Christmas with Him: The Tycoon's Christmas Proposal / A Bravo Christmas Reunion / Marry-Me Christmas. Jackie Braun

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      “I see.” She picked up her wine and sipped. “And, what, you thought I’d run screaming in the opposite direction at the sight of a naked man?”

      Unfortunately, the waiter picked that exact moment to arrive with their dinner salads. The young man cleared his throat and glanced from Dawson to Eve as he set them on the table.

      “Would you care for freshly ground pepper on your salad, miss?” He held out the wooden mill.

      “Please,” Eve replied, looking not the least bit embarrassed. Dawson, on the other hand, was pretty sure he’d turned the same color as the raspberry vinaigrette dressing that was drizzled over his plate of mixed baby greens.

      “And you, sir?”

      Dawson cleared his throat. “No. Thanks.”

      “Can I get either of you anything else?” the young man inquired.

      “No, Danny.” She glanced across the table at Dawson and winked. “I think we’re … covered.”

      When they were alone again, Dawson said, “Just as a point of clarification, I was not naked when we met.”

      “Oh, that’s right.” But Eve caused him to blush all over again when she added, “You were wearing a sheet. I guess I let my imagination fill in the parts it concealed.”

      On a strangled laugh, Dawson replied, “I hope your imagination did me justice.”

      “I don’t think you need to be concerned on that score.”

      “I guess we’ll see.”

      His response and what it implied had both of them sobering. By the time Danny returned with their entrees they had returned to far safer topics of conversation than Dawson’s anatomy.

      As they left the restaurant an hour later, Eve got an idea.

      “You know, my Tahoe is in the parking ramp. Why don’t you give your driver the rest of the night off? I can take us to the theater.” She sent him an angelic smile. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman and drop you at your home well before you turn into a pumpkin.”

      Dawson glanced toward the curb where the limousine was waiting. His omnipresent driver had already hopped out to open the rear door for them.

      She braced for his protest, but he agreed.

      “All right. I guess that makes more sense than taking separate vehicles to the theater.”

      Even more surprising than his agreement was the fact that Dawson didn’t insist on getting behind the wheel when they reached her Tahoe. Without a word, he got in on the passenger’s side … after opening the driver’s door for her, of course. If she saw his mother again, Eve would be sure to compliment Tallulah on her son’s fine manners.

      “I’m not sure I’ve ever met a man who was willing to relinquish the driver’s seat, especially to a woman,” she joked after starting the vehicle.

      She glanced over at Dawson in the Tahoe’s dim interior. Far from smiling, his face was drawn, his lips compressed. He was a man who preferred to be in control at all times, yet not only was he willing to let her drive, but it also dawned on Eve that he paid someone else to do the driving for him on a regular basis. Before, Eve had considered that a wealthy man’s preference. He could afford such a luxury and so he enjoyed it. It struck her now that, as the survivor of a harrowing crash, hiring a driver really was more of a necessity.

      To fill the awkward silence, she said, “Well, just to put your mind at ease, I’ve never had so much as a traffic ticket.”

      “Good to know,” came his clipped response.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him buckle his seat belt and then pull on the strap as if testing it. Afterward, he rested the palms of his hand on his thighs, hardly the picture of relaxation. In the rear of a limo it was probably easy to forget about oncoming traffic. That wasn’t the case with a front seat view.

      “It’s nice to leave the driving to other people once in a while, isn’t it?” she said in an effort to make small talk.

      Dawson responded with a tight-lipped, “Yes.”

      “You probably get a lot done on the morning commute.”

      “Yes.” Another laconic reply.

      “I’d love to be able to while away my drive time reading or whatnot. I try to time it so I’m not on the roads at the height of rush hour. Traffic can be a killer, especially on the area highways.” As soon as the words were out she wanted to snatch them back. If Eve hadn’t needed to keep her foot on the gas pedal, she would have used it to kick herself. Talk about a poor choice of words.

      Dawson, however, answered with an honest, “Yes. The highways can be a real killer.”

      “My God, Dawson. I’m sorry. That came out badly.”

      “No need to apologize.”

      “You told me before that you don’t like to talk about the accident.” She refrained from adding that he probably should, rather than keeping all of that pain and self-blame bottled up inside. Her thoughts turned to her father, a perpetual man-child who had been emotionally stunted by his grief. It wasn’t healthy, Eve knew.

      “We weren’t talking about the accident,” he said. “And we’re not.”

      “Dawson—”

      “We’re talking about driving. I prefer to leave that job to other people, which is why I pay a driver.”

      She allowed him the out, though they both knew he was lying. “Ah. Right. Well, I live for the day I can not only afford to hire a driver but also pay someone to clean my toilets. It’s a nasty chore.”

      “I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replied blandly.

      “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never scrubbed a commode?” she asked.

      “Never.”

      “Well, I take care of mine every Saturday morning if you ever feel the need to rack up another life experience,” she offered.

      As she turned onto Curtis Street, she glanced over in time to see his lips loosen with the beginnings of a smile.

      “Thanks, but no,” he said.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      WHEN they left the theater a few hours later, Eve was humming one of the musical’s more upbeat tunes.

      “I take it you enjoyed the show,” Dawson said as they made their way to her Tahoe.

      “I loved it.” She sighed. “Thank you again for coming with me.”

      “You’re welcome. You know, that’s the third time I’ve seen Les Miz. The first two times were years ago when it was on Broadway.”

      “You’re СКАЧАТЬ