I clutch my purse closer, suddenly more aware of the hole in my pantyhose and the fact that my entire net worth could probably fit in one of his kitchen drawers. Arthur shrugs out of his coat in my peripheral vision while I stand rooted to the spot, trying to decide if I should take off my coat or run.
“Hey.” His voice is gentle now as he steps closer, lowering his head to catch my eyes. “I hope this is okay. I figured since I’ve been to your place, it was time you saw mine. Also”—a spark of humour lights his eyes again—“I thought you might like to get out of those heels that are so obviously killing your feet.”
A laugh escapes me. I bite my bottom lip, trying to smother the smile spreading across my face. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything about you, Elliot. Especially when you’re limping worse than I am.”
I swat at his chest, which feels as solid as a brick wall, and he rewards me with a rare, full grin. It is devastating.
He watches me with quiet amusement as I slip off one shoe. Then the other.
The relief hits so hard and fast that a soft, involuntary moan escapes me before I can stop it.
His gaze drops. Heat flares in the inches that separate us. And God help me, I feel it everywhere.
Just when I feel like nothing on earth could break the thick, humming tension between us, my stomach makes a very enthusiastic protest.
Arthur’s eyes flick down to my midsection. “Let’s get some food into you.” He gestures for me to walk ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Ladies first.”
“Such a gentleman.”
“Not really. I can’t stare at your ass if you’re behind me.”
I bark out a laugh and he looks entirely too satisfied with himself.
I step into his kitchen and stop short. Stunning doesn’t even cover it. It looks like something out of a celebrity chef’s show. Everything gleams. Pale quartz counters catch the light, the dark cabinets are sleek and modern, and the professional-grade appliances line the walls like they mean business. A massive gas range and double ovens dominate one side, all stainless steel and black glass. Warm lighting softens the space.
A long waterfall island sits in the centre, wide enough for six, polished to a mirror shine. Above it hang three smoky glass pendants, glowing softly.
The cookies I could bake in this kitchen. The meals. The holidays. The embarrassing amount of butter I could go through.
Getting a bit ahead of yourself, Elliot. It’s one date. One. And yet here I am imagining myself elbow deep in flour like I own the place.
Arthur moves to the fridge that is roughly the size of a compact car. It looks like it ate my humble fridge for breakfast and is still hungry for more. He pulls the heavy doors open and bright, clean light spills out.
“Our options are an assortment of premade meals I have delivered twice a week.” He sorts through neat stacks of plasticcontainers arranged with military precision. “Curry and rice. Roast beef and vegetables. The beef and broccoli is good.”
I slide onto one of the tall stools by the island. “I’m not picky.”
Arthur glances back over his broad shoulder, his mouth curving with quiet challenge. “Says the woman who refused my first choice for wining and dining her.”
I press my lips together to hold back a smile. “Good point. God, I am awful. Why do you put up with me?”
He closes the fridge halfway, leaning a little to look at me more directly. His eyes soften. “I have my reasons.”
I swallow. “Such as?”
“The promise of table sex, mostly.”
I laugh so hard I nearly fall off my stool. So hard I get a stitch in my side and I have to wipe away tears. When I look back at Arthur, I find him leaning back against the closed fridge doors. His hands are in his pockets, head resting against the brushed steel. He looks as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him. Maybe as content too.
I hop down from the stool and pad over to him in my stocking feet. The scent of his aftershave or soap fills my head making me want to nuzzle into him, until I’m completely enveloped in all things him.
“May I?” I ask, motioning to the fridge. The corners of his mouth turn up as he steps aside. I pull open the heavy doors not sure what to expect. There is a stack of premade meals, neatly piled on top of one another on the bottom shelf. The middle shelves are filled with a mixture of seltzer waters and a few cans of beer. On the top shelf, there are only condiments.
“I’m guessing you don’t cook much,” I muse as I open an empty vegetable crisper.
He shrugs one shoulder. “No time.”
