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“That was probably smart,” James agreed with a chuckle, “but it would’ve been better if he’d supported you.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “This looks like a nice restaurant.”
Clearly she was ready to change the subject. “I haven’t tried it before, but it came highly recommended.”
Once they were seated inside, he decided he’d made the right choice. Each booth had high backs and swinging saloon doors, giving them the illusion they were in a small room all alone. “Guess no one will interrupt us here,” he said with a smile.
“I hope at least the waiter stops by, or we’ll starve to death,” Elise returned, smiling now too.
James was relieved. He didn’t want her unhappy, but he felt as if he’d uncovered a lot in the short drive. When he combined the information about her fiancé and her taking care of her six sisters, it was easy to understand her resistance to marriage.
A thought suddenly struck him. “Richard is the only man you’ve slept with, isn’t he.”
The waiter opened the swinging door. “Good evening, I’m your waiter for the evening. Richard is my name.”
Elise turned a bright red.
ELISE LET JAMES do the ordering. Since he consulted her on her preferences, he actually asked the waiter for exactly what she would have ordered. Richard used to order his own choices and expect her to like them.
She’d been an idiot ever to put up with the man.
The amazing thing was James’s agreement. She hadn’t expected him to even understand her problem with Richard’s attitude, much less support her. She’d told Phoebe and Daisy about Richard’s controlling nature, of course, in one of their late-night chats, and hadn’t been surprised when they’d agreed with her assessment of him. They were women.
The waiter finally left the table, and James leaned back against the booth. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, thank you. You ordered exactly what I wanted.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’ve only slept with Richard, haven’t you.”
“James! You have no right to ask such personal questions! I haven’t asked that of you.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, spreading his hands wide.
“I don’t see any need to discuss our past lives. My sisters won’t ask questions about your past.”
“Then they’re mighty unusual women.”
“If they do, I’ll tell them it’s none of their business, nor mine, either, for that matter.”
He leaned forward, and even with the table between them she found herself pressing against the back of the booth.
“You’re telling me even if we were really engaged, you wouldn’t ask about my past partners? You wouldn’t even want to know about my ex-wife?”
Shocked out of her self-consciousness, she leaned forward. “You’ve been married? You must’ve been very young.”
For the first time in a while, he was the one to seem ill-at-ease. “Yeah.” He busied himself with his napkin.
“See? It’s uncomfortable to be grilled by a stranger,” she pointed out.
“I wasn’t grilling you!” he snapped. “It seemed to me you haven’t spent a lot of time with men, but if you were a virgin, I—”
“I’m not. We’ve established that. And I told you I hadn’t dated much. So, we can move on.” She certainly hoped they would. She was tired of turning a bright red every time she talked to this man.
Silence followed. Okay, so they didn’t have anything in common. Well, they had the school. She’d talk about school. “How was your day? What play are you working on now?”
He didn’t look enthusiastic. “Um, Shakespeare. We’re doing a Shakespeare play.”
“Oh, really. I thought you were going to skip him this year since you just did a Molière. I heard you were going for contemporary comedies to tempt a younger crowd.” She stared at him curiously. There had been a big debate on campus, the classics versus the popular.
“Oh, you mean our production. Right, of course. I thought you were referring to my classes. We’re working on Shakespeare in class, but our—our public presentation is a contemporary.”
“Which one?”
He looked a little lost, and she stared at him.
“I believe it’s a Neil Simon. Yes, a Neil Simon. He’s a very good writer, you know.”
Her lips twitched. Did he think she was an idiot? “Yes, I heard,” she said smoothly.
Now he blushed bright red. She loved turning the tables on him.
“Of course you have. I didn’t mean to imply— I was embarrassed because I couldn’t think of the name of it.”
“It’s not a test, James,” she assured him kindly. “I thought you would be involved in it, that’s all.”
“Not yet. I’ve had too much to do for my classes.”
“How many hours do you teach each week?”
He more easily fielded that question. “Nine.”
“And you also take classes? That’s a heavy load. Are you sure you have time for—for our nonsense?”
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