“How are you feeling?” Richart asked as she closed the door.
“Both hungry and nauseated at the same time. I haven’t eaten anything all day because my stomach still isn’t right. But I think the Alfredo is mild enough to stay down.” She grimaced.
“What?”
She gave him a self-deprecating smile and led him into the kitchen. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about vomiting on a first date before. Real romantic, right?”
He grinned. “More romantic certainly than not mentioning it was a possibility, then spewing your dinner all over your companion as he leans in for a kiss.”
She laughed. “Thank you for being such a good sport about it.”
“Thank you for letting me cook you dinner.” He set his bags down on the counter and started removing the ingredients he’d purchased on the way there. “I should probably warn you that I haven’t been on a date in quite a while, so I’m a little rusty.”
Her eyebrows flew up as she transferred the cold foods to her refrigerator. “How long has it been?”
“Longer than I care to admit. My job and odd hours tend to make dating difficult.”
She nodded. “Being a single mom and working the night shift does, too. I haven’t dated in a while either.”
“Excellent. Then, if neither of us remembers the rules, we don’t have to follow them.”
“Sounds good to me.” She closed the refrigerator door and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms just beneath her br**sts. “Listen, I’m sort of a get-the-truth-out-there-so-when-it-comes-up-later-it-won’t-be-an-issue kind of gal, so there’s something I wanted to mention.”
This couldn’t be good.
She hesitated. “You know I’m older than you, right?”
Richart stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?
“Honestly, I could not care less how old you are, Jenna,” he assured her, all the while calling himself a bastard for not taking the opening she had provided and broaching the topic of who and what he was. She valued truth. If he continued to keep it from her . . .
A hint of insecurity entered her features. “I don’t mean to press this, but . . . I dated a guy once—very briefly—who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I’m thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn’t a problem?”
“I don’t know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you’re in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested.”
She smiled and closed the distance between them. “And if I looked like I were in my fifties?”
“Still interested.”
“Sixties?”
“I happen to think laugh lines are hot.”
She laughed. “Good, because I have a feeling you’re going to give me a few.”
“I should hope so,” he said, telling himself not to think about the fact that he would still look and feel as he did now when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties and all of the problems that would generate.
You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man. This is your first damned date. Not your engagement party.
“You don’t mind that I’m older than you. You don’t mind that I’m a single mom, putting a son through college.” She shook her head and smiled up at him, expression soft. “You’re a rare breed, Richart d’Alençon.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.
Her breath caught.
Lightning struck.
Both their hearts began to beat faster.
Resting a hand on her waist, Richart tilted his head and explored those smooth pink lips that had drawn his gaze so often, then drew back before his emotions could take over and make his eyes begin to glow.
“Wow,” Jenna breathed, staring up at him.
“I am so smitten with you,” he admitted softly.
“I love the way you talk.”
“My accent?”
“That, too, but . . . I love the way you phrase things. Like the heroes from the historical romance novels I read.”
He cringed. Apparently, he was showing his age.
She smiled. “Don’t look like that. I meant it in a good way.”
“If you say so.”
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble and growl. Both laughed as she covered her flat belly with one hand. “Sorry about that.”
He shook his head. “Let’s get started so we can get some food in you.”
Hands down, it was the best date Jenna ever had. Richart was charming and funny and so sexy he took her breath away. Just as that kiss had. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And the man was an excellent cook. She had never been a big fan of salads, had always found them pretty bland, but he concocted some kind of homemade salad dressing that was absolutely delicious.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked, taking her empty salad plate and replacing it with one heaped high with fettuccine Alfredo.
“Doing good,” she responded with relief. The first taste of his creamy Alfredo sauce elicited a moan. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”
“I taught myself.” He shrugged. “No reason not to really. I don’t know why some men balk at it. I love food and saw no better way to ensure I would always have a tasty meal at my disposal.”
“Smart man. I like that.”
He winked.
Her pulse jumped.
The front doorknob rattled as a key slipped in and unlocked it.
Aaaaaaand the moment’s over, she thought as her son opened the door and entered.
Jenna watched Richart with some trepidation. Saying he had no problem with her being a single mom was one thing. Not minding her son intruding on their romantic dinner was another.
John hesitated before removing his key from the lock and closing the door behind him.
Awkward.
Jenna smiled at him. “Hi, honey. How was school?”
“Same old same old,” he said with a shrug and a tentative smile.
Richart rose and, setting his napkin on the table, took a step forward and offered his hand. “You must be John.”