She cut her gaze to the menu, ignoring his keen stare. “I order from a place near my apartment at least once a week,” she said, cursing herself for revealing even one small personal detail. There was just something so darn intimate about the quiet setting, about what felt more like a date than a business meeting, that she welcomed the waiter’s interruption to take their orders. Why could she not stop thinking about being in the basement the night before—just she and Sam—both of them wet, her nearly naked, and then wearing his coat? But she knew. It wasn’t just the attraction between them that had gotten to her. It was the way he’d been protective, the way he’d helped her. He made her want to hand him just a little control, and that frightened her. She’d dared to do that a few times in her life and each time had led her to the wrong place.
They placed their orders, the silent awareness springing back into place the instant they were alone again.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, leaning in closer, as if they weren’t the only ones in the entire back room of the restaurant. As if he knew what she’d just been thinking, and from everything she’d observed about Sam, he probably did.
“And that would be what?” The question croaked from her dry throat.
“With all the Tabitha chaos, I forgot to grab the property listings from my bag in my hotel room.”
His words conjured naughty, inexcusable images in her mind of what might happen if they ended up in his room. And judging from his darkening expression, Sam was thinking the same thing.
Feeling warm all over and desperate to splash some ice on both herself and the situation, Meagan reached for her only defense, her only hope of resisting Sam—words.
Meagan shifted in her seat. “That defeats the purpose of dinner, don’t you think?”
“I guess that depends on whose perspective we’re using,” he said, his blue gaze holding hers.
Meagan’s heart skipped a beat.
Sam continued, “In fact—”
The sentenced dissolved on his lips as the waiter set their plate of egg rolls in the center of the table. Sam exchanged a few comments with the man, seemingly in no hurry to finish what he’d been saying to her. Meagan, whose heart was darn near exploding with anticipation, waited anxiously for the rest of whatever he might have said. Men didn’t rattle her this way, or rather, no man but Sam rattled her this way, or any way for that matter.
The waiter disappeared and Sam took a bite of his egg roll. Meagan wanted to reach across the table and strangle him for being so casual. Instead, she reached for her soda and took a long sip, forcing herself to think through the haze of arousal Sam had created in her, blaming it on pure exhaustion and no rest. She had to be reading into his words, into the energy swelling between them, or he wouldn’t be so nonchalant. He’d moved on from whatever she’d thought he might say, as if it hadn’t been worth saying in the first place.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, snapping up a second egg roll.
“You plan on leaving me anything to eat?” She scooted the container of hot mustard in front of her, along with a bottle of soy sauce, and mixed them on a plate.
“We can always ask for more, and since I missed lunch, we might have to.”
The prickly exterior she’d erected to protect herself slid away. He’d been there last night with her, then worked all day, and without a complaint or at least one she’d heard. He had to be as tired as she was. She put the sauce between them and set an egg roll on her plate. “You can have the last one. I had lunch, and I plan to do my meal plenty of justice when it arrives.”
He gave her an appreciative murmur and dipped his egg roll into the sauce. “About the properties. One of our best bets is a beachfront house that has everything we need—privacy, size, functionality—at least on paper, that is. Oh, and not only does it have a mother-in-law house, the owner has a second house a half mile up the beach that just became available. You could use that for the crew and general whatever. Both properties would put us slightly over budget, but they might be worth fighting for.”
“Wow,” Meagan said. “It sounds too good to be true.”
“Well, there’s a catch.”
“Of course,” she said. “There’s always a catch.” She motioned with her hand. “Let me have the dirt.”
“The place has been vacant for months, but now that we’re considering it, there’s another interested party.”
“Are you sure the owner or Realtor isn’t trying to manipulate us?”
“I talked with the other party,” he said. “He’s real and he’s eager. He’s even telling the owner the show will destroy the property, referring to the wildness on other reality shows.”
“Surely the owner knows the show will push up his long-term property values?”
“He knows, but he isn’t willing to risk losing the rental income from the other party while waiting for us. He wants a fast answer. As in tomorrow.”
“Sam, that’s insane. We can’t possibly decide that fast.”
The waiter filled their water glasses. “Look. I’m not pressuring you here. I haven’t even seen the place. On the other hand, this property has miles of open beach. You get plenty of room to film, and my team will know if anyone so much as thinks about approaching. And believe me, that’ll be important.” He unrolled his silverware from a napkin. “This damn curse is going to be a problem. We’ve already had several paranormal groups contact us, not to mention the media snooping around, looking for rumors and gossip.”
“‘Damn curse’ is right,” she murmured, sliding her napkin to her lap and picking up her egg roll only to set it back down. “We better be prepared. Once the footage I’m shooting airs, we’re likely to have a three-ring circus on our hands. I hate that the studio is pressing this angle.”
His brows dipped. “I thought you’d be glad for the ratings boost.”
“Not like this,” she said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. At first, I was just relieved to find out we didn’t get cancelled. As the day has gone on, though, I’m not so sure. I worry we’re headed away from the premise of the show and into trouble.”
“Meaning what?”
“My father’s a preacher in a small Texas town—and I’m talking small town like in the movie Footloose.”
“So you’re worried that the show may become offensive?”
“Yes and no. I want to give dance credibility and I think having real talent evolve will give it longevity, while short-term thrills and chills only give a facade of success that ultimately fizzles. The curse falls into that category in my opinion. If we build ratings on the pretense of a curse, what do we follow that with? Will dancing and the personal journeys of the dancers, who we want the audience to passionately love or hate, be enough?” She shook her head. “This curse really is a nightmare I wish I could make go away.”