He moved into my space. He smelled like cinnamon, comforting and inviting, like some Hallmark idea of home. I ached to snuggle into him. “I’m not from there. I grew up in Richmond.”
“Do you still live there?” I crossed my fingers, praying he’d come in from out of town, so I could surrender to temptation and salvage a one-nighter from this encounter. I’d slake my physical needs and never see him again.
I stared at his mouth lasciviously, then lifted my eyes to his, signaling my willingness to join him wherever he was staying.
Other than Tinder, which I hated, my options for meaningless, self-effacing sex fell into three basic groups: ever-younger college boys, sexy men I hit and quit while traveling, or the occasional hot-blooded adult male visiting Charlottesville with a limited shelf life. If Bas was of the latter ilk, then what a stroke of luck. I bet Basil Demetri Stavros made delicious faces when he came.
He chuckled, a little nervously. “Ah, no. I live over on 9th, off Cherry.”
Not a mile from my house.Damn. A hookup with a thirst trap like him, so close to home, was out of the question. Too risky.
I recognized the thoughts as Old Chelsea. The whole point of this exercise was to take a risk, let someone see me. New Chelsea had the courage of her convictions and would survive even if he did live within walking distance.
Small talk. Nice and easy. “Do they still have the Greek festival in Richmond? Oh my God, the food.”
“You like Greek food?”
The babbling started in earnest. Food. Food was a topic I could authentically skate across forever. “I love Greek food. I can’t make anything myself, though I’ve tried. I’ll spend hours watching Food Network and sometimes attempt the recipes, but I’d rather just buy my food premade. What about you?”
“Oh yes. I love food shows. Watching others cook is relaxing. You find it entertaining?”
“It’s my porn.”
He bent forward, and his breath warmed my lips. “And if Icooked for you in my kitchen?”
Goose bumps skittered down my neck, from desire—or maybe fear.
Evan broke in. “You would die if you ever ate Basil’s cooking. He’s an artist.”
My voice came out a rasp. “What would you make?”
His mouth curled in a half smile. “Anything you want. I’m a chef.”
I grabbed the rail of the bar, knees threatening to collapse. “Where do you work?”
“Do you know the organic market on Main?”
Brain waves sparked; synapses fired. “That’s where I know you! I practically live there.”
The chefs at the market often emerged from the kitchens to add new items to the prepared food case, and I would hover, waiting to see if anything new would materialize.
“Then it’s for you I’ve been cooking all this time.” His smile was adorably lopsided. “Come find me next time you’re in. I’ll give you a sample.”
My laugh rattled, shaky and uneven. “You’re funny.” I worried anything else honest I said at that moment would reveal too much. No way I’d let this charming guy waltz in and sweep me off my feet.
His lip caught in his teeth, and he dragged his eyes along my body in a way that left me feeling exposed and flustered. Basil’s gaze made me wish I were naked.
My jaw worked helplessly as I searched for any kind of response beyond, “Take me, I’m yours.”
Evan saved me, asking, “Do you both live in Charlottesville?”
Elizabeth, trapped in her lies, shot me a panic-stricken, wide-eyed plea for help, so I took mercy on her. “We live nearby. What about you?”
Evan shook his head. “I’m only in town for tonight. I live inIndiana right now.”
“Oh, wow. And what do you do there?” Elizabeth asked, cheating her way with questions the same way I’d tried. It probably took the pressure off some, knowing she’d likely never see him again. Lucky.
He rubbed the back of his neck like he was embarrassed to say, but what he came out with was, “I’m a meteorologist for a newscast.”
