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Before she could say something else, church bells trilled out of Logan’s pocket. He took his glass and strode out of the room. She followed him and stopped in the center of his kitchen as he did normal things, like pull out the chicken and check it with a meat thermometer. A moment ago, she was ready to throw away a year’s worth of work for a chance to get her mouth on him.
With a little space between them and the raspy music a mere whisper on the air, she was able to see just how dumb that would have been. Logan was the unattainable. And she would have been just another woman that warmed his bed for a few hours.
As fun as those hours would be, she’d have to live with them. Work with him as the memory lingered between them, making for an awkward relationship. Even more awkward than right now.
And that was unacceptable.
She marched to the fridge and took out the salad and some sort of homemade dressing in a bottle on the shelf above it. He hit a few buttons on the overhead microwave to cook something.
Needing a task to keep her occupied, she took the salad to the table in the little cove off the kitchen. She fetched her glass from the music room and put her shoes back on. Heels made her feel more in control. Barefoot was way too intimate. And she was way too short to go around in her stocking feet with him anyway.
On the second trip, she gathered the dishes he’d left on the counter for her. Setting the table was domestic and a little odd considering they’d only met each other that morning. Another quick shot of intimacy. But it was too late to back out now. And she’d had way too much wine to jump into her car and leave. Suck it up buttercup. You can have chicken and a salad with a world renowned rock star.
Just because she’d had his posters on her walls as a teen didn’t mean a damn thing. He’d been a lanky twenty-something in one of the hottest alternative bands when she’d been in high school. All the King’s Men had soared to the top of the charts with one of her favorites to this day.
“Tipping Mark” had been on every radio through that summer. That song had been her entry into music. She’d enjoyed music with her friends, but she’d never been obsessed with a band until that song and that album.
But that boy had been a far cry from the man that was bustling around in his kitchen. Angry and full of heat, he’d blown her world apart with his darkly passionate lyrics. Twenty-three to her seventeen, he’d been the perfect conduit for her blooming sexuality.
She lived in a household of academics who thought Mozart was too wild. She’d been dark poetry and angsty Brontë stories. By the time college started she’d grown away from All the King’s Men. Gone had been the angry kid with the achingly dark lyrics. In his place had been the newest poster boy for alternative rock. He’d kept the sexy guitars and band, but the lyrics changed.
They became more of a broad strokes subject matter.
Gone, were the intimate lyrics that ripped her heart out.
Oh, she still sung along with his songs on the radio. She had no choice. He was everywhere and the songs were like little earworms. His voice was raspy sandpaper with velvet edges. Oddly similar to his speaking voice.
A toe-curling bass with a gentleness that made her want to do stupid things. Like find out how his beard would feel against her inner thighs. Discover if his freckled lips were as creative as she imaged they were. Or to have those clear green eyes watch her as she went onto her knees for him.
Dangerous thoughts.
Was it because she could still see that twenty-three year old boy under the facade of the world weary man? Or was it because the man seemed to have all that anger and loss in his eyes again? The way he’d looked at her in the music room would haunt her for a long time.
Like he was starving.
Like he was a wrecking ball.
Like he hated her.
The dull clunk of plates being placed on the table dragged her back into the moment.
Wow. Definitely no more wine tonight.
“It looks amazing.” She turned on her best smile. She’d eat whatever he cooked her if it killed her. Anything could be masked with enough salad dressing.
“Mrs. Nelson, my housekeeper, taught me how to cook. She told me I needed marketable skills in case the music thing didn’t work out.”
Bella laughed. “Isn’t that usually just to impress a lady?”
“The ladies I know don’t eat.”
She sat down and lifted her plate. “This lady do
es.”
“Good to know.” He served her a large portion of chicken and something that looked like a sweet potato under all the brown sugar and butter. So many calories.
There are all sorts of ways to burn them off.
