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I took another nervous sip.
“Wren, I need to apologize,” he said as he set his glass on the kitchen island and rested his well-toned ass against the lip of the marble. “I think I came on a little strong at the restaurant and downstairs.” He held his palms out in defense. “No excuses, I’m sorry. And I hope you know that I respect professional boundaries.” There was a sort of comfort in the half-cocked smile he offered. “No funny business, I promise. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Funny business was sounding better and better.
I treated myself to another—less nervous—sip of wine. “Normally, I would be easily swayed by your charm.”
Tatum rubbed his chin as he mused dramatically. “So you’re saying I have charm?”
“Loads of it,” I whispered, punctuating it with a wink.
“But no game?”
“Maybe if you and I met in another lifetime. Or just not right now.”
“Because I’m your client?”
“Who said it’s you and not me?” I countered.
“Bad breakup?” he guessed.
I took another sip. “You got it in one. Now, how ’bout that tour.”
I could tell that Tatum wanted to press further into my answer, but true to his no-funny-business promise, he refrained. “Lead the way, Miss Porter.”
A chirp of laughter rolled off my tongue. “Shouldn’t you be leading the way?”
His broad shoulders shook as he chuckled. “I think you know more about this place than I do. I got in the afternoon, crashed for an hour, then met you down the block. I can confidently show you the bathroom and the bedroom.”
Together, drinking wine, we explored every nook and cranny of the penthouse. True to the master plans I had been given, there were two bedrooms, a study that Tatum didn’t have strong feelings about one way or the other, two bathrooms, and a myriad of closets. The condo was sandwiched by balconies that looked out over downtown Providence. It was sleek, modern, and completely sterile.
A moving company had situated Tatum’s old furniture in each room, but it didn’t quite fit the size of the rooms. I made notes, took measurements with my laser measure, and tried to get a feel for what he wanted out of the space.
The problem was that Tatum didn’t know what he wanted. He certainly had opinions on what he didn’t like, but that wasn’t helpful.
The wine was helpful, though.Tatum excused himself when his phone buzzed. I took the momentary solitude to down another gulp, enjoying the swirling lightness that it provided.
With liquid courage coursing through me, I finished my measurements and found Tatum on the balcony that jutted out from the main bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, so I assumed that it was where he had napped earlier in the day. “How do you feel about your new home?” I asked softly as I joined him at the railing. Below us, people milled about, dipping in and out of restaurants and bars. Red lights glowed from the line of cars sitting in traffic, and the occasional blare of a siren from an emergency vehicle echoed in the distance.
He had barely touched his wine and, instead, was swirling it around the glass. His brows were furrowed as if the wine held whatever answers he was looking for, and he was trying to decipher them. “Think you’ll be able to make something out of this place?”
“It’ll be great,” I said with a laugh as I reached out and gave his thick arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s a great location, good space—all it needs is a human touch. Less of what you’re supposed to want and more of what you do want.”
“I don’t know what I want,” he mumbled and turned to face me. His cologne was warm and alluring. “What do you want, Wren?”
There were demons behind those mysterious eyes. His gaze was intense. Brooding. It made an unexpected flurry of anticipation build between my thighs.
“I want to know who you are.” I stepped closer. “I’ve spent the better part of an evening with you and still don’t have the slightest clue who you are underneath all those muscles.”
His smile was sad. Like he was disappointed that I wasn’t playing his game. Or maybe I didn’t give him the answer he wanted.
But that wasn’t me. At least not anymore.
There was an electric fire pit on the balcony. Instead of answering, he bent at the waist and turned it on. Blue pebbles of glass glowed as low flames danced over the surface. He motioned to the navy couch on one side of the fire pit.
Maybe it was time I indulged myself. It had been a few months since the breakup. I could do this. A little no-strings-attached fling with a hot client. I’d redo his luxury penthouse and never see him again. Easy peasy.
The pit in my stomach begged to differ.
