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This is her first post under her new contract, I believe. Skye, don’t blow this.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on it. I’ll see Skye tonight and ask her what’s going on.
Another hour later, the alarm dings on my phone. Saturday meeting time. I head to my bedroom, ready to don a suit and tie, but it’s Saturday, damn it. I make sure my hair is combed, but I leave on my jeans and T-shirt. Not like she’ll see anything but my chest up anyway. Besides, this isn’t an international distribution negotiation. It’s a meeting with a real estate developer here in Boston.
It’s not until I’m in the middle of the teleconference that I realize I haven’t yet made dinner plans with Skye.
I sigh.
It will have to wait now.
I finally leave my office close to six thirty p.m., completely exhausted. Time to text Skye and get her over here for dinner.
I’m walking, punching words into my phone, when—
Skye.
In the dining room next to a set table.
She’s dressed in a green sundress that hugs her body gloriously and simple brown sandals. Her hair is down and falls in brown waves over her bare shoulders.
Two lowball glasses of Wild Turkey—I assume it’s Wild Turkey—sit next to her on the table.
“Skye,” I say. Then I inhale. “Something smells amazing. What did Marilyn prepare for us?”
“Nothing,” she says, smiling like a giddy schoolgirl.
“Nothing?”
“Marilyn didn’t make dinner tonight. I did.” She hands me a glass of bourbon and then holds up a bowl of freshly pan-roasted almonds. “Cajun almonds. Try one and then take a sip of Wild Turkey.”
“Skye…”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Yes?”
I want to thank her. I want to apologize for not making plans with her when I want nothing more than to be with her. I want to ask her how she’s feeling, how it went with Tessa. I want to tell her she looks absolutely gorgeous and that I’m so glad she’s feeling better.
But all that comes out is—
“We didn’t have plans tonight.”
“I know, but I wanted to see you.” She strides toward me. “Is that wrong?”
“It’s…” I rake my fingers through my hair. “It’s not wrong.”
“Then what’s the matter? Do you have someone else coming over here?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why can’t I come over and surprise my boyfriend with dinner?” She closes the distance between us to the point that she’s nearly touching me.
“God, your mouth,” I rasp.
She smiles. “I wanted to cook for you. I hope you like Cajun food.”
“I love it.”
“Good. I made shrimp étouffée. Why don’t you pick out a wine for us? You know so much more about that stuff than I do.”
I sigh. “Skye…”
She steps back, irritated. “What? What is it, Braden?”
As much as I want to take her into my arms and tell her I love her, that I’m thrilled she’s here and that she’s cooked for me, I go into full Braden mode.
“I didn’t give you permission for this.”
She rolls her eyes. “Are we really going to go there, Braden? I’ve had a shit day. I wanted to do something that made me feel good. It made me feel good to come over here and cook for you. Do I need permission to do something nice for the man I love?”
I don’t answer.
Which gives her my answer.
Still, she niggles at me, gets under my skin. “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”
She sets down her drink and falls into my arms. “That is just what I needed to hear.”
I kiss the top of her head. “Can I help?”
She pulls back and meets my gaze. “You can help by picking out a bottle of wine and then eating the dinner I made for you.”
“All right.” I walk toward the wine rack, find a light and fruity red, and return. “This Beaujolais-Villages will be perfect. It’s light in body, and its acidity will complement the food.”
She takes the bottle from me. “Sounds perfect.” She sets it on the table.
I nod, still stoic.
“Something’s bothering you still,” she says.
“It’s not what you think it is.”
“So you’re not bothered that I showed up and commandeered your kitchen?”
“No, Skye. I’m not.”
“Then what is it?”
I touch her cheek. “I’m bothered that I’m not bothered that you showed up and commandeered my kitchen.”
Her mouth drops open.
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“Why should you want to be bothered by this? We’re in a relationship, Braden.”
“Skye, you know I made a lot of concessions for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You didn’t want a relationship. But you changed your mind. I didn’t make you change your mind.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t tell me,” she says. “It bothers you that you changed your mind.”
The woman knows me well.
“A little.”
Her jaw drops, and her eyes seem to sadden.
But a relationship is nothing without honesty, right? She asked me a direct question—or rather, she guessed what I was thinking—and I cannot lie to her. I love her. I love Skye Manning. I want to be in a relationship with her.
