New York Billionaires Series

“No.” She stops in the center of the grand space and spins around slowly, taking in the giant windows, the curved couch, the open-planned kitchen. It would probably fit ten of her apartments.

“Like it?” I ask.

Her smile is teasing. “It’s okay. But there’s no scent of mold, and Carter, you don’t have a fire escape.”

I shake my head at her and cross the space. Her smile turns into a grin and she backs up, trying to escape, but my couch expertly blocks the way. It’s a two-player effort. She’s still laughing when I kiss her, like wildfire in my arms.

I’m dazed when I finally raise my head and there’s a pit of heated need burning in my stomach. Every luscious curve of her in my arms is like holding a live ember… One about to ignite.

Audrey’s hand slides down to curve around mine and she pulls me toward the kitchen. “Can I get a full tour?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Let me show you around.”

“So this is the living room.”

“Yes. This here is a kitchen. I think, but I’m rarely here.”

She snorts. “Of course not.”

“Home office is in there,” I say, pointing to one of the rooms off the corridor. “Guest bedroom, guest bath, and here…”

“Your bedroom.” She stands on the threshold, peering inside the large room. Seeing my bed sends another jolt of heat through me. It looks like it always does, large and made, but her presence changes everything.

The air feels electric. “Yes,” I say.

“Your bed is so big.”

Several inappropriate replies flit through my mind. One even hovers on my tongue, but I don’t want her to feel pressured. Not ever.

Audrey looks up at me with a grin. “That was a very tame response?”

“I fought against my impulses, believe me.”

She laughs, her hand finding mine again. We head back to the living room and leave my bed, with all of its tantalizing promises, to itself.

She jumps onto one of the stools by the kitchen counter. “So?” she says. “What is this thing that I apparently said a relationship has to contain?”

I start rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. “Cooking dinner.”

The smile that spreads across her face makes it all worth it. “We’re cooking?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean… you’re cooking?”

I roll my eyes. “How hard can it be?”

“That depends entirely on what you want to make.” She makes to slide off the chair, and I raise a hand to stop her.

“I remember you specifically mentioning having a man cook for you.”

“But I want to participate.”

I rummage through one of the cabinets for a cutting board. “You can chop the potatoes.”

“Potatoes,” she repeats. “What are we making?”

It’s been years since I was nervous around a woman. Since I fretted about dates, or doubted my ability to charm. But here with her, I don’t know if what I’m offering is enough. “Steak and potatoes.”

“Very homey,” she says, accepting the knife and cutting board I give her. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Bad surprise?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. It just goes to show that more and more of my assumptions about you are flawed.”

“Maybe not all that flawed. This will be the first time in… a while, that I’ve cooked in this kitchen.”

“I’m glad I’m a part of this momentous occasion, then.”

I grin. “Yes, you should feel honored.”

She sits at the kitchen island and occasionally chops, occasionally gives helpful pointers, as I prepare our food. Her chin rests in her hand, her smart mouth teasing and encouraging, and quick to laughter. A deep sense of contentment spreads through me. It’s heady, stronger even than the lust. She’s here in my space with me.

We eat at my kitchen table. The lit candles send flickers of flame across her skin and her curls fall softly around her face.

“This,” she says, “is really good.”

I look down at our food. Potatoes and meat. It looks bare, somehow… I hadn’t made a salad. No vegetables. And-oh Lord. “I think I forgot sauce.”

She chuckles. “It is a little bit dry, perhaps. But not bad.”

I curse and push my chair back. Open the door to my fridge. “You can have… ketchup? Or BBQ sauce. No, it’s expired. It’s ketchup or ketchup.”

Audrey’s voice is soft. “I don’t need anything, Carter.”

“No sauce,” I mutter, taking a seat opposite her again. “Should have thought about that.”

“You don’t do this often, then? Cook for the women you date?”

I reach for my wineglass. “God, no.”

A tiny smile spreads across her lips. “Oh.”

“Very few have been here, too,” I say, extending my hand to encompass the entire room. “It usually feels a bit… I don’t know. It’s rare, anyway.”

“But you do date a lot,” she hedges.

“I have in the past,” I admit. “Less and less, now. Some, like my date to the Reporters’ Ball, aren’t really dates. We’ve been friends for a few years and meet now and then.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this.