She expected him to press for details, was already weighing exactly how much she’d say.

But he didn’t ask. Instead, he shifted, and the wooden table creaked beneath his weight. “I hear you.” He paused. “There’s a better-than-even chance that my tomorrow’s going to suck, too.”

Despite herself, he had her curious. She turned to take in his profile. “Yeah?”

He set aside his own cardboard cup. “Yeah.”

“Family?” she probed, promising herself, whatever it was, she’d keep the conversation to generalities.

He shook his head.

“Girlfriend?” she dared, swallowing a sudden lump.

He turned to paste her with a scowl. “While I’m hitting on you? Thanks tons, Doll-Face.”

She tried not to feel quite so relieved. “Gambling, drinking, illness?”

“Business,” he answered, his tone smoothing out. “There’s a problem with my mysterious, yet perfectly legitimate, business interests. But I take it your problem is family?”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was your first guess for me. That makes it top of your mind.”

She took in his expression, seeing warmth and compassion and, yes, a little bit of lust. But she was okay with that. It had taken her two hours to dress up for the reception tonight. It was nice to know somebody appreciated her efforts.

Her first instinct was to evade his question. But for some reason, she wanted to be honest with him. “My family needs me to do one thing,” she told him. “But I want to do something else entirely.”

He canted his head, and he suddenly seemed closer, his chest looked broader, his voice going lower. “Age-old dilemma,” he rumbled.

She picked up his woodsy musk scent, getting lost in his warm, brown eyes, and momentarily lost brain function. She braced her hand on the tabletop, gripping with her fingertips. “I guess.”

“So what are you going to do?”