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Nothing like his old condo. Which had been cold and austere. Much like his old office. He’d turned over a new leaf in the last five years and I wondered why. A woman seemed most likely and I loathed the thought of that. Another woman leaving her mark all over him. The jealousy caught me off guard.
“You’ve moved up,” I said, and he took my loose coat, hanging it on a hook beside the front door. His coat was there, too, and a couple of sets of keys. The hooks were his touch.
He had a weird thing for them. It made no sense in the grander scheme of Clayton Rorick. It had been one of the things I’d fixated on five years ago. Great proof of his humanness.
You know where everything is, that way, he’d said.
Clayton even had art on the walls now. Photographs of hands and waves. Bright red apples in a tree. It was all really pretty.
“It’s lovely. Did you hire a…decorator?”
“No,” he said.
“Oh…you just did this yourself?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes. I saw your old place and your old office.”
“My old condo and office were decorated by a professional.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The designer told me that was what good taste looked like.” He shrugged. “I believed him.”
“So…” I turned around slowly. “This is all you?”
“You think it’s ugly?”
That question was a surprise, but I tried not to show it. I worked so hard not to show it that I didn’t say anything and the words sat square and awkward between us.
My opinion mattered? Was that what he was saying?
“It’s lovely,” I said and he smiled.
“I’m glad you like it.” He was so sincere. Earnest. Like my approval was something he’d been after. Flustered, I looked away from him.
On the counter in the kitchen were an open bottle of wine and a cutting board with cheese on it.
Not. Fair.
“Go ahead,” he said and pointed to a glass sitting by the stove. “I already started.”
“What are you making?” The air smelled amazing. Like juicy red meat and garlic and spices.
“I seem to remember you had a weakness for short ribs.”
“I did. I mean…I do.”
“Well, we’re having short ribs.”
He remembered and was making my favorite. This wasn’t the right start, or it wasn’t the start I’d been expecting. I wanted something a little colder. More businesslike. Something I could control.
I put the agreement on the counter and tried to ignore the cheese. Cheese was a slippery slope. I’d start there and end up at the bottom of that bottle of wine. “This is all the terms we agreed to. Plus details regarding my sister’s debt and the trusts. And the foundation. Once you have a look—”
He leafed through the four pages of details. “Do you have a pen?”
“You don’t want to have someone look at it?”
“Are you trying to fuck me over?”
“A little.”
His smile was dark and rich. “I can take it.”
I reached into my purse, where I always had at least four different pens, and handed him one. “I really think we should have a lawyer look at this.”
“We can,” he said and signed it. His big scrawling signature across the bottom of the last page.
I took my favorite red one for myself and signed, as well.
We stepped back, each of us, like we were a little stunned.
“That…was fast.”
“We’ve known each other for years. It’s not that fast.”
“I guess it’s not really binding,” I said, for some reason immediately offering the both of us an out.
He put an arm around my back, pulled me right into the forward curve of his body and kissed me. Softly. Sweetly. No tongue. Just lips and his breath against my cheek, and the memory of a thousand kisses like this flood me.
I meant to stop it. I meant to put my hand against his chest and push him away.
But it felt too good. He…felt too good.
That thought registered and I stepped away.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve waited a long time to kiss you again.”
“You kissed me the other day.”
“Like I said. A long time.”
A swell rose up in my chest and it felt like a giggle. A delighted chirp. A flirtatious…I didn’t know what, but I swallowed it. Because I didn’t want this feeling. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Flirt.”
His finger touched my cheek, traced the inside curve of my cheekbone. “You always were bad at taking a compliment.”
There was no point arguing the truth of that statement. Compliments, at one point, had literally given me hives.
He poured me a glass of wine and nudged the cheese board in my direction. “We’ve still got a few minutes before dinner is ready. And if you won’t let me kiss you—”
“Do you like dogs?” I blurted.
He laughed. “Yes.”
“Can you swim?”
“What’s going on here?”
“These are things I never found out about you. And if we’re going to do this, I’m going to be informed.”
