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“Is this a restaurant too?” she asks, and I laugh, but I guess she’s right.
“It looks like it today,” I tell her. “But it’s not usually so exciting, I assure you.”
Carol dresses up two large plates with salad and I ask her how she likes her meat.
“Any way Lucian gives it to me,” she smiles adoringly, making me growl with satisfaction.
I take that to mean medium-rare. The way I like it.
Once she dives in and has a bite, I know we have more than just each other in common.
A girl who loves a pink steak and eats the whole thing is a winner in my books.
“I forgot to ask,” I tell her between mouthfuls. “Some folks don’t go for-”
But she’s shaking her head, grinning as juice runs down her chin.
She’s a meat girl.
“So, tell me all about Carol,” I ask her, figuring now’s a good a time as any. There’s nothing between us physically and I really do want to get to know her better.
She shrugs, biting some lettuce and beets. “Not much to tell. I never had a rich relative, but I ended up alone too,” she says absently, putting down her fork.
“I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s alright,” she smiles. “I just don’t talk about it much… like I said, nothing to tell.”
But I figure there’s a lot she has to tell, maybe just not right now.
“It’s okay, but tell me something about yourself,” I protest.
She laughs out loud, telling me she got a scholarship to a college, journalism. And that she’s worked shitty jobs ever since trying to make ends meet.
I frown but raise my brow once I see her half-smiling.
“No hobbies, pets?” I offer.
“Nope,” she says, a matter of fact, licking the back of her fork now.
Hinting at her latest hobby, which makes me feel a stirring in my robe.
“Room for ice cream?” I ask, and her breath of inhalation as she scans her nearly empty plate is a worry.
“Any flavor you want,” I add, and she relaxes.
“Chocolate chip?” she asks, making a face with her tongue out.
“It’s front of the shelf,” I tell her, fetching a fresh tub and opening it, putting the whole thing between us.
“You don’t look like an ice cream kind of guy,” she muses. “I mean… look at you.”
I wished I had a story about ‘fast metabolism’ or ‘good genes’. Truth is I have to work my ass off and watch what I eat to stay in shape, but I’m glad she noticed.
“Would it matter?” I ask, suddenly concerned she might not like me so much if I had a spare tire and maybe lost my hair.
“Maybe not,” she remarks with a raised brow, licking her spoon like she just did her fork, sending my dick into overdrive again already.
“And what about me?” she adds. “I think what I mean is a guy who looks like you going for a girl like me.”
I don’t get it.
“What do you mean,” I ask, making sure I don’t have too much of the white death, I love this stuff too much.
“You could have any girl you want, Lucian. Why me?” she says again, and I hear a little bit of that doubt creeping back in. The kind I know from experience.
The voice inside her head that tells her she’s no good.
We all have one, no matter how much money or what we look like.
“Because you’re perfect,” I tell her, leaving it at that.
I’m not gonna play if she only wants to put herself down.
“In time. Carol, you’ll see that. I’ll show you,” I promise. “As long as you don’t make me eat too much of this, I have to stop,” I exclaim, laughing over the ice cream.
“But it’s Christmas,” she protests, pouting and offering me her spoon, which I greedily accept.
“Then you’ve found my only weakness,” I admit.
That and the look in her eye.
“Would you show me around some more?” she asks innocently, her eyes shining.
How could I say no?
It’s her house now too after all.Chapter SeventeenCarolFeeling stuffed for the third time in one day at Lucian’s house, and only twice by food, I’m glad when he offers to give me a tour.
I love old houses.
Everybody says that, but I really mean it. I’ve always wanted to live in a really old place, with real history.
Lucian’s has a perfect blend of the very old and new, perfectly mixed.
“Did you decorate it yourself?” I ask, and chuckle at his frown.
“Are you kidding? No, I didn’t. Experts did that, but I did have a final say in the choice of colors and fabrics,” he adds proudly with a grin.
“Old places have their own style, color, and themes,” he adds. “I didn’t know that at first, and once Grandpa passed and everything came to me I was determined to make it fresh but also wanted to keep the original spirit of the place,” he says, almost mournfully.
