But it is. His eyes go wide behind the frames of his dark-rimmed glasses and he drops his briefcase to put his hands up in an I-surrender gesture when he sees the knife I’m brandishing at him.
“Am I going to get this welcome home every night?” he asks, eyeing the knife warily. “Because if I am, I take back my invitation.”
I lower the knife. “In my defense, I thought you were a burglar. You told me you weren’t going to be home until after ten.”
“I, uh, left early.” He looks everywhere but at me, and I’m starting to think he was less than truthful about his working hours. “Figured it was the least I could do if you were making the effort to cook for me.”
“Well, you’re timing is perfect. I was just about to dig in.”
“Great.” He reaches down to pet one of the cats, who’s come out of hiding and is winding around his legs. I think it’s Ajani. Or maybe it’s Mirri. Their coloring is similar, and I can’t read her name tag from here. “Give me a few minutes to take a quick shower, and I’ll join you.”
He disappears down the hall, Ajani—or Mirri—following at his heels, and I retreat to the kitchen. I’ve barely had time to plate two generous portions of lasagna when he returns, sans cat. He’s in grey sweats and an Avengers T-shirt that clings to his damp pecs, his feet bare and his hair, wet from the shower, curling around his ears.
I’ve seen guys in way less. Actors doing quick changes in the wings. Movie stars in their skivvies on the backlot. Hell, just last week I shot a commercial with a half-naked NHL hottie who I can’t name because I signed a non-disclosure agreement. But none of them made my pulse pound or my palms itch like they’re doing now.
Maybe it’s the gray sweats. They’re a thirst phenomenon, amiright? Just tight enough and light enough that you can see the outline of a guy’s package. And from what I can tell, what Connor’s sporting under there is pretty damned impressive.
He runs his hand through his slick hair, blissfully unaware that I’m checking him out, and inhales. “Smells great.”
Hopefully it’ll taste as good as it smells. His earlier-than-expected arrival means I didn’t have time to sample the goods before deciding whether to serve the damn thing or throw it in the trash and call for take-out.
He pulls out a high-backed stool at the marble-topped kitchen island and sits. I mentally cross my fingers and slide a plate across to him. Then I hold my breath as he cuts into the square of lasagna with the side of his fork and lifts it to his mouth.
“Not bad,” he says finally, after what seems like an eternity of thoughtful chewing. “Do I detect a hint of basil?”
“Yes. And oregano. Neither of which you had in your sad excuse for a spice rack, so I ordered some with the groceries.”
“Sorry. My cooking’s kind of basic. Salt and pepper are pretty much the only seasonings I use on the regular.”
He takes another bite, and I’m transfixed by the way his jaw muscles work. I’ve never found chewing a turn on before. But I swear, I’m getting hot and bothered by watching him eat. It’s like now that my brother’s best friend who I’ve known almost since I was in diapers has suddenly registered on my sexual radar, I’m finding every damn thing he does suggestive. Even something as mundane and normally borderline disgusting as chewing.
He swallows—yes, that’s sexy, too, dammit, the way his Adam’s apple slowly bobs in the strong column of his tanned throat—and licks his lips. And before you ask, that’s fucking sexy as hell, too. Maybe even the sexiest thing he’s done yet. It’s got me thinking about what I want to do with those lips. And what I want them to do to me. Damn, at this rate I’m going to need an ice bath before I even get to the main course.
“I take it back.” He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and moans, like he’s entered nirvana. “This is better than not bad. It’s fantastic. I can’t tell you the last time someone cooked for me.”
“What about what’s-her-name? Your fiancée?” I dole salad into two wooden bowls and pass one to him, along with a bottle of Italian dressing. “She didn’t cook?”
He spears a cherry tomato and pops it into his mouth. “Number one, her name is Giselle. Number two, she was my girlfriend, not my fiancée. And number three, hell, no. She was more comfortable in the classroom than the kitchen.”
I pour us each a glass of wine—an expensive looking merlot I found in the fancy floor-to-ceiling wine rack—sit opposite him, and dig into my lasagna. “The classroom?”
“She’s a professor. Teaches philosophy at Columbia. That’s where we met. She was working on her dissertation when I was finishing up my master’s.” He puts his fork down and sips his wine. “Why are we talking about my ex?”
“Isn’t that what roommates do? Dish about their love lives over dinner?”
“I don’t hear you dishing about yours.”
“We’ll get to me.” Not. “But right now we’re talking about you.”
I don’t know why I’m so interested in his extracurricular activities. Strike that. I do. We’re going to be living together. I’m entitled to know whether I should expect overnight guests. The last thing I want is to walk in on one of his, uh, conquests in the bathroom. It’s definitely that and not because I want to know if he’s seeing anyone so I can check out the competition.
He shrugs and takes another sip of his wine. “There’s not much to talk about.”
“What do you mean?” He’s a total catch. Smart. Rich. Hotter than the ever-loving sun. He must have women falling all over themselves to get with him.
He shrugs and sips again. “I just got out of a long-term relationship. The last thing I’m looking for is to get involved with someone else.”
“Who said anything about getting involved?” I ask through a mouthful of pasta. It’s like I’m trying my hardest to be unappealing. But dammit, I’m hungry. My stomach is reminding me that I was too busy unpacking to eat anything all day. “I’m talking about some between the sheets action. A little bow-chika-wow-wow. S-E-X.”
