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“You don’t have to lie to me. I’ll still cook,” he teases.
“I’m not lying! I swear, Ridge. This is so good. You have to teach me how to make this,” I tell him before taking another bite.
“I can do that. It’s an old recipe my grandma used to make. She taught me how to cook.”
“Really? She did an amazing job,” I tell him.
“Yeah. She was a great woman.”
“How long ago did she die?”
“I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She was old and ready to go. It was hard on me, but I loved her,” he says.
“Well, she certainly taught you well.” Ridge smiles, and I think that’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time.
11
Ridge
“Idon’t know, Cage. I don’t like it, and I can’t seem to find any information on his ass,” I tell him over the phone.
“What don’t you like?”
“He sent her lingerie, brother. What kind of sick fuck does that?”
“How do you know it was him?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’m assumin’ it was. He’s been around,” I tell him. “She thought she saw someone at the clubhouse, too.”
“What do you mean at the clubhouse?”
“When we were leavin’. She thought she saw someone,” I tell him once more.
“Fuck. You think it’s the same guy?” I glance around to be sure Olson isn’t out here listening again.
“Yeah, I think it is. I don’t know what it is he wants either, but sendin’ her shit like that? That isn’t a good sign.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Let me see what we can dig up. Just keep an eye on her,” he tells me. He doesn’t have to worry about that. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. More than I should be.
“I don’t know. Ridge?” She calls out to me. I shove my phone in my pocket and walk into the dining room that has been transformed into a dressing room. She has a stylist here who’s helping her pick out a dress for her upcoming Christmas event.
“Yeah?”
“What do you think? I can’t decide,” she says, standing there looking like a fucking angel. She’s wearing a long white dress that hugs her body, not leaving anything to the imagination.
“What’s that for?”
“The Christmas special we’re filming. What do you think? It’s either this one or the red one,” she says, pointing to the one her stylist is holding up.
“Fuck, I ain’t no girl.”
“No, you’re a guy. So, which one looks better?” she asks once more. Fuck me, I can’t take my eyes off her in that dress. The only real thoughts going through my head are of me ripping it off her and bending her over the fucking table. Or sliding that dress up her thighs and forcing her to ride my face.
“White.” That’s the only word that will leave my goddamn mouth aside from strip, and I can’t say that shit in front of her stylist.
