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“Son of a bitch.”
She shrugged. “You already said there would be no sex and I’ve said the same. We’re just two people working, right?” She arched a brow and picked up her wine glass again before wandering off into his living room.
He stared up at the ceiling. Big mistake to invite her over.
Huge.
After he checked the chicken he loaded the pan into the oven to finish cooking. He set the timer on his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. Too keyed up to entertain without a little liquid encouragement, he opened his own bottle of wine and brought both bottles to the living room. She wasn’t there.
The rolling hiss of a needle on vinyl lured him into his music room. She was sitting cross legged with her dress pooling around her on his purple herringbone rug. The sad strains of Gary Allan’s latest soared out of his hidden speakers. The rich layer of organ keys and sandpaper voice melded with a guitar that spoke to him on a level that pop music never would.
All of them had their place, but Izzy had chosen the perfect soundtrack for the heavy night. She looked over at him. “Not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this room, or a wall of records.” She nodded to the unending bookcases filled with vinyl, both new and old.
He sat down beside her. “Nothing quite sounds the same as a record.”
She closed her eyes. “That hiss and pop of the needle is pure magic.”
It took everything inside of him to sit there and not lean over because, God, he wanted to taste the wine on her lips and tongue. Especially her tongue. Because Izzy was long, slow kisses with unending tongue—in so many places.
He pulled the little box player away from her bare foot. He lifted the needle and skipped to the third to last song.
Her heavily lashed eyes fluttered open. She lifted her glass. “You wouldn’t be trying to seduce me would you, Logan?”
In a fucking heartbeat.
Seven
Bella set her wine glass on the slice of hardwood peeking from the crazy patterned rug. No way could she be on the floor with this man. Another inch or two and she’d be climbing into his lap. A—not a good idea and b—she’d worn her granny panties on purpose.
All good for the lines under her dress, not to mention her lack of impulse control for a man with stupid green eyes. Everything about him made her want to be Bad Bella all over again. Because with him it would be a laundry list of decadent, insanely stupendous, and likely illegal sex acts.
He stood and followed her to the wall of records. “You can’t ask a man that kind of question then walk away.”
“We’re not doing this. I’m tired and have had way too much wine.” Falling back on bad habits. Cripes, it had been a mistake to come here tonight. Not five hours ago she’d convinced herself that being around him was a dumb idea. One almost dare on a telephone call and she’d caved.
Not good.
“Barely a glass? You don’t strike me as a lightweight.”
She dragged the tips of her fingers over the thin spines of the record covers. “You
would be right. I’m just in a mood. One that has repercussions that reach far and wide. Well, at least as wide as my store and the square footage of this ridiculous house.”
“Six thousand square feet.”
“My God.”
He leaned against the bookcase. “I have a big studio that takes up all of the lower floor.”
Oh to have that kind of far reaching wealth. His record collection alone could pay off her mortgage for three years. She randomly pulled out a record and smiled. “Bel Biv DeVoe?”
“That girl is poiiiiison. Never trust a big butt and a smile.”
She choked out a laugh and slid the record back in. “Can you quote lyrics from all of these?”
He shrugged. “Am I doomed to be your party trick if I say yes?”
“Pretty much.”
