Glancing again around the cream-on-cream room with its elegant touches of gleaming woods, polished brass and green-veined marble, she asked curiously, “What would you change if you could put yourself into it?”
Geoff raised his eyebrows as if he’d never actually asked himself that question before. “I, um, well, I guess it would look a bit more like your place.”
She was tempted to roll her eyes. “You would fill your fancy condo with secondhand furniture and handmade decorations?”
“I would try to make it look like a home,” he corrected her, “and not just a designer’s showcase.”
She smiled at him. “I’m pretty sure that was a compliment.”
“It was meant to be.”
A timer buzzed in another room. Geoff turned in that direction. “I’d better take care of that.”
“Can I help?”
“You can keep me company while I finish up.”
She followed him into a black granite and stainless steel kitchen that looked as though it belonged in a magazine dedicated to gourmet cuisine. This room, at least, showed signs of use. Pots simmered on the six-burner stove, utensils were scattered on the counters, and something had been spilled on the stone floor.
Geoff spotted the spill at the same time she did. He grabbed a paper towel and bent to wipe it up. “I tend to be sort of messy when I cook,” he said as he straightened.
“Whatever you’ve prepared, it smells heavenly.”
He opened the oven door. “Rosemary chicken, rice with almonds and peas, orange-glazed carrots and crusty wheat rolls. I bought the rolls, by the way. They’re the heat-and-serve kind.”
“Everything sounds delicious. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“You can grab that basket of rolls and follow me.”
He led her into a small but elegant dining room, and once again she was struck by how much trouble he had gone to for her this evening. Candles burned on the table and on an antique sideboard she’d have given her eyeteeth for. Mounds of fresh flowers had been arranged in crystal bowls. The table was perfectly set with snowy linens, white china and gleaming silver.
A housekeeper? she wondered. Or had he done all of this himself?
Geoff moved to hold her chair for her, and she was romantic enough to be touched by his efforts. It was a scene set for seduction, made even more special because it hadn’t been necessary. The outcome of this evening was pretty much a sure thing—and would have been even if their meal had consisted of burgers from a fast-food drive-through.
Geoff seemed completely comfortable during their meal. The perfect host, charming, witty and relaxed. Oddly enough, Cecilia grew more nervous as the evening progressed. Because he had gone to the trouble of providing brandied fruits for dessert, she accepted a dish, but she could eat only a few bites.
“Is something wrong, Cecilia?”
She looked up from her barely touched fruit to give Geoff a smile that she hoped looked more natural than it felt. “Not at all. I’m just getting full. Dinner was excellent, by the way. You’re a very good cook.”
“Thank you. My repertoire is a bit limited, but my mother made sure I knew my way around a kitchen. Even though we had cooks and housekeepers while I was growing up, Mom said everyone should be able to prepare a meal, sew on a button and run a vacuum cleaner.”
“Your mother was a very practical woman.”
“Yes, she was. It was important to her that Mari and I would not grow up spoiled, even if we were fortunate enough to have a privileged upbringing. She was determined that we would understand exactly how lucky we were, so we spent every Christmas helping her with her charity projects. Working in soup kitchens, delivering food baskets and toys to homes that were little more than drafty shacks, visiting nursing homes and hospital wards.”
“We had a tradition in our family, too,” Cecilia mused. “We each contributed money from our allowances and paychecks to donate to the homeless shelter each Christmas. We usually had a rather modest holiday, ourselves, but Mother wanted us to understand that there were always people who had less.”
“Your mother must have worked very hard to support you and your brother.”
“Too hard,” Cecilia admitted with a sigh. “It seemed as if she was always working. After my father died so young and Eric’s worthless father took off before Eric was even born, Mother decided she couldn’t depend on anyone ever again. Except me, of course. By the time I was twelve, I was responsible for Eric’s care. I fed him, bathed him, dressed him, read him his bedtime stories, tucked him into bed. I’m sure that’s why I still tend to be overly maternal with him, giving him entirely too much advice and too many unsolicited opinions.”
“I have a feeling he is more appreciative of your concern for him than resentful.”
“Most of the time, yes. He lets me know when I cross the line into meddling—not that I always take the hint,” she added with a faint smile.
“Who took care of him while you were in school?”