Читать книгу The Matchmaking Machine - Judith McWilliams - Страница 10

“Here’s that place I mentioned,” Maggie said.

Richard peered inside. It was only half-full, so getting a table wouldn’t be a problem. “Looks good to me,” he said.

Opening the door, he ushered her inside. The man at the bar gestured them toward the tables, and Maggie chose one well away from the door so that she wouldn’t get hit with cool air every time it opened.

“May I get you something to drink?” The waitress who had materialized by their table was staring at Richard as if she’d suddenly hit the jackpot.

“A glass of white wine,” Maggie said, feeling a gust of anger when the woman’s attention never wavered from Richard. She wanted to post a sign on him that said Taken—Keep Your Hands Off! And Eyes, Too. Maggie watched the waitress literally devour him with her gaze.

But to Maggie’s surprise, Richard didn’t even seem to notice the woman’s obvious interest. Was it because he was so used to attracting feminine attention or because he had the good manners not to flirt with one woman while he was out with another? She didn’t know, and it was hardly the kind of question she could ask. It would appear that there were some pitfalls to dating a fabulous-looking man, she thought. But in Richard’s case, it was worth it.

After the waitress had brought their drink orders, Maggie stole a quick look at Richard over the rim of her glass of wine. He was eating the appetizers the waitress had left with a single-minded concentration that bespoke imminent starvation.

A twinge of tenderness flashed through her at his absorbed expression. He was so gorgeous, and yet he seemed totally unaware of his looks. Was it normal for a man to be that oblivious to his physical appearance? She didn’t have enough experience to tell. She’d only had one date with a man who couldn’t even approach Richard for looks, and that had been a total disaster.

The man had been a coworker who, after ignoring her for the six months he’d been with the company, had suddenly asked her out. She’d spent the incomprehensible concert on modern music he’d taken her to trying to figure out why. She’d found out afterward when he’d mentioned, with elaborate casualness, that he had this design problem with his program and asked if she could help him solve it.

Strangely, finding out that he only wanted to use her hadn’t even hurt that much because the whole evening had had a surrealistic feel to it. As if he were some celluloid character from a bad movie who had been temporarily animated.

Richard glanced up and asked, “Why the pensive look?”

“Just thinking,” she muttered as she frantically searched her memory for something to say. Something that would capture his interest and convince him that, if she wasn’t exactly a brilliant conversationalist, she was, at least, a passable one. A sense of frustration filled her as her mind refused to come up with a single idea from all those articles on dating that she’d consumed for the purpose of fascinating Worthington, if she could ever get him to ask her out.

Finally, one bit of advice rose to the surface of her muddled thoughts. People, be they men or women, liked to talk about themselves, so ask a leading question.

“What made you go into plumbing?” she blurted out. It might not be scintillating conversation, but it was a start. Anything was better than a pregnant silence.

A flush of heat poured through her at the thought of pregnancy of any kind. Of being in Richard’s strong arms. Of being held close to his broad chest. Of…

“My father was in construction and he got me my first job when I was thirteen.” Richard told her the absolute truth. His father was in construction. He owned one of the biggest firms on the West Coast, and from the time Richard had turned thirteen, his father had demanded that he earn all his spending money by working on various construction projects in the Bay Area.

“Thirteen?! That was awfully young to be around all that heavy equipment.”

“Illegal, too.” Richard chuckled. “I used to have to disappear when the building inspectors showed up.”

“You could have been hurt.” The very idea appalled her. What kind of man would allow his son to do anything like that? Apparently, one who was no more caring than her own father had been.

“It wasn’t dangerous. I worked on one-story homes. Dad took good care of me.”