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Richie chuckles, his face turning red. “Sorry. I ought to know by now to stop underestimating you and …” His eyes drop to my chest. “… and what you know.”
He finally settles on crossing his legs, likely to hide any more evidence of his boner. The material of his slacks pulls tight on his legs, showing how shapely and toned they are. Somehow, that causes my eyes to drag up his body again, observing anew that he’s in really good shape. Not to mention the evidence given by his well-groomed beard that he is a man who knows how to look good.
I wonder if he’s as trimmed everywhere else.
“You were going to ask me something. Before we relocated here to the couch.” I tilt my head, my eyes on him. “What was it you were going to ask?”
“Oh … Was I?” He appears to have changed his mind about asking me the question. “I don’t recall. Perhaps I was just going to ask if you were happy. Or feeling like something was missing from your life. Or …” He swallows. “Or why you said ‘I’ll be there’, dropped everything, and came to meet a perfect stranger at the White Clover Hotel.”
A soft chime noise rings through the room.
“On-time,” announces Richie, excusing himself from the couch—and the question—to get the door.
5
Well that was one damned good grilled cheese.
Also, the lava cake was the exact equivalent of what I presume a slice of Heaven itself to taste like.
Not to mention the truffle fries, which I’d never before tasted, and holy shit, I’ve been missing out.
Over an hour later, plates of crumbs and a few leftover fries sit on the glass coffee table, which has been gracefully shoved aside in favor of the pair of us lounging on the soft, fluffy, white clover-shaped rug in front of the couch, as we continue listening to music (it’s now playing a lesser-known Mozart piece, though I can’t say what) and making small talk about anything at all.
We also may have drank two bottles of wine between us. They were tasty.
And expensive.
I learn he’s an only-child, has no children of his own, and never married. His father died when he was twenty, and his mother lives in Greece with a man she met on a Mediterranean cruise, so Rich is essentially a man with no attachments anywhere, except where his heart takes him. That happens to be a penthouse suite right now, with me.
I indulge more details about my day-to-day life, as well as the behind-the-scenes experiences of a nightclub dancer just trying to get by. I share the anecdote of a recent stalker situation I had, who got as far as to dig through my backpack for some souvenir underwear before he was chased off.
“That is one very devoted fan. What are you wearing right now?” he asks. “I mean underwear.”
I smirk. “Nice segue. And nope, I’m not gonna tell you.”
He chuckles. He loves when I tease him. “Oh, fine. Be that way. I was really more curious than anything. Uh-oh.” He eyes my shirt with concern. “Chocolate.”
“Hmm?” I peer down. Indeed, there’s a spot of chocolate right in the middle of the sea of bright white fabric that is my shirt. “Shit. I got lava on it.”
“Tasty lava. It’ll come out, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure it will,” I agree lightly. “Oh well. I’ll have to … turn it in to my stews on the laundry deck of my ship so they can clean it for me. So much for this.” I start unbuttoning my shirt.
Richie, despite lounging contentedly on the rug propped up by a single elbow, stiffens up. “Um … Do you need me to … to get you a new …?”
“Nah, don’t worry about it.” I work my arms out of the holes where sleeves ought to be, then lift off the ground to pitch the soiled shirt at the couch. “There we go. All better now.”
Richie’s eyes drop to my bare chest.
There goes his heart rate again.
“I know, I know …” I groan. “You prefer me with the hot captain’s shirt on, in full uniform. I get it.” I adjust my cap, which is still on. “But a real, dignified captain can’t wear a dirty shirt, can he?”
“I … I guess …” Richie lets out a laugh despite himself. “I guess not. You have quite a lot of tattoos, I noticed. Do they have a special meaning?”
“Yes. You never told me why, by the way.”
He takes a second to peel his eyes off my chest. “Why what?”
“Why you call yourself Captain.”
“Oh. That.” After another glance at my chest, he says, “Well, I suppose it’s rather obvious. I have always wanted to own a luxury yacht. I want to go where I please, taste the salt in the air, and feel the ocean’s breeze run its fingers through my hair.”
