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Everyone’s at the table. Noel, Taron, and Leon are laughing and talking, silver clanks against plates, and the room smells like zesty red sauce and buttery bread. Sawyer sits across from me, and my insides flash when our eyes meet.
“Melinda helped me make the sauce this time.” Ma passes the bowl of marinara. “She zested the lemon.”
“Is that so?” Sawyer’s deep voice heats my stomach, and I reach for my glass of wine.
“It’s delicious!” Noel cries. “You have to give me this recipe.”
“We worked on her technique.” Ma gives me a wink, and I focus on the space in front of me.
Plates are empty, wine passed around. They go on talking about school parties and Christmas and Noel’s birthday coming up. We’re a week away from the holiday, and Noel brings the tiramisu from the kitchen. I stand and start collecting the dishes, and Sawyer does the same.
“You don’t have to,” I quietly plead.
“I
want to,” he gently argues.
We’re alone in the kitchen, and I stand back as he scrapes the plates he’s holding and loads them in the dishwasher. I put the ones I’m holding on the counter while I wait, dying inside because he still so quiet.
I finally can’t take it anymore. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
He puts the last dish in the machine then closes the door and turns to face me. His eyes level on mine, hot and hungry. Heat flashes to my core. I don’t have time to think before his arm goes around my waist and he pulls me to him, cupping my face with his hand and covering my mouth with his.
My lips are shoved apart, and his tongue curls against mine. I exhale a soft moan as my panties burst into flames, gripping his shoulders, wanting to pull him closer. I want to tell him yes, I’m ready, take me… But he releases me.
He holds my face in his hand, his thumb under my chin, looking deep into my eyes. We’re both breathing fast. “I’ll always love you, too.”
With that, he releases me, leaving me to collapse against the cabinet.
Standing in my office, I try to practice deep breathing as I prepare for my meeting with him. It’s Friday, and we’re scheduled to talk at one, to review my designs and slogans for his campaign, to do our business.
Business.
Sliding my eyes over my desk, I imagine him lifting me onto the surface, lying back as he takes me…
Stop.
I move around, straightening things, killing time for another twenty minutes as I wait.
In my fluster, I forgot my iPad at my apartment, but with the help of the G-drive, I’ve pulled up the two sketches on my desktop. My favorite is an anchor with a garland of peaches draped down the neck, but for flexibility I’ve also got a sketch of an anchor sprouting into a peach tree. As for slogans, I’ve written Stability for peace of mind and Grounded in purity, stability, and vitality. I kind of don’t like either one, so I tossed in, Stability and purity since 1968.
It’s all very professional. Exactly what I would show any client… And my body is hot and vibrating at the thought of seeing him again. I can’t stop reliving his kiss last night, hot lips bruising mine, his possessive grasp around my waist, his hand on my cheek, his thumb bracing my chin.
I tossed and turned in my bed in my apartment for an hour last night wondering how desperate it would be if I sneaked through his window once more… just for old time’s sake.
Instead I rubbed one out and forced myself to stay put.
Now I’m standing here, waiting, and I have no idea what I’m going to do when our eyes meet. I think it would be appropriate for me to tell him I’d like to see him again once we’ve concluded our meeting. It’s not mixing business with pleasure if I ask him on a date this evening… then I can jump his bones when he picks me up at my apartment!
The thought makes me grin, and I rub my hands up and down my crossed arms.
It was chilly when I arrived, so I cranked up the heater for the first time since I moved in. My key got stuck in the door, and this time I couldn’t get it out. Whispering a swear, I shot a text to Jeff asking him to send a locksmith today.
Every door in this place sticks, and I’ve got to be able to use my front entrance.
Needless to say, I don’t feel very professional as I wait, crappy doors, smelly furnace, and horny as hell. I pace, looking through the Pantone color book. I sit in the waiting area and look toward my office space, thinking like a client and trying to decide if I should rearrange the furniture again.
My stomach is in knots, and I haven’t eaten since dinner last night—which turned out really well, by the way. This girl can cook! With a little help from her mother.
