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I clear my throat and hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “Your house is incredible. And I love the lion out there. Please tell me you named him Simba?”
“I haven’t named it anything.”
I press my hand to my heart. “How will he know you love him?”
Looking annoyed, Derek opens the door further. “Just come inside, Nora.”
He turns around for me to follow and thanks to his nearly see-through sweaty shirt, it looks like he’s got some tattoos on his back as well. I’m itching to ask if there’s any meaning behind each of them, but I’m also trying to stay as mentally detached from the man walking in front of me as possible. I can’t let myself wonder what this Derek is like. If he still hates popcorn. What his favorite show is these days? Does he still talk in his sleep?
“Everyone calls me Mac now, you know?”
“I noticed.”
“But you’re not going to?” It still feels so strange to be in the same room as him. A quiet energy hums under my skin. Like it’s trying to resuscitate itself.
“It’s tempting…” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Since I remember how much you hate that nickname. But no, I don’t think I will.”
My steps falter a beat from my shock—thankfully, he doesn’t notice. And also doesn’t ask me any questions about why I’d go by that name (probably because that would be breaking rule number two). So why isn’t he jumping at the opportunity to call me by a name I dislike? Especially since he seems to hate me so much.
I follow Derek’s sexy back all the way through his enormous lofty foyer (omg his staircase has a glass railing, making it look like it floats to the top floor), through a gorgeous living room decorated in a Scandinavian design, which opens into a breathtaking kitchen that overlooks his backyard. And oh my gosh, don’t even get me started on how incredible a backyard it is! Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I see a mix of a courtyard and pool complete with white canopied cabana. Behind all of that is his completely glass-encased home gym.
“Wow,” I say, doing a half spin to take it all in. “This is…”
“A kitchen.”
I level a flat look at him. “Oh please—it’s an ode to paradise and how dare you call it anything else.”
“Well, it’s lucky you feel that way because this is where you’ll be for the next hour or so.” He plucks a kitchen towel off the island and rubs it over the back of his sweaty neck and hair. The tight muscles in his arms flex under his tattoos and I tear my gaze away as quickly as possible.
I toss a hesitant glance around the kitchen island and find ingredients littering the counter. His Important Work is feeling less important by the second. “What exactly am I doing here, boss?”
“Don’t call meboss.”
“Okay, Derek-bo-berek-fe-fi-fo—”
He groans, cutting me off while running his hands over his face. He’s already exasperated with me, and I’ve only been here five minutes. It’s these small comforts in life that bring me joy. “Just don’t call me anything,” he says impatiently. “You’re here to make fettuccine Alfredo for my date. That’s all.”
I laugh once. “I’m sorry, I think all those extravagant muscles of yours are pulling too much energy from your brain, because it sounds like you just told me I’m going to be your personal chef, and surely that’s a mistake?”
Derek’s blue eyes narrow on me and I could swear a hint of a smile sneaks into the corner of his mouth. “No mistake. I need you to make dinner. I have a date coming over later and my chef is indisposed.”
Indisposedis what someone says about a person they’ve killed and stuffed in the basement. Did Derek kill his cook so that he could torture me in a culinary fashion?
I put one hand on my hip, trying to appear as authoritative aspossible. “I truly dislike bursting your bubble, but I don’t think fettuccine Alfredo is in my job description.”
His eyes zero in on me, intense enough to make me waver on my feet. He takes one step closer. “Isn’t it, though? My last agent made sure I knew he was always at my service whenever I needed him. And I distinctly remember you saying you have your client’s best interests at heart.”
He’s giving Darth Vader right now—wholly committed to the Dark Side.
And okay, so technically it’s true that we agents are supposed to fulfill our clients’ appropriate needs, but they’re never actually so rude to ask us to do this kind of work. Well, except for that time Nicole played Elsa. But again, she offered to do so because she liked her client and wanted to help. I don’t particularly care for Derek these days, nor do I relish the idea of helping him get lucky on his date tonight. (Forget I added the last part.)
I inch into his space. “You’re abusing your power.”
He inches into mine. “Am I? You’re welcome to quit at any point if the work is too difficult for you. The contract can be dissolved in no time.” His smirk is antagonizing. I hate this Derek. He looks different, he sounds different, he acts different. I’m feeling lucky I didn’t attach myself to him in a more permanent way back then, because clearly professional football has jammed a splintered stick right up his ass.
However, I’m not in the business of giving up. I’m the CEO of taking a lemon and squashing it between my bare hands and then adding a boatload of sugar to the juice because I don’t like tart lemonade.You’re going to have to try harder than fettuccine Alfredo to scare me off, bucko.
I angle my chin higher—so close to him I can smell his sweat and notice the new fine lines beside his eyes—and then…I lower mygaze until I’m staring right up into his nostrils. Nicole wears heels to get on men’s eye level as an intimidation tactic. This, however, is my preferred strategy. “I’m happy to help. Where’s the recipe?”
