No buffer.
Just the entryway of a penthouse that smells like leather and money, dimly lit and styled to perfection, and the rich aroma of baking garlic bread wafting right at me.
“Hello?” I call, taking slow and timid steps down the short hallway.
“In the kitchen, down the hallway, and to the right.” A deep masculine voice drifts from somewhere further inside the apartment. Every fiber in me screams to call out ‘Marco’ to see if he will reply accordingly. But I don’t. Remembering I’m a rented man at the moment and here to do a job. This client may not like my off brand comedy.
I do as he says and keep moving forward, rounding the corner, passing through a small dining nook, following the smell of bread straight to the kitchen.
“Found you,” I say, before biting on my lower lip, letting my teeth drag along the tender flesh.
He turns to face me and holy fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. His face is striking in that classic, masculine, movie star way. His skin is sun-kissed, with a square jaw that’s shadowed with just the right amount of stubble. His mouth is full and firm, lips drawn in a faint line. And those lips, fuck, they look like they’ve said dangerous things in dark rooms and I want to hear them all.
His eyes are a storm, deep-set and piercing, a cool gray or maybe blue—it’s hard to tell. The way he’s looking at me has me mesmerized, like I’ve lost all ability to form a cohesive thought, let alone speak.
“Bradley,” he says, and there’s a pause, brief, but noticeable. Like he’s swallowing something down. Not fear exactly, but nerves. There’s a tightness in the easy way he says my name. Like he’s rehearsed this moment in his head too many times, and now that you’re actually here, the reality of it is catching up with him. He clears his throat softly afterward, trying to cover it. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”
“No,” I smile broadly, pulling myself together. “I didn’t. You were impeccable with your details.”
He nods, turning back to place a lid on the pot and putting the spoon in his hand on the stove.
“It smells delicious,” I add.
“Thank you. It’s an old family recipe. Handed down from generation to generation.” He wipes his hands on a towel, but I notice how he keeps hold of it as if it’s his security blanket. Interesting.
“A night in is nice.” I’m not sure what to say. He’s a little more closed off than the dates I’ve been on. Normally, I’dbe sitting somewhere, drink in hand, while we laughed over something funny the other said. But we’d also be in some social environment, not in an apartment where he may or may not have a torture chamber set up.
“Okay Bradley, rein it the fuck in,”I remind myself.
“Would you like something to drink? Wine, beer, water? Whatever you like, I’m sure I have it.” My mysterious date questions, finally placing the dish towel on the counter.
“Beer would be great. Thank you, John.” He snorts in response to my answer to him, a soft smile finally breaking on his hard face as he steps over to the fridge.
It’s only a few seconds before he’s stepping over to me, two beers in hand, extending one out to me.
“It’s actually Malcolm.”
Chapter 10
Malcolm
“Malcolm?”theblondAdonisbefore me asks.
“Yeah,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair anxiously. “Sorry about that. I set it up with the company to give a fake name for you, while they maintained privacy with whom I really am.” It’s a copout, I know. But I couldn’t risk anyone finding out I rented a date. Much less a guy. I want to win back Jefferson, and I can only do that if I get comfortable with who I am. This seemed like the easiest way.
I’ve got a plan. Step one: get comfortable with Bradley—if that’s even his real name. Step two: go on a real date, out in public, in a town where no one knows me. Then, once I stop feeling like I’m going to shit myself from nerves, I’ll come out to my kids and family.
Once I do all that, I’ll fight for Jefferson. He’s going to be mine. My husband until the day we die. And then, in the hereafter.
“Why the cloak and dagger?” Bradley moves over to the counter and leans against it, crossing his legs as he takes a swallow of his Heineken. “Are you a double agent for the CIA? In the mafia?” Then he raises his eyebrow. “Married?”
I can’t help it; the boisterous laugh erupts from me as if it were lava and I was Mount Vesuvius. I’m cracking up so hard tears start to stream down my face, yet Bradley’s expression doesn’t falter. He continues to look at me, brow raised, nose scrunched as if he’s trying to figure out if I’m insane or he hit the nail on the head.
Finally, I hold up my hand as the other goes to my stomach, clenching my beer so as not to spill a drop. “Sorry, that was just funny, and I really needed a laugh today. The answer is none of the above. The truth is far less dull and a great deal more heartbreaking. Well, for me anyway.”
“Hit me with it then. We have dinner, a long night ahead. At least three hours,” he winks, “and I love a good story.”
Is this guy for real? He actually wants to hear more about me? The only people who’ve ever done that are Paige and Jefferson. Do I want to tell him about the shitshow that’s my life?
