“I invited Glenn Miller,” he answered, pulling back the chair to reveal his most prized possession.
“You have a phonograph?” Her jaw dropped.
“I do.” He popped the lid and started the little portable up, filling the quiet with The Glenn Miller Orchestra.
She studied him with a look on her face that he was hesitant to call wonder, but he sure liked it. So much for playing it smooth, because his heart took off like a thousand horses as he sat in the chair across from her.
He’d never been so nervous about a date in his life.
He’d also never had to repeatedly ask for one.
“Now, don’t get excited; it’s a picnic dinner.” He reached for the basket at the center of the table.
“Really? Couldn’t you have put a little more effort into this evening?” Her lips pursed, but he was on to her tell, so he just grinned and served them both.
It was all cold cuts, cheese, and one very expensive bottle of wine that he definitely hadn’t had a ration card for.
“This really is lovely,” she whispered.
“You make it lovely. The rest is just a little preparation,” he countered as they began to eat.
…
She’d been to parties, and even out on a few dates before the war, but nothing that came close to this. The sheer effort he’d gone to was incredible. It had given her a second’s pause when he’d teased about having a lineup waiting, but she refused to dwell on it and spoil the night.
There was no use looking for a parachute, since she’d already jumped.
“So how many favors do you owe for the phonograph?” she asked. Portables were hard to come by, not to mention ungodly expensive, and she knew what RAF officers made.
“I have to come back alive.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she almost missed it.
“I’m sorry?”
“My mother gave it to me when I left last year.” His voice dropped slightly. “She said she’d had a little tucked aside for when I got married, but then I announced rather suddenly—she was quite clear about that point—that I was off on what my father called a ‘fool’s errand.’”
Her heart plummeted at the shadow she saw flicker across his eyes. “He didn’t approve?”
“He didn’t approve when Uncle Vernon taught me how to fly. He absolutely loathed my decision to use those skills here. He thought I was looking for a fight.” He shrugged.
“Were you?” The breeze rustled across the tops of the grass, pulling another strand of her hair free, and she quickly tucked it behind her ear.
“Partially,” Jameson admitted with a conciliatory flash of a smile. “But I figure this war is going to spread if we don’t stop it, and I’ll be damned if I was just going to sit there in Colorado and do nothing while it crept up onto our front porch.”
His hand tensed on his fork, and she leaned across the small expanse of the table to rest her fingers over his. The contact sent a slight buzzing sensation down her body.
“I, for one, am thankful you decided to come,” she said. That singular choice told her more about the content of his character than a thousand pretty words ever could have.
“I’m just glad you decided to come tonight,” he said softly.
“Me too.” Their gazes held, and his hand slipped away from hers with a caress.
“Tell me something about you. Anything.”
Her forehead puckered, trying to think of something that would keep his interest now that she’d decided she wanted it. “I think one day, I would like to be a novelist.”
“Then you should be,” he said simply, as if it were just that easy. Perhaps to an American, it was. She envied him that.
“One can hope.” Her voice softened. “My family is in disagreement, and there’s an ongoing argument about who should get to decide my future.”
“What does that mean?”
“Simply put, my father has a title and he doesn’t want to let it go. He refuses to see that the world is changing.”
“A title?” Two lines formed between his eyebrows. “Like a job title? Or one you inherit?”
“Inherit. I want nothing to do with it, but he has other plans. I’m hoping I can change them before the war is over.” That didn’t seem to work. He still looked worried. “It’s not like there’s much of anything left anyway. My parents have spent just about everything. It’s minor—the title—and really doesn’t matter, I promise. Can we change the subject?”
“Sure.” He set his silverware on the plate, then changed the record to Billie Holiday and offered his hand as “The Very Thought of You” began to play. “Dance with me, Scarlett.”
“All right.” She couldn’t resist. He was magnetic, sinfully gorgeous, and ridiculously charming.
His arms surrounded her as they swayed to the beat in the dying sunlight, and she melted when he pulled her in close. Her head rested perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, and the rough canvas of his coveralls only served to remind her that this was very real.
How easy it would be to lose herself in this man for a while, to forget all that raged around them and would eventually come for them, to claim something—someone—for herself.
“Do you have someone waiting at home?” she questioned, hating the way her voice pitched toward the end.
“No one at home. No one here. Just my little record player.” His chuckling voice rumbled against her ear. “And I do love music, but it’s hardly a monogamous relationship.”
“So you don’t fly every girl to sunset dinners?” She tilted her head back slightly.
He lifted his hand, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Never. I knew I was a lucky bastard if I even got one shot with you, so I figured it had better be a good one.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. “It was. It is.”
“Good.” He nodded slowly. “Now I have everything set up for the next officer I find on the side of the road.”
She scoffed, then pushed off his chest with a laugh, but he kept hold of her wrist and reeled her back in, bringing his mouth dangerously close to hers.
Yes. She wanted to kiss him, to know how he tasted, to feel his lips moving with hers.
“Are you ready?” His hand splayed on her lower back, pulling her closer.
“Ready?” she asked, rising on her toes.
“Well, you seem a little inexperienced,” he whispered, dipping lower.