I turn into the bottom of the “L” and find a rectangular room with a counter and a stainless-steel sink on one side. Opposite is another counter with a stove, fridge, and the sexy owner of the apartment, who is busy gathering salt, pepper, plates, and various other items he needs, depositing them in a corner by the stove.
“This kitchen is a chef’s dream,” I declare, disposing of the dishes in the sink opposite him.
“It comes with the apartment so don’t start thinking I’m a master chef.” He opens the fancy fridge with double doors and sets eggs and cheese on the counter. “There’s a reason why I know all of the local restaurant crowd.”
I move to the side of the counter on the opposite side of the stove from where he is working to watch him crack several eggs into a bowl. My gaze is drawn to his hands, and I cannot help but think of how expertly he’d touched my body, how expertly he handles a paint brush. How expertly he’d known how to keep me on the edge and then take me over.
He glances at me, and I feel as if he’s reading my thoughts. Part of me burns to boldly embrace what he’s making me feel, but the old me — the real me? - rushes to cover up what I am thinking for no apparent reason. “I know how to shop in the frozen food section of my grocery store and that’s about it. My mom was…we…didn’t cook.”
He whisks eggs in a bowl and adds milk, salt, and pepper. “Was your mom too busy to cook or she didn’t like to cook?”
How did I let this conversation start? “My father didn’t like her cooking so she didn’t cook.”
He rests a hand on the counter. “He cooked?”
“Ah no. My father doesn’t do domestic tasks.”
He fires up the burner and pours a little oil in the pan. “So who cooked? You or a sibling?”
“I’m an only child and I don’t cook.” He glances at me, a curious expression on his face, and I know why. I’m making a simple question complicated because I always make things regarding my father complicated. “We had a private chef.” The surprised look on his face makes me regret I’ve gone there and I motion to the coffee pot sitting in front of me. “I’m falling down on my job.”
He hesitates a moment, and I think he wants to push me for more information, but thankfully he seems to change his mind. He dumps the toppings on the eggs into the pan and agrees, “That was the deal. I cook. You brew.”
“Aye, Captain,” I say with a mock salute, and I reach for the canister, noting the glowing green time at the base of the fancy silver and black pot. It reads the early hour of seven-thirty. Much too early for the knots in my stomach the family drama confessions I don’t intend to make to form.
I set the lid aside and draw in the scent of the coffee and think of Ava for a moment. She’d smelled like coffee when I’d hugged her at the gallery. Or, I was drunk and my nose was in overload like my big mouth that blurted out ‘cock-fight’. “It smells like…Cup O’ Cafe.”
“Not even close,” Chris says, joining me, his shoulder brushing mine, and I am blown away by the blast of awareness it creates, and thankful for how quickly it untwines the knot in my stomach. Our skin isn’t touching, and still he does this to me.
He inhales the beans and then holds the canister to my nose for me to do the same. “That’s the scent of a French blend by Malongo in Paris. I bring it with me when I come to the States. I love the stuff.”
“I can’t wait to try it,” I say and mean it. He loves the coffee, the pizza, and Tom Hanks. I love that he is passionate about so many things. About me? At least for now? I’ll take it, I decide. His passion is contagious.
“Four scoops for a pot,” he informs me.
I nod and get to work, two frying pans sizzling beside me. I’m pouring the water into the pot when I am struck by how utterly unexpected and comfortable this domestic experience with Chris is. His earlier confessions about never bringing a woman home lends to an assumption, he too, is on unfamiliar territory. He never brings a woman home? Surely he means rarely. Doesn’t he?
I glance at the perfectly formed omelets not yet filled and folded. “Looking pretty darn master chef to me.”
He glances at me; his eyes alight with good humor. “Now you’re giving me performance pressure.”
I snort. “You and performance pressure don’t compute.”
His lips quirk but there’s no denial to follow. He’s confident. Whatever is beneath his skin, whatever the damage, it’s not made him insecure.
He holds up some veggies before dumping them into the omelet. “Onions and peppers?”
“Why not? I’m already without a toothbrush. I’m lethal.”
He laughs, a deep rumble of manly hotness that does funny things to my chest. I am hungry for him, not the omelet. “Call the front desk if you want,” he suggests. “They pretty much operate like a hotel. You want it. They get it.”
“Oh.” I am surprised but pleased. “How do I call them?”
He motions to his left. . “The phone on the wall behind the fridge goes direct to the front desk.”
Elated with idea of a toothbrush, I move to the phone and lean on another small counter, intending to pick up the receiver, but I hesitate. “Who should I tell them I am?”
Abandoning the food, Chris steps in front of me and his big, wonderful body is framing mine, his h*ps intimately pressed to my hips. I am instantly aroused but then I’m fairly certain I’ll stay that way with this man.
“Who do you want to tell them you are?” There is no mistaken the challenge beneath his words.
Oh hell, he’s having another mood swing, and we’re walking on the dark side again. I’m going to get whiplash at this rate.
My fingers curl on the hard, warm wall of his chest. He’s testing me and I’m not playing his game. One thing I’ve learned since leaving behind my father, and yes — Michael – is that I am me. I can be no one else, nor do I plan to try for Chris, no matter how hot the man is.
“I don’t want to tell them anything,” I say. “It’s none of their business.”
He studies me, his expression unreadable, but I have a sense of being in the eye of a hurricane. My read on his reaction to my reply is a big zero.
“When I said I don’t bring women here, Sara, I meant ever. As in no one.”
This is another out-of-the-blue remark; I assume it relates to the call downstairs in some random way yet to be explained. These are some choppy waters I’m wading in and I’m wondering if I need to swim to shore, as in the one called ‘my own apartment’.
“Yes,” I reply. “You’ve said that and if you keep telling me that I’m going to decide it’s your way of telling me to leave.”
“I’m telling you because I want you to understand how much I want you here.”
“Oh.” He wants me here. On some level I know this, but having him say it surprises me and pleases me far too much for my own good.
“I want you to want to be here,” he adds.
Surprised yet again, I sense rather than hear a hint of vulnerability in his voice. I tilt my head and study him. Yes. He’s uncertain and I get the idea that isn’t something he’s used to feeling.
“I do,” I whisper. “I want to be here.”
“Good.” He strokes two fingers down my cheek, and slides my hair behind my ear, sending chills down my neck and spine. I am overwhelmed and my body quakes. I have never in my life responded like this to a man and I’m trying to understand what it is about him that speaks so deeply to me. I’ve known good-looking men. I’ve known talented, gifted, and powerful men. But none like this one. None so complicated, none so compelling beyond reason.
“You aren’t going to like all that I am, Sara,” he murmurs darkly.
“Another warning?” I admonish him. “You’re above quota, at which point warnings become ineffective.”
“Not a warning. I’m done warning you or you wouldn’t be here.”
“You’ve issued any number of warnings since we arrived last night.”
“Yes,” he concedes. “I suppose I have. So I might as well give you one more.”
“The last one?”
“Not likely.”
“The last one today?”
He ignores my hopeful question. “Nothing has changed, Sara. I’m still not the guy who’ll give you a white picket fence.”
“Thank goodness.”
“I’m as far from white picket fences as you can get. Sooner more likely than later, you aren’t going to like everything you find out about me.”
My fingers uncurl on his chest, slowly splaying over the hard muscle. ”Does that mean you’re offering me an invitation to find that out for myself?”
He squeezes his eyes shut and seems to struggle for an answer before he looks me in the eye. “Against my better judgment, and because I’m seemingly powerless to stay away from you.”
Chris Merit is powerless to stay away from me?
“What happens between us stays with us, Sara,” he states, before I can formulate a reply. “I need to know you understand that. I’m an inherently private person and I have my reasons for that and they aren’t going to change. Don’t let my casual friendships around the neighborhood, and the high rise building with room service, give you an impression otherwise. I choose who knows what about me and the staff here helps me keep it that way.”
I wonder if he’s been burned as I have by letting the wrong people into his life or is he smarter than I have been. Does he just never give them a chance? “I like that you’re private. In fact, if you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here, Chris.”
We stare at each other and his scrutiny is so intense that I feel as if he’s crawling inside me and searching my soul for confirmation I’ve spoken the truth. Who or what made him this distrustful? Who or what damaged him? And does it really matter? I relate to him far more than I thought I could. I understand him beyond events and names and places.
I reach up and stroke his cheek. “Whatever happens between us stays with us.” My voice is soft, hoarse. I am affected by this man on so many levels I can’t begin to understand.
His eyes narrow and soften, and I watch the tension slide from his face, the flecks of orange fire flicker to life in his eyes. The air around us shifts and I feel the now familiar swell of desire in my stomach, expanding and threatening to consume me. I feel an unexpected, intense rise of panic. I don’t want breakfast, these few minutes of normalcy; I realize in their potential loss, I crave for some unnamed, unrecognized reason.
His hands settle on my waist, branding me through the thin cotton, and his expression reflects he too is thinking of how close to na**d I am.
His attention lowers to the opening of the robe and my ni**les tighten and ache instantly. “Do you know how badly I want you right now?” he asks, his fingers sliding to the V of the robe and starting to tug it lower.
I want him — I want him as much as I want my next breath but a voice in my head screams, not yet. Not until after breakfast. I grab the robe and pull it closed before pressing my hand on his chest to hold him back. “Oh no. None of this or that or whatever we might do. Not until you caffeinate me, feed me, and let me brush my teeth.” I grab the phone on the wall. “And aren’t the eggs burning?”
“I turned the stove off,” he says, laughing, a low and sultry sound that blends with the ringing of the phone line. He leans in and kisses my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Because I was hoping to turn you on. I guess I’ll have to try harder after we eat.” He pushes away from me as a female attendant speaks into the receiver. “Can I help you, Mr. Merit?”
I stare at Chris’s broad shoulders as he attends the food. He’s left me breathless and aching and I wonder why the heck I thought breakfast was important.
“Mr. Merit?” the woman on the line queries, jolting me out of my reverie.
“Yes, hi. Mr. Merit would like a toothbrush and toothpaste, please.”
“Of course,” the woman replies. “I’ll send them right up.”
I replace the receiver and head for the coffee pot, removing two cups from the cabinet above it. I glance at Chris as he fills two plates with his creations and he smiles at me, his eyes brimming with mischief and fun. He’s all too aware he’s left me fanning myself and he loves it.
“I like you in my robe.” He wiggles an eyebrow. ”I like you even better out of my robe.”
Heat rushes over me and it’s not from the stove. He’s so charming and sexy. “I’d look better showered and dressed like you.”
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”
I am glowing from his attention. How any woman could not glow from a compliment from Chris Merit? ”How do you like your coffee?”
“Lots of cream. It’s in the fridge.”
I laugh at this announcement.
His brows dip. “What’s funny about creamer in the fridge.”
“I expected you to say you like it straight up. You know. The whole biker, cool artist persona. I thought you’d want your coffee so strong and black it grows extra hair on your chest.”
“I have plenty of hair on my chest, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I like sugar with my poison.”
It’s an odd comment and like so many others with Chris, I suspect it comes with a hidden meaning. I wonder if he will be around long enough for me to understand him and I find I’m hoping he will be. Already, my vow to live in the moment with Chris is becoming a desire to live in the next one.