fruit go down.”
He seemed so proud and so gleeful that she just couldn’t refuse him. Clearly Damon still loved working with chocolate. He just couldn’t give it up. How could she deny him that?
After being away from work, Damon was undoubtedly jonesing for a challenge. Stuck at her apartment this way, with no bikini models to woo or business deals to broker, her globe-trotting former boss was probably going out of his skull with boredom.
But Damon gave no sign of crushing ennui as he hugged her to his side, then grinned at Milo. “After school, I told Milo I’d find a way for him to have treats today,” Damon explained. “And I did!” Again, he gestured at the table. “Voilà!”
That really was sweet. “You did all this for Milo?” Damon didn’t answer; he only pulled out a chair for her. He ushered her to it with another chivalrous sweep of his arm.
His happy face told Natasha all she needed to know.
“I think you need to get out more. You’re going stir-crazy,” she joked as she took a seat before the elaborate array of food. “The apple wedges are cut with geometric precision. The bread is arranged in a pyramid of perfect cubes. I think you missed your calling as a sous-chef.” Natasha peered more closely. “Is this fruit arranged in alphabetical order?”
Damon shrugged off her question. He handed plates to her and Milo, then watched them dig in. Then, “Wait! I told everyone at Torrance Chocolates that I’d take a picture to show them.”
Cheerfully, Damon whipped out his iPhone. He snapped photos from several different angles, being sure to highlight the chocolate. Always ready for a turn in the spotlight—especially with his new pal, Damon—Milo hammed it up for the camera.
The two of them were adorable together. But …
“You went to Torrance Chocolates to get this chocolate?”
“Sure. Milo and I took a field trip together after school.” Damon put away his iPhone, then helped himself to a plate. Eagerly, he sat beside Natasha, then started tucking in to fruit and bread. He dunked a banana slice into the chocolate, then savored it. He swallowed. “That was the only way I could make sure there wouldn’t be any chance of nut or dairy exposure. The production lines are shared over various runs of flavors, so unless you have a dedicated allergen-free area of the facility—or an inside man to help you—you’re kind of screwed. There’ll always be a chance of dairy or nut cross-contact.”
Natasha knew that all too well. Over the years, she’d had a difficult time finding treats for Milo. “But wasn’t that awkward for you? I mean, you didn’t take your leave of absence from Torrance Chocolates under the best of circumstances, right?”
So far, Damon had been a little cryptic about what those circumstances had been. Although Natasha wished he would confide fully in her, she was willing to wait for him.
Especially since she knew part of the truth from Jimmy.
“Oh yeah. I forgot all about my leave of absence. I guess I had other priorities in mind.” Looking perplexed, Damon considered that. As usual, he seemed oblivious to the fact that his luck was changing for the better, all over again. Evidently, fate loved Damon almost as much as Natasha did. “I guess all I needed was a good enough reason to go back.” He glanced at Milo, making that reason plain. “Everybody seemed glad to see me, though. We had a tour. I saw Jason. He said Amy’s doing really well. Even my dad came downstairs.”
“Oh. That’s good.” Natasha perked up. “Did the two of you—”
“Talk?” Damon raised his eyebrows. “No. It was a mission to collect some chocolate for Milo, not a Lifetime movie of the week. My dad hasn’t magically forgiven me for Las Vegas.”
“He will.” Regretfully, Natasha squirmed. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” If Damon was faking his nonchalance, it didn’t show. He dipped an apple slice into his portion of fondue, chomped it, then looked at Milo. “Well, kiddo … do you like it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mouth full, her son nodded. His hands and face were smeared with chocolate. His cheeks bulged. His plate stood heaped with still more “dinner.” He’d never looked happier.
“Good.” With a sense of satisfaction befitting his apparent status as Milo’s hero of the day (or maybe of the week), Damon surveyed the table. “You can’t take chocolate fondue to the third-grade school party, though. It’s not exactly portable.”
“Or tidy.” Natasha handed Milo a napkin.
“Or a peanut butter cup.” Milo’s eyes shone as he mentioned his most longed-for packaged treat. “Or a candy bar!”
Damon mulled over that idea. “I could make a candy bar. It’s basically a supersize truffle. I could totally make that.”
“I know you could.” Natasha smiled at him. “But you’d have to develop it, produce it, package it… .” She shook her head at the scope of the job. “All the treats for school parties have to be packaged goods so their ingredients are disclosed. The school has a no-peanuts policy, but some of the parents don’t take it very seriously. And it doesn’t preclude eggs or dairy.”
With his brow creased in thought, Damon dipped an orange wedge in chocolate. He offered it to her. “Well, at least Milo’s not alone,” he said as he watched Natasha savor her “meal.” “My buddy at Scripps told me the incidence of food sensitivities is on the rise. If all of those kids want candy bars as much as Milo does, someone could make a fortune marketing them.”
“That someone could be Torrance Chocolates.”
“Could be.” Damon shrugged. “But I’m still officially on the outs there. And my dad made it plain that what happens at Torrance Chocolates isn’t up to me anymore. By now, he’s probably grooming another successor.”
Damon glanced at Milo, held out another napkin for him, then burst out laughing. Eyes shining, Damon shook his head. He withdrew the napkin. “Never mind, Milo. After this, I think we’re going to have to hose you down to get you clean again.”
Conspicuously not caring about the mess, her son giggled. Then he dug into more banana slices. Natasha had never seen him eat so much fruit in all her life. Who knew all she’d needed were a few ounces of melted chocolate and some toothpicks?
“I really think you should pursue your candy bar idea, Damon,” Natasha told him, struck by the look of regret on his face when he’d mentioned his father’s eventual retirement from Torrance Chocolates. “With Torrance Chocolates’ resources and global influence, they could be a real trendsetter in this area. This idea could be just the thing you need to get back in.”
“Nope.” He dipped a grape, then ate it. “Not interested.”
“How can you not be interested?” Natasha protested. Damon had to be playing it cool, probably to preserve his pride. He had a lot of pride—it was an integral part of his overall package. “You were born to work at your family’s company! You’re really good at it.”
“I’m good at a lot of things.” Damon leaned over, gave her a sappy look, then offered her a chocolaty kiss that Natasha gladly accepted. “Later, I plan to be good at cleaning up this mess—as long as the dishwasher is still working. I have to draw the line so
mewhere.” Damon grinned at her, then craned his neck to try to see out the kitchen window. “Hey, do you think Carol is around? I can’t see if her car is parked in her driveway.”
“Lately? She’s probably not home,” Natasha told him. “Even if she is, I doubt she’s available for … whatever you have in mind. Unless it’s another game of Uno. That was a hit.”
“Uno!” Milo pumped his fist in remembered triumph. When the four of them had played a game yesterday evening, he’d emerged the big winner … until Finn had chewed a few of the cards into unrecognizable, soggy blobs and forced them to shelve the whole endeavor. “I like Uno,” Milo said with a grin. “And apples. And bananas and oranges and grapes, too!”
Natasha smiled at her son. He must have put away a half pound of grapes alone. Maybe Damon was on to something.
“If Carol is home, I think she’ll be available.” Damon wiped his mouth on a napkin, then stood. “I’ll go see.”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Natasha warned good-naturedly. “She’ll never say yes. Not on such short notice.”
Halfway to the back door, Damon tossed Natasha a wink. “You might have forgotten, but I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be.”
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten a thing,” Natasha assured him with a wink of her own. “Go on then. Work your magic. Good luck!”
Even as she said it, she wanted to cringe, remembering all the times she’d been annoyed at someone for telling her good luck when all she’d ever had was not-so-good luck.
But Damon was different. All he did was wave as he swaggered away. “I don’t need luck!” he said. “I’ve got you.”
He did have her, Natasha realized. Just like old times.
His comment was as close to a call for help as she was ever likely to get from him. Damon did need help. He must realize that. He always had before. If he was counting on her (and it sounded as though he was) … she really had to succeed.
She had to hurry up about doing it, too. Before his super-lucky life came knocking on her door and lured away Damon.
This time, maybe for good. Maybe even … forever.
Chapter 22
When Damon came back from talking with Carol next door, he felt as though he could take on the world and win.
It was a feeling, frankly, that he’d missed.
“Slap an ‘S’ on my chest and call me Superman,” he told Natasha as he pulled her into his arms for a spur-of-the-moment dance across the living room, where she’d been picking up toys while Milo watched TV. “Carol agreed to babysit tonight.”
“Really? But we didn’t even have plans.” Natasha laughed as Damon tangoed her, then twirled her, then dipped her in his arms. Eyes shining, she clutched his shoulder for balance. “Usually I try to give Carol advance notice for babysitting.”
“Not tonight,” Damon said. “Tonight, you don’t have to.” Because I took care of it. “Besides, I had a turn at being irresponsible today with my chocolate-for-dinner extravaganza. Now it’s your turn.” Swivel-hipped and loving the way she felt against him, he danced her farther across the room. “So …” Adroitly, he dipped her again. “What would you like to do?”
Almost hanging upside down in his arms, Natasha pursed her lips. She worked her mouth from side to side, thinking about it.
“Umm …” She scrunched her nose in concentration. “Well …”
“Stop. If you’re thinking about it that hard, you’re not doing it right.” Damon swooshed her upright again, making her blond hair fly. He’d obviously been remiss in showing Natasha how to have a good time. All her years of looking out for him had stunted her ability to be freewheeling. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go put on something sexy, and we’ll see what happens?”
“Sexy as in a bikini or sexy as in a cocktail dress?”
“Whatever feels good to you.”
She seemed stymied by that response. “No, seriously. Sexy as in black-tie affair or sexy as in pencil skirt and pumps?”
“Sexy … as in you.” Damon touched her chin, lifted her face to his, then kissed her. “Just follow your instincts.”
She frowned. “I don’t think I have any sexy instincts.”
Damon begged to differ. He shot a cautious glance at a cartoon-enthralled Milo, then lowered his voice. “You have crazy hot sexual instincts. Believe me. You’re overthinking this.”
Natasha gave him a frustrated look. “I can be sexy while naked! That’s not the problem. But unless I know where we’re going, I can’t possibly dress for the occasion.”
Damon wasn’t worried about that. “You’ll be fine. Wear some jewelry, too. Your jewelry,” he specified with a cajoling smile. “Something you created in your workshop. I’d like to see it.”
“You won’t like it. It’s eclectic.”
“If you think I don’t know what that means, you’re wrong. I’m a world-class chocolatier, not a hillbilly.”
Her eyes brightened. “Speaking of chocolatiering, I really think you should reconsider that candy-bar idea of yours. If—”
“If you don’t hurry up, I might change my mind.” With a grin, Damon swatted her derrière. “The clock’s ticking.”
“It’s not sexy to have a time limit,” Natasha grumbled.
“Don’t forget the jewelry,” Damon reminded her. “Also, coming out here naked will not get you off the hook!” he warned.
“As if I would do that.” She rolled her eyes toward her son. “Milo’s right over there, being young and impressionable!”
“Oh yeah.” Sometimes, it occurred to Damon, there were inconveniences involved in family living—like a moratorium on consequence-free nudity. He still hadn’t caught up to the inhibiting reality of it all. In many ways, this felt like an extended vacation in suburbia. “Well then, I won’t come out naked, either.”
At his joking tone, Natasha laughed. “Good call, Superman. I’ll be out in a minute.” Then she vanished into her bedroom.
Left alone in the tidy living room with Milo, the cartoons, and his own empty arms, Damon couldn’t help wondering …
Could he make that allergen-free candy bar for Milo (and the thousands of other kids who’d want something similar)? Or was Damon just fooling himself? If he could, did he dare try?
Or would he just go down in flames again?
Almost as soon as Damon thought of it, though, his mind skittered away to something else. He just wasn’t ready to confront the whole imbroglio at Torrance Chocolates and his future (or lack of a future) at his family’s company. Until he felt a lot more invincible than he did right now, hiding out at Natasha’s place seemed like an excellent way to handle things.
Especially once she emerged in her sexy clothes.
“All set!” Natasha announced, looking beautiful and kissable and excited. “And I know just where to go.”
With the surf roaring in her ears and the moon and stars floating overhead and the city lights sparkling on the distant hillsides, Natasha tromped along the waterline near La Jolla. In the dark, the seagulls were quiet. The sandpipers were active. Most of the people had gone home. All that remained were dark skies, crashing waves, miles of sand … and Damon, by her side.
Enthralled by him, Natasha shot him another glance. “I can’t believe you had formalwear in your duffel bags.”
Damon shrugged. “A man should always be prepared.”
“For a ball? For a reception for foreign dignitaries? For a royal wedding?” With her arm in his, Natasha strolled a little farther. Her long, chiffon-strewn dress flowed behind her, kept out of the sand and surf by the knee-high, waterproof Wellies she kept in her Civic’s trunk for occasions like this one. “Did you pack your bags thinking a black-tie soirée might break out?”
“Well, those kinds of things do happen in my life,” Damon admitted. “At least they used to.” He turned his face to the waves, then inhaled. “I wasn’t really thinking straight when I packed.”
Struck by his sudden melancholy, Natasha wanted to cheer him up. She want
ed to help him. It was the least she could do.
That, and follow through with the idea she’d had earlier tonight, when Damon had conveniently given her carte blanche to take them wherever she wanted to go. After a quick consultation with her trusty calendar, Natasha had known exactly what to do.
“Well, you could be a body double for James Bond in that getup.” She gave him a teasing grin. “You could stand in for a male model in an Armani ad. You could get married. You could—”
“You don’t look half bad yourself.” Damon’s gaze took in her gauzy silk dress, her body in her dress, and her practical Hunter boots. “Your Wellies are kind of kinky, though. It’s all that vulcanized rubber. I knew a British girl once who—”
“—officiate a wedding,” Natasha interrupted, “or—”
“—liked to wear them in bed.” Damon glanced at her ears. “Your earrings, on the other hand, are not your own design.”
“Guilty.” Natasha touched them. “These are strictly off the shelf. But you! In that outfit, you could lead an orchestra or—”
“Was your plan for the evening to harass me? Because if it was, you could have done that in bed. Naked. I would have let you.” Damon grinned, then hugged her closer against him. “Over and over again, until we could barely breathe. Or move.”
Natasha smiled, too. “We have to get out of bed sometimes.”
“We do get out of bed sometimes! There was that time in the shower. We got out of bed for that one.” Damon’s face turned dreamy … then downright wicked. “Also, that time in the kitchen after we dropped off Milo at school, and that time outside in the dark in your backyard in the sleeping bag—”
“I remember.” Natasha felt herself blush. She was pretty sure Damon had been trying to inveigle an invitation inside her garden-shed workspace to see her artwork. She hadn’t been ready to show it to him yet. Instead, she’d distracted him with a kiss … and the rest had been history. Hot, racy history that was probably illegal—at least without the sleeping bag and the darkness. “All I mean is, I thought this would be nice, too.”
“It is nice.” Through his dinner jacket, Damon’s warmth touched her. His hair tossed in the sea breeze, setting up an arresting contrast between his aristocratic profile, his down-to-earth demeanor, and his high-octane outfit. He strolled beside her, not the least bit worried about his dress shoes. “I would go anywhere with you. And I’d love it while I was there.”