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He laughs. “Not me, that’s for damn sure.”
His eyes stay on mine as we sip the wine.
“Wow,” I say, smacking my lips. “That’s good.”
“Better than an Old Fashioned?”
I grin. “Yeah. You were right. I’m not typically a red person, but this is delicious.”
“Are you just saying that because it’s the first alcohol you’ve had in two months?”
My turn to laugh. God I like it when he gets flirty.
“Probably. Either way, it’s still delicious.”
“Because you can only have a little bit of it, I wanted to pour the best. I’m picky when it comes to blends, but this Pinot Noir one is exceptional. Made by a small winemaker in Napa Valley.”
The lump in my throat returns. Wrong that I’m insanely touched he opened a really good bottle of wine just for me? Even though I can only have half an ounce of the stuff?
“Of course you’re a wine snob,” I tease. Because if I don’t make a stab at some humor I’m worried I’ll start to tear up.
“It’s the Satanist in me. Even Lucifer appreciates good grapes. Here.” He pulls out a stool at the island. “Sit. Dinner is almost ready. Can I get you some water? Topo Chico? I grabbed some the other day. You got me addicted to the stuff.”
I sit, the soft parts of my chest swelling.
“That would be great, thanks.”
He sets a bottle in front of me, then gets to work at the range. Greyson is usually so tightly wound. But here, in his kitchen, he’s…relaxed, almost. Doesn’t hurry, moving from the fridge to a drawer to a bowl on the counter with measured, easy movements. Whisking oil into the bowl, he takes his time, telling me how his mom taught him to make salad dressing from scratch as he whisks and whisks.
The muscles in his forearm popping in the most erotic way imaginable.
Watching him is hypnotizing. And fun. Who knew Greyson Montgomery was capable of enjoying himself? His obvious ease and excitement is infectious. I could sit here and watch him forever. I never in a million years would’ve guessed he’d be so good at making me feel comfortable and at home. Least of all in the vast expanse of his bachelor pad.
But that’s exactly how I feel. At home. The savory-starch scent of a homemade meal in the oven warming the kitchen. Good wine in hand. Cozy clothes. The delicious enigma of a man I have all evening to contemplate and ogle.
Rain outside. Warm inside.
Again. Not where I expected to end up. Not in a million years.
But if I’m being honest? I’m not sure there’s anywhere else I’d rather be right now.
Which scares me.
And also makes me feel happier than I have in a long, long time.Chapter FourteenJuliaGreyson lifts an enormous pot out of the oven and sets it on the range. The delicious smell of home-cooked goodness intensifies.
I can’t help but check out his butt in those tight joggers.
I really like him in fitted pants.
“Let me help,” I say, standing.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “I got this—sit. Do you prefer breast, thigh, or drumstick?”
“Breast, please.”
“Gotta ask, is it too early for boob innuendos?”
I grin. “Never.”
“Good. Because I have a real appreciation for the breasts. So tender.”
“Satisfying.”
“Big. A nice handful.”
I hold up my cupped hand, pretending to weigh one. “Bet yours are gorgeous.”
“Not as gorgeous as yours.”
Wrong that I’m smiling and blushing and preening at his terrible tit joke?
“You noticed.”
“I’ve stroked many things of yours,” he shoots my line back at me, grinning. “But I’m sorry to say your ego ain’t gonna be one of ’em, sweetheart.”
I bite my lip.
My God, this guy is Christian Grey-ing me. The meal, the muscles, the dirty mouth.
I like it when he calls me sweetheart.
The memory hits me out of nowhere. Greyson yanking down the neck of my dress. Leaning in and taking my nipple in his mouth, sucking it to a hard, hot point through the transparent fabric of my bra.
Arousal spikes through my center.
I never let him kiss my mouth. Felt too intimate for the kind of sex we had. But he sure as hell kissed me everywhere else. The heat of his mouth against my skin—
Makes me shiver, even now.
“You okay?” Greyson’s brow is furrowed as he sets a plate in front of me. “Is it too cold in here?”
The food smells so good.
He looks so damn good.
I am suddenly so, so turned on. By his sweats and his sweetness.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”
On fire, but fine.
He sits on the stool beside me, and we dig in.
Immediately flavor explodes in my mouth. The buttery-ness of the rice against the smoky-sweet flavor of the sausage is insane. Chicken is perfectly done, salty and juicy. Veggies are melt-in-your mouth amazing. Even the salad, simple baby greens lightly dressed in Greyson’s white balsamic vinaigrette, is restaurant quality.
