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“Do all hockey players have such manly cars? Is it part of your image?” I ask.
“Are you busting my chops?”
We head toward the parking garage elevator. “Maybe.”
“Do all San Francisco heiresses drive beat up old Hondas in order to hide their wealth?” I ask.
She straightens her head up and pulls her shoulders back. “I’ll have you know, Hondas are great cars. Further, if you drive an old car, you don’t have to worry about anyone breaking into it. And I don’t hide my wealth, I just don’t flaunt it. That’s tacky.”
“Are you embarrassed of it? Look, this is not a put-down, but you live in hoodies and sneakers. A necklace is your only piece of jewelry, and your Converse look like the sole’s about to peel off.”
He doesn’t like the way I dress? Tough fucking shit.
“Sorry I don’t dress like one of your hoochie mama groupies. That’s not my thing. Never has been, never will be.”
I burst through his front door using my own key, not holding it open for him.
“Hey,” he calls after me.
I head straight for the kitchen. I’m starving, and when I realize Betty didn’t leave us anything, disappointment washes over me. I start picking through the cabinets to look for something to cook.
“What are you doing?” Rake asks, already having removed his suit jacket, now in the process of loosening his tie.
“I thought there might be something to cook.”
He places a hand over mine and gently closes the kitchen cabinet I’m picking through. “It’s Betty’s day off. I usually order take-out if I don’t go out with the guys.” He kicks off his shoes and pulls his shirt out of his waistband.
I move on to the fridge to force myself to look away because I know I’ll end up staring, which is the last thing I want to do.
It will make him think I find him attractive. Which I do.
And he does not need to know that.
“I’m not insulting the way you dress. I actually think… you look adorable. I find it interesting you dress the way you do when you could have any kind of clothing in the world you want. I’ve never… known someone like you.”
I close the fridge and look at him. “I… am not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
Oh God.
Now he’s unbuttoning his shirt, starting with his cuffs, then working his way down from his neck to the bottom of his shirt. He strips it off and lays it over the counter stool already holding his jacket and tie, and now I’m looking at him standing there in his dress pants and nothing else.
And what a sight he is. On the lean side, which I’ve learned is typical for hockey players, but with beautifully defined pecs and biceps, and an eight-pack tummy like I’ve never seen.
Rake sets his hands on the back of the stool. “I’m not insulting you, Petal. I’d never do that.”
Um. Okay.
I clear my throat and grab my phone. “What are the best takeout places in this neighborhood?”
“What do you feel like having?”
I don’t tell him I’ve pretty much lost my appetite for food and that I’d really prefer to just lick him from top to bottom.
“How about Indian?” I say before my true intentions leak out.
“I’ll order it from Door Dash. What do you like?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I’ll let you choose. I like pretty much everything. Hey, do you mind if I snag a glass of wine?”
