“Hey, you’re up,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. But I have to admit, you don’t strike me as a classical music kind of guy.”
“No?”
I take in his hulking frame in a way I never have before. It’s kind of hard to really look at somebody when you’re dealing with a crowd of customers and they’re across the shop from you. I never really noticed before that Burke is a ruggedly handsome man. He’s big and brawny, that much I knew. But the way his black t-shirt hugs the hard angles and planes of his body makes my stomach turn a somersault.
“And what kind of music did you expect me to listen to?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Country, maybe,” she says.
“Can’t stand country.”
“Metal, then,” she says. “Or maybe classic rock?
“I’m okay with some metal. And some classic rock.”
“You definitely don’t fit into any one box.”
“No. I don’t.”
He laughs and shakes his head. I watch as the muscles in his arms ripple and flex as he stirs whatever he’s got cooking in the pot in front of him. His dark hair is cut close to his scalp, and he’s got a thick but neatly trimmed beard. His golden-hazel eyes hold mystery in them, and when he turns them on me, my heart joins my stomach in doing some internal acrobatics.
It’s embarrassing for me to admit, but just watching him and holding his gaze warms me from the inside, and I feel myself growing wet.
I try to think of something boring in an attempt to extinguish my hot and rapidly moistening panties. I climb into the seat across from him, keeping the marble-topped center island between us. Given how unexpectedly warm and wet I’m growing, it’s probably the wisest thing I should do.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Seafood fettuccine,” he says.
“Wow. From scratch?”
“I didn’t make the pasta, but everything else, yeah.”
“A man who can cook. I’m impressed.”
He shrugs. “I enjoy the process.”
“This is a really nice house. Like, really nice. And right on the beach?” I say. “I didn’t realize PIs made enough to afford a nice place like this.”
He chuckles. “Being a PI is my second act.”
I cock my head, intrigued. “What was your first act?”
“I managed a hedge fund.”
I sit back, blown away by the revelation. Of all the things I would have guessed, a hedge fund manager wouldn’t have cracked the top one hundred. To afford a house like this, he must have made a pile of money. But I never would have guessed that. He doesn’t flaunt his wealth, doesn’t wear fancy clothes, or ostentatious watches and jewelry.
“You look surprised,” he says.
“I am. You just seem… normal.”
“Normal?”
“You’re not wearing a Rolex or wearing Armani.”
His smile reveals the deep dimples in his cheeks, which make my heart flutter. And doesn’t help with the drying-up operation down there either. He holds up his wrist and points to the watch.
