“I mean, it’s the Riviera. Doesn’t every famous person belong? You never know who I’m going to see… So of course I want to go.” She was teasing, but it still grew my ego times thirty.
She wasn’t wrong on who she might see, but that wasn’t the thing getting me worked up. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but her wanting to see the Riviera made me feel on top of my game—pardon the pun—considering my ex took an interest in golf only where it applied to my own stardom and wealth. “Of course we can go. We can have dinner or lunch, or play a few holes?”
“Guess what? The last time I picked up a club was when we played at that fake golf place in college.”
“No, really?”
She nodded. “Plenty of colleagues ask me to play. But learning, actually doing it…I never did. Maybe it reminded me of you?”
If she kept tossing out these compliments, we would be leaving before the meal… I wanted, needed to ravage this woman. Berating myself, I told my mind and body to calm down.
Except she didn’t stop. Without knowing it, this woman stroked my soul in ways I didn’t know it needed throughout the appetizer, main course, and tiramisu (again thanks to Jack).
Wren
Daniel lived in a California-fancy yet funky split-level bungalow, and if I had to guess, he had a decorator. A very pricey one.
His place was one hundred percent pristine: a living area filled with ivory slipcovered sofas, a cream-colored leather ottoman, and a fireplace beckoned me on our tour. Made to look lived-in, no doubt at a cost.
My luggage had continued to linger in the foyer ever since he took my hand and guided me through the house. Part of me was afraid to let go of him. The other half feared what this all meant. I was here, living on the edge by my standards, and scared by my own actions and choices.
We hadn’t gone upstairs yet but landed in an all-white kitchen, bright paintings on the walls and small touches everywhere. If I wasn’t mistaken, the knobs on the cabinets were Mackenzie Childs hand painted-ceramic.
The frosted white subway tiles caught my eye, blanketing the backsplash, not a speck of dirt or grime to be found. Further noting the expensive chrome and stainless appliances—stand mixer, coffeemaker, blender, cooking utensils—I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you cook a lot?” I felt my eyebrow rise and my snark climb to the surface.
“Not much. Never, actually. It looks hella good though, right?” He winked, knowing what a fool he sounded like. I’d forgotten how selfless Daniel could be in his humor. Back in college, he was smart, handsome, wealthy, and funny, a quadruple whammy.
I couldn’t stop the laughter barreling out of me. “What about the kilted cocoa? With the coffee?”
“Ahhh, that’s a beverage. Those I do. Food, no…”
“Oh my.” I couldn’t control my giggling. “You were always a bit pampered, living in that decadent apartment in college.”
“Hey, don’t hate the player.” He said it with a smile and wink.
Throwing my hands up in the air, I exclaimed, “Never!”
“On a serious note, if there is anything you want, I can have it brought in. Or a chef can come cook for us.”
“The kitchen should get some use,” I suggested.
He winked again, and if I wasn’t already falling for this man, I would be now. “It could get some other uses…”
“Oh, come on, I’m sure you can scrounge up some eggs to scramble?” I interrupted his double-entendre, steering our conversation into G-rated territory.
“That I can do! Some foods—eggs, turkey sausage, oatmeal—are all in my repertoire. And of course, coffee.”
“You look ready to take a bow.”
His eyes crinkled in the corners, and once again my mind flashed back to when we were much younger. He’d been so cute and sexy then—in equal spades. Now, he was flat-out sexy.
And I couldn’t make sense of how I was standing in Daniel’s kitchen right now.
He came close, pulling me into his arms, his lips grazing my forehead. “I’m so glad you decided to come,” he said softly.
I felt myself inhale and exhale, Daniel’s gaze on my rising and falling chest.
“I hope this is okay,” he went on, somehow picking up on my reticence.
