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“It’s not too much?”
“It’s perfect.” He smiles then, and it lights up his whole face. “You’re so incredibly beautiful.”
I flush, covering it by occupying myself with going out and making sure the door is locked. “Nobody’s ever called me beautiful before,” I admit as we walk along the pathway.
Fraser stops for a second, and his eyes blaze. “Don’t tell me that,” he says. “I’m already considering beating the guy to a pulp.”
I giggle. “Sorry,” I say when he cocks his head at me, “I can’t imagine you in a fight, that’s all. Maybe a war with words. You have a fascination with them.”
“That’s true. I was wondering where the word tuxedo comes from. I can’t imagine the etymology of it.”
“The suit became popular in the late nineteenth century,” I say as we continue walking, “at the Tuxedo Park resort in New York.”
His eyebrows rise. “I didn’t know that.”
“Young rebels began wearing tailcoats without the tails and the fashion caught on. The word tuxedo is Native American, Algonquian I think. Some people think it’s from ‘tucseto’, which means ‘place of the bear’.”
He stops walking again. I stop too, turning to face him in surprise.
We study each other for a moment. Behind his glasses, his eyelids have lowered to half mast, and his lips have curved up slightly. His gaze settles on my mouth.
“If you weren’t wearing lipstick, I’d have k-kissed you right now,” he says.
My heart pings around inside me like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. “I’m very happy to wipe it off.”
He gives a short laugh, but doesn’t move. My God, he’s handsome. I just adore his blend of suave gentleman and bookish scholar.
“I like your cufflinks.” My voice is little more than a squeak. The look in his eyes is unraveling me.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, still looking at my mouth. I think he’s fighting with himself not to kiss me. My lips part automatically as I inhale, and his brows draw together.
“Stop it,” he says.
“I’m only breathing.”
“Well, don’t.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh.
He takes a big breath, then huffs it out before taking my hand and leading me forward. “The Uber’s here,” he says. “Come on, we’ve got a ball to go to.”
Excited, I walk as fast as my heels will allow as he strides out, and discover the Prius waiting in front of the hotel at the curbside. Fraser opens the back door for me, and I slide in carefully, scooping up the folds of my long skirt, and making myself comfortable. He closes the door and gets in the other side, and the driver heads into the traffic.
Fraser opens his hand on the seat between us, palm up. I study it for a moment. He wants to touch me; he can’t help himself. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not an invitation to go to bed with him again. Or to date him. And it’s certainly not a proposal. But for some reason it seems meaningful.
I shouldn’t encourage him. I should push his hand away and do my best to keep some sort of distance between us. I should be the bigger person here.
Who am I kidding? I couldn’t resist him even if my life depended on it.
I slide my hand into his, and his fingers close around mine, and we stay like that for the rest of the journey. We talkabout normal things—about the archaeology book I’m reading, a podcast on the Egyptian Pyramids he’s been listening to, about whether Adam will have been able to talk Isabel into letting us see the letters. But even though I seem calm and in control, all the while, my heart is racing, and it’s hard to think about anything else except the way his thumb is brushing my fingers, and the heat from his skin on mine.
“So…” I say, desperately trying to drag my mind away from the thought of him leaning across and kissing me, “the Williams house is an old colonial one, right?”
“Mm. It was originally a mission station, established by the Church Missionary Society back in 1838. The current house was built in 1847, Georgian style. It has a library and extensive gardens, a native tree walk, and a chapel. Various groups have attempted to persuade the family to sell it so it can be opened up to visitors, but it’s still a private property, although I believe they do hire it out for weddings.”
“Oh what a lovely place to get married,” I say with enthusiasm. “I can’t think of any place nicer than an historic site, other than our museum.”
He gives a small smile, then looks out of the window thoughtfully. I’m not sure what I said, but his hand remains curled around mine, so I don’t think I’ve upset him.