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I went jogging on Sunday, running through a nearby park until my legs were weak and I barely had the energy to step into the shower and wash the sweat off, but I still didn’t manage to nod off for long.
I want him; that much is obvious. But a long line of women have lusted after Tyler for a very long time. Why can’t he run off and play with one of those little bimbos? This thought sends a pang through me, though I fight to convince myself I really want an easy way out of this mess.
Amid all of my work on legal briefs and contracts — I’m going at it double-time — I wonder what we’re meeting about tonight. If he plans to monopolize all of my evenings through the course of this project, I’ll be very cranky by the time it ends. I have to struggle through a boatload of paperwork during the day, and everyone deserves private time. Sure my company gets to bill him for every hour he’s with me, but that doesn’t change how much I make, which doesn’t leave much until I pay off my student loans.
I dash home and change into something more comfortable — this time slacks, because there’s no way I’ll wear another skirt around Tyler. My doorbell rings and I reluctantly answer, expecting Tyler. I’m faced instead with a stranger.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to give you a ride, Ms. Truman.”
“I didn’t call for a ride,” I slowly say.
“Mr. Astor sent me.” The guy doesn’t look like a serial killer, but how am I to know what a serial killer looks like?
“Can you wait a moment?” I ask. He nods and I shut my door before sending a quick text. Tyler immediately responds that, yes, it’s his driver, and that he, Tyler, looks forward to seeing me.
I grab my purse, go back to the door, and follow the driver to the black SUV waiting at the curb. We don’t say anything when I get inside the vehicle. I use the drive to calm myself. When the driver pulls up to the gate at Tyler’s house, I tense again.
“Mr. Astor can be found this way,” the driver says before leading me inside the house and into the kitchen. Of course my eyes are immediately drawn to the damn kitchen island the second we step into the room. When I meet Tyler’s gaze after a moment of staring at the kitchen island, I can’t miss the victory in his expression. He knows exactly what I’m thinking about.
“I wasn’t under the impression we’d be meeting at your place, Mr. Astor.”
“This was easier for me. I’ve been running all day, and the paperwork’s here at my place. I’m sorry I had to send my driver. I planned to pick you up myself.”
“You’re a busy man,” I say. “Your driver’s very polite.”
“That’s good to hear. Tony’s worked with my family for a lot of years.”
I feel my nerves lessen as I speak with Tyler. It’s hard to be nervous when the man’s in a silly apron with the mottoBuilders Only Use Hard Wood.
“Do you always wear aprons?” I ask with a semblance of a smile.
“Only when I want to get a real smile.” I try to wipe the smile away but it grows instead. Damn him!
“It smells delicious in here. I’m sure you have something planned for later, so we should get business out of the way.” The look he gives me makes it more than obvious I’m the focus of his menu. My stomach jumps.
“I’m not in a hurry,” Tyler says before turning back to whatever he has cooking on the stove.
“It would be helpful if I could study the paperwork before we go over it.”
“I prefer going over things together.” Several moments pass and I begin to grow restless. I’m not the kind of person who sits around doing nothing. It isn’t in my personality.
“Do you need help?” I’m in no way obligated to offer help, but doing something has to be better than sitting here twiddling my thumbs.
“I’d love help. Want to prepare the salad? The vegetables are in the produce drawer in the fridge.”
I get up, move to the refrigerator, pull out the veggies, then go back to the island. Tyler pulls out a cutting board and a ten-inch knife and reaches around me to place it on the island, his body brushing against mine as he pauses for a few seconds too long.
“I’ve got it,” I whisper, hating the huskiness in my tone.
“Thanks,” he replies, and strokes along my side with one hand before he withdraws. My fingers are a bit shaky as I begin tearing lettuce. It’s safer than cutting at the moment. Anything requiring expert knife skills won’t be wise. I need to get the trembling under control first.
Tyler finishes cooking as I put the salad together, then I help set out plates and silverware. This is far too domestic.
“You realize this isn’t a date, right?” I ask as the two of us begin eating.
Tyler looks up, finishes chewing, and smiles. “What makes you say that?”
