Being in close proximity to her bed makes my cock twitch. Fuck, where is this desire coming from?
The two dates I forced myself into this week resulted in my making up some excuse so I could dash out before we even ordered the main course. I had put in the effort, but I just didn’t want to be there.
And here I am, uninvited into Cora’s apartment, and my cock perks up. Fuck. It must be the unresolved tension from the spa.
“Are you okay?” She eyes me suspiciously. “If you’re wondering, yes, this is my entire apartment. Your hotel room is probably bigger,” she says sarcastically.
I wasn’t wondering about that, but I’m not going to correct her. Fuck, she is right. My hotel suite’s entry hall is larger than this place.
“I like it.” I shrug.
I’m not even lying. It has character. It smells andfeels like Cora. It is also full of mess and clutter. I cringe; maybe I’m lying a bit.
Cora snorts.
Fuck, now she thinks I’m a pompous prick. She’s probably been thinking that anyway.
“Did you get me another Danish?” She eyes the white box in my hands. “You need to stop sending—and now bringing—them over.”
“You like them.” I shrug, handing her the pastry.
I refocus on what looks like party leftovers on the coffee table: three bottles of wine, various wrappers, bowls with crumbs, chip bags.
“That looks like—”
She cuts me off. “Like your sources were wrong, and I wasn’t alone on my birthday? The question is, do I need to file a restraining order?”
“Depends.” I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets.
She cocks her head. “On?”
“Do you want to miss out on my company… on thefunI offer?” I enunciate fun in a suggestive way that leaves no room for interpretation.
She snorts. “Careful, pretty boy, my apartment isn’t big enough for your ego.”
“Let the record show she thinks—not for the first time—that I’m pretty.” I shrug, rollingon the balls of my feet back and forth, unsure if our current position by the door is a sign she will ask me to leave soon.
She laughs. “Okay, have a seat. Can I offer you anything? I have leftover chips or a half-eaten cupcake, and a glass or two of Zinfandel left.”
Her eyes gleam as she grins at me. She’s tipsy. Adorably so.
Why did I think she’d be alone? The need to know who was here with her is annoyingly persistent.
I take a seat on the sofa. My feet leave the ground as I sink in much deeper than expected. Fuck, this sofa is worn out. “Do you have Macallan?”
She laughs. “Of course. Do you want a twelve- or fifteen-year-old?”
Is she teasing me? I frown at her, trying to read the situation.
She huffs. “Jesus, you really are from a different planet. Sorry, but it’s Zinfandel or Zinfandel.”
She doesn’t wait, but gets a clean glass from her excuse for a kitchen and pours me what’s left in the bottle. One of the bottles anyway.
I take it from her, shaking off the awkwardness. I seem to have a perpetual cultural shock around this woman. It’s humbling, but also weirdly refreshing. So different from anything I know.
“Happy Birthday.” I raise my glass and take agenerous gulp. When have I ever needed liquid reinforcement?
“Thank you.”
