“Sounds posh.”
His smile is soft and warm. “It wasn’t exactly that kind of riding. But there are trails on the island. After breakfast, why don’t I show you the stables?”
He’s being nice to me. It’s suspicious. Or maybe he really does care.
Or maybe I’m delusional and wish I was the type of girl a man like Salinger Svensson would invite to his home because he likes her and not because he wants... what, exactly?
I hug the soft blanket around me. A girl could get used to this type of luxury.
As if by magic, breakfast is laid out in the sunny room with the breathtaking view. It’s still not as breathtaking as the bare chest in front of me.
Salinger pulls out a chair for me, and I slump down on it. A fancy little buffet is set out, like you would get for hotel-room service.
Salinger picks up one of the white porcelain plates. “Eggs? Bacon? You’ll want one of these croissants, of course. The chef was trained in France at Pâtisserie Parisienne.” He’s unsettlingly pleasant.
He sets the plate in front of me along with a white cup and saucer. Coffee is poured steaming out of a pewter carafe.
At my feet, Pepper whines loudly.
“There’s a bowl of chopped chicken, carrots, and green beans for you, Pepper,” Salinger informs her.
The corgi looks at it suspiciously.
“I usually share my breakfast with her,” I explain as he fixes his own plate.
“My apologies, Pepper.” Yeah, definitely unnerving. “How about some eggs and toast?”
The corgi lets out a brief howl.
“She really wants the bacon,” I say.
There was that rich laugh again.
I’m on edge, waiting for the bomb to drop.
Salinger kneels gracefully in front of Pepper and sets her plate on the floor. She scarfs down half of it before it even touches the floor. Then he takes a seat across from me.
“This is a really good croissant.” I pick flaky crumbs from the blanket that probably cost more than my car, if we’re honest.
“Yes, the chef has a gift.”
He’s in his charming corporate mode. I’ve sat in enough meetings to recognize it.
I scarf down my food. I’m starving, and the eggs are creamy, with just the right amount of salt and cheese. While we eat, Salinger continues to chat about the house, the land, his horses, the Jack Russell terriers that live in the stables.
“Does Pepper like other dogs? Might she like to meet them?” he offers.
“She did get a big meal, so she should be fine.”
This is weird, sitting here with Salinger, eating breakfast.
If he was someone I had a crush on—which I don’t—or thought was attractive… which I do not… or believed I had a snowball’s chance in hell with—which I certainly never will—then I’d be worried about adhering to the nineties-teen-fashion-magazine advice of not overeating in front of men. Thankfully, Salinger is just my boss, and I didn’t eat much last night, and running around in a cold dark alley really works up a girl’s appetite. And dammit, there is bacon.
I take a sip of my coffee.
“So…” He sits casually in his chair, blinks slowly at me with that same charming smile, and asks in that same charming tone, “Do you want to tell me exactly what happened last night and who you were running from?”
“Nope.”
