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With his phone in hand, he asks, “What are you craving?”
Now that’s opening a can of worms. As if he can read my mind, he says, “Let me rephrase that. What are you hungry for?”
“Not much better.” I wink and lie back. “Italian.”
“We just had Italian last night.”
“I had pizza. Now I want pasta.”
When I don’t hear any pushback, I push up again. Sitting on a barstool, he’s staring at his phone. I ask, “Can you eat Italian twice?”
Holding the screen so I can see, he already has the restaurant app up. “What can I get you?” After he places the order, he walks past me, and says, “I’m going to change clothes. Make yourself at home.”
As I drink the rest of my water, I look around the space, trying to bridge the gap between the workaholic and the man I know. Loch isn’t so much in the design of the apartment, but I see his taste in individual pieces, like the straight lines of the leather couch and the buttons that give a sense of family passing it down through the generations.
Not a coffee mug left out from the morning or a half-read newspaper lying on the table. Loch seems like the kind of guy who likes to get that ink on his fingers. The floors have a soft shine to them, and until I touched the windows, they gleamed. Everywhere I look, it's clean, so clean that I’m certain of two things: He has help, and I won’t find any dust bunnies in the corners of the room.
“Wow.”
“Wow what?”
Startled, I turn around with a jump just as Loch strides from the hallway back into the living room and cuts across to the kitchen. Shirtless.
I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous in a suit, but holy mackerel! This man knows how to wear, or not wear, anything. Seeing him in a pair of low-hanging lounge pants is a whole other level of hotness. I try to stand, but my ankles wobble at the sight of him as he pulls a T-shirt over his head, so I shamelessly stay put. “I, uh . . .”
He anchors his hands on the V hidden beneath the fabric I remember so vividly. “Tuesday?” He points at his face. “Eyes up here.”
“Um, yeah. Sorry.” Needing to distract myself, I decide confessing a sin is a good way to go. “I forgot to tell you that I charged a few things on your credit card this afternoon at Bergdorf. I intend to pay you back with interest—”
“It’s fine.” His eyes search mine, and then he walks into the kitchen like he’s seen everything he needs to. “I know you need things. You really don’t need to worry about paying me back.” Our eyes connect once more from across the room. “By the way, you look beautiful in that dress.”
He dips down, but his voice travels. “I know you’re not drinking, but do you mind if I have a beer?”
“Not at all,” I reply with a smile as my back finds the support of the nearest wall. He peeks up at me, and I swear to God he’s trying to do me in with that wink and the smirk resting on his face.
Testing to see if my knees work after the way he tried to kill me with his good looks, I push off. The sound of my heels against his hardwoods makes me pause and bend down to remove them.
That’s when I hear the release of a bottlecap and the sound of him swallowing. Stepping out of my shoes, I look up to catch his eyes locked on me. My breath stills, and I lick the corner of my lips. “My feet were hurting,” I tell him in a moment when my mind went blank of anything else that would make sense.
He sets the bottle on the counter and comes around the bar. I don’t move a muscle as he walks right for me, other than the embarrassingly loud gulp I can’t stop from swallowing.
Tapping my wrists when he passes in front of me, he nods toward the bedroom. “Come on.”
I should be running, but my feet don’t take a step. Is he . . . is this Loch Westcott seducing me? A wink? A hot look shared across the room? A come-on and walking into the bedroom? Is that all it takes for him to get a woman into bed?
Damn right.
Like a moth to a flame, I quick step toward the bedroom light only to find the room empty. “Loch?”
“In here?”
I follow his voice and find him in the closet.
Maneuvering inside, I take note of the padded, black leather bench centered in the room. My eyebrows quirk. “Kinky.”
“What?”
With plenty of room between the counter that flanks the wall under the windows and the other wall of cabinets and drawers, I start to wonder how to begin. “Where do you want me?” I sit on the bench, crossing my legs, and then rest back on my hands. “How’s this?”
