“You don’t have to share the recipe if you don’t want to,” she said, forcing her attention away from dangerous thoughts of rings and back to Esmeralda. “I understand if it’s a family secret or something, but I don’t want you to worry about your job.”
The other woman visibly relaxed, and Claire knew she’d guessed right.
“My mother was a housewife,” said Claire, remembering all the days she’d bolted from the school bus after school to find her mother in the kitchen, wearing one of her pretty floral print aprons and holding a plate of warm cookies. It was a Good Housekeeping come-to-life childhood, and she’d loved every minute of it, right up until the moment her mother got sick. “She was so good at it. She elevated it to an art form. I’m rubbish at it and have even less interest in getting better, but I love to eat, and this is the best dressing I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s easy to make,” said Esmeralda, beaming at the praise. “I can show you, but it’s much better if you let it sit in the refrigerator for a day or two. I bet Mr. Masters would like it if you made it for him.” She glanced at Claire’s ring finger again as if the promise of homemade dressing would make a ring magically appear.
Claire knew it would take more than that to get Luke to take the next step, and she was even more certain that she wasn’t ready for it, even if he suddenly decided her was.
“KEEP AN EYE on things,” said Luke into the bluetooth as he pulled his car into the parking space. “I’m pretty confident it’s over, too, but now that we’re finally back on schedule, I don’t want to take any chances.”
“No problem,” said Jackson, Luke’s head of security. “I’ll keep the surveillance we’ve already set up in place until the job is finished. Do you want me to add cameras to the new Chestnut Street property? I can put in the same kind of system we had on Ms. English’s other house.”
Claire would bitch about the expense and insist it wasn’t necessary. He knew exactly what she’d think.She’d done however many renovations before he got his big nose involved. Controlling bastard. Who the hell did he think he was?Then she’d sneak over there after work, and he’d be stuck worrying whether she’d remembered to lock the door or not before she turned her music to ear splitting levels and started the belt sander.
Fuck that. He could still picture the red paint splashed over the floors of the last house she’d done. He wasn’t taking any chances. Not if it involved her safety. That was a non-negotiable. She’d just have to deal with it.
“Absolutely,” said Luke. “If she gives you any trouble, let me know.”
“Will do,” said Jackson.
Luke disconnected the call and climbed out of the car, his smile growing with every step he took closer to the elevator and home. Knowing Claire was upstairs waiting for him made everything that happened in his long tiresome day better. He didn’t know it could be like this, that almost overnight, he’d be at a point where he wanted to share his space and his life with another person.
But it wasn’t just another person, it was Claire. Claire was the one who’d made everything possible. She’d changed his life and shifted his world in a way he couldn’t have imagined. He couldn’t believe he’d gone from not being able to tell her he loved her to where he was now. It scared the crap out of him to think something might happen or that he might – would – do something to fuck things up. It made him want to lock things up. Put a ring on her finger and get a promise from her that she wouldn’t run away the first time –or second time – he turned into an asshole.
It was too soon. He understood that it was too soon. She wasn’t ready. He could tell she was still working to trust him the way she had before. If he asked her, he was pretty sure she’d tell him no, but that didn’t stop him from wanting the whole thing. Marriage, kids, Claire by his side until they were old and gray. He’d never been any good at delayed gratification. If he wanted something, he worked tirelessly until he got it. He’d just have to work as hard at his relationship with her.
The elevator stopped and he fobbed his way into his – no, their – penthouse and almost fell over the stacks of boxes piled by the front door.
“Sorry, sorry,” Claire said, hurrying from the kitchen to meet him. “The movers are coming tomorrow to take them back to my place.”
His stomach tightened, thinking that she might be moving out before she ever moved in, but even as he had the thought, he looked around and saw some of her things mixed in with his. Her antique blanket trunk sat behind his pristine white couch and she’d put a shaker style cupboard against the wall in the dining room. It looked good, and he was struck by the fact that he liked her things better than his. Perhaps because she’d chosen them herself instead of hiring an overpriced designer. They seemed somehow more authentic.
He glanced over and saw her watching him, concern etched on her face and realized she was probably worried about what he’d think about the changes. It wasn’t like he’d been so great at letting her keep things at his place before. How could she know his reaction was the opposite of what she probably imagined it was?
“It looks great,” he said and saw some of the tension around her eyes ease. “We’ll have to get rid of some of what the designer picked. I’ve never loved that table.” He motioned to the sleek glass and chrome coffee table that only stayed fingerprint free because he never used it. “We can pick some stuff together to replace it. Now get over here, Lucy, and kiss me like you’re glad that I’m home.”
She grinned at him, and he closed the distance between them before she started to move, pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth with a kiss. She’d smoothed her auburn hair into a ponytail, and he wrapped it around his fist and pulled her head back so he could take the kiss deeper, his mind already working through all the sexy possibilities the ponytail presented.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she said when they finally broke the kiss. “I made dinner.”
“Fuck me,” he said with a groan and she laughed. “She’s beautiful, sexy as hell, and she cooks. I don’t stand a chance.”
“Funny.”
She tried to squirm out of his arms, but he held on tighter, determined to sort things out before he lost himself in the image of Claire in his – their – kitchen.
“What’s with the boxes? Why are you taking stuff back to your old place?” He almost addedWhy are you keeping your old place?but he knew the answer to that. She didn’t trust this thing between them to work out, and she was leaving herself an exit strategy. He hated it because it meant she wasn’t ready for everything he wanted to give her, but he understood it. It was his fault she was holding back.
“You already have dishes and things. You don’t need any more, and your stuff is better than mine.”
“My stuff is more expensive than yours, but I wouldn’t say better.”
He didn’t ask her why she was having the stuff carted to her place instead of donating the things they didn’t need. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer.
“You did a great job. It looks great. Was Esmeralda a help?”
“She’s fantastic,” said Claire. “I really like her. She taught me how to make the salad dressing we’re having for dinner. Speaking of which, it should probably be about done, thank goodness, because I’m starving.”
