I stare at her in shock. “Really?”
“Yes. The brothers love material comfort. That includes nice clothes that look and feel amazing. Besides, he won’t mind. You’re his fiancée and it’s just a shirt for a few hours. He has so many shirts already. Besides, don’t you know men love women in their shirts?” Fiona leans forward, her eyes sparkling with eagerness.
Part of me says I shouldn’t. But maybe I’m more drunk than I thought, because part of me thinks it’d be a great idea to borrow a shirt from Josh, especially if he’ll end up loving it.
“I’ll send you Akiko’s recipe for yakisoba—it’s Japanese fried noodles. Make that for Josh and he won’t complain about anything,” Lareina says, apparently mistaking my hesitation for rejection.
“I’ve never made Japanese food before.” My voice is a bit too squeaky, but really, Japanese cuisine might be beyond me.
“It’s super easy. You just need some noodles, pork, cabbage, scallion, onions and the sauce.”
“You forgot carrots and bean sprouts,” Fiona points out, then turns to me. “It’s Bryce’s favorite, too.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Lareina whips out her phone. “Let me place a quick grocery order for you. They’ll deliver in an hour.And give me your number so I can forward you the recipe. It’s simple, but really delicious. Ares can’t get enough, either. If you make a big batch, Josh’ll love you forever.”
Chapter Twenty
Josh
Gina Rad’s whining voice still echoes in my head, and a muscle under my right eye twitches like I’m having some kind of drug reaction.Who leaves, saying she understands, and then comes back three hours later to revisit the same topic?
God, I don’t bill her enough. I should charge her ten thousand dollars an hour for the migraine she’s given me. I head home half an hour earlier than usual because I need the break—and I want to see…
Klein. In my home.
I wait for my gut to react to the idea. Most of the time when I think of people other than my family in my place, I feel like a dog, fur bristling and snarling as it defends its territory. After all, my home is my fortress, where I can feel secure.
But with Klein, it’s more like I just found the last piece to complete a puzzle I’ve been working on all my life.
At the next intersection is a flower shop. I’ve seen it many times before, but never had a reason to stop by. I start to drive past, then notice a stunning bouquet of pink peonies. Each blossom is huge—and the shade is eye-catching, like Klein’s soft, vulnerable lips when I laid my finger on them earlier.
I shift in my seat to ease the tightness, then pull over to the curb. As I hand over my credit card to the florist, I realize I’ve never bought flowers for any of my exes. The effort didn’t seem necessary, and they never asked. Wining and dining and beingseen were enough. But imagining how Klein might react to the flowers sends a spark of excitement through me.
By the time I kill the engine in the garage, my chest is bursting with anticipation. She’ll blush. Probably smile, too. Will she place a kiss on my cheek? But such an affectionate gesture might be too much for her to try.
I step inside the house, holding the peonies. Instantly, I’m hit with the mouth-watering aroma of yakisoba, which is one of my absolute favorites. It’s such a homey meal with great flavor. But it can’t be Akiko stopping by. She rarely does. And even if she did, she wouldn’t touch anything in my kitchen, respecting my boundaries.
I move silently toward the kitchen, then come to an abrupt halt. Music plays from the phone on the counter, plugged to a charger. Axelrod’s lead singer croons about breaking free, and Klein is swaying to the tune and singing under her breath. The other end of the wooden spatula in her hand glistens with a thick, glazy sauce. She’s in one of my dress shirts, her shapely legs sexy below the hem, her bare feet with cute pink toenails shifting as she adds noodles to thin slices of pork belly, onions, cabbage, julienned carrots and beat sprouts in a sauté pan. It’s a five-ply pan from the set hand-made in France, which I’ve never used. Aunt Jeremiah said it was smart to hang them without ever cooking with them because that would ruin the sparkly finish and might even leave scratches on the surface.
But seeing Klein in the kitchen, looking so comfortable and using my things, is beyond gratifying. She just…belongs here. And my favorite silk shirt on her? My head says I should be annoyed. Nobody is allowed to put on my things. If any of my exes had done the same, I would’ve kicked them out. But my heart is… Well, if it were a cat, it’d purr and stretch, its eyes narrowed into satisfied slits.
The shirt marks Klein as my woman—mine. It’s more intimate than the ring. The rock shows the world at large that she’s taken. But the shirt shows who she belongs to in private—me.
She chopsticks up a couple of noodles for a taste. Her lips purse, making them look soft and kissable. “Perfect.” She kills the flame and checks the time. “Awesome. Still got a few minutes,” she says to herself.
She puts little jars of sauces into the pantry, then jumps. “Oh!” She places a hand over her chest. “You’re home early.” She actually giggles, and I blink at the sound. It’s unusual for her, but lovely.
Her eyes are slightly glazed.Is she tipsy?Lareina likely got some quality bubbly for the girls’ outing.
“Gina Rad finally left.” Klein still has a palm over her chest, pressing my shirt over her breasts. I don’t think she notices the silk is fairly thin, and I can make out the shape and color of her areolae and nipples. I’m never washing that shirt.
She winces in sympathy. “Was it as awful as you thought?”
No, your breasts are prettier than I thought.The response pops into my mind, but that isn’t the topic of conversation. It takes a moment before my brain remembers we were talking about Gina. “Oh. Yeah, um…worse.”
Klein’s face scrunches.
“But better now that I’m home with you.” I look into her eyes. Surprise and delight flicker in the violet depths, a flush creeping into her cheeks. She’s such an open book. How could anybody hurt a woman this sweet and vulnerable?
