Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“I have a personal chef. She’s taking care of everything.”
I nod. Of course he does.
Everything’s okay. I’ve been to his place. I’m safe there. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. Which doesn’t really matter anyway. I do want to go to bed with him. Hell, I wanted to last night. I never dreamed I’d get another chance with Braden Black. Seriously, he can have whoever he wants.
So why does he want me?
Is it the thrill of the chase? Does he only want me because I got away the first time?
Probably.
Does it matter?
You need to let your hair down, phantom Tessa whispers in my head.
I know one thing. I’ve been given another chance for the night of a lifetime, and this time I’m not going to blow it.
My skin tingles—with excitement or fear, I’m uncertain. Get ready to give in, Skye.
We arrive and take the elevator to his place. Sasha greets us at the door.
“Hey, sweet girl,” Braden says, petting her. “Annika will take you out, okay?”
“Is Annika the chef?” I ask.
“No. She’s my housekeeper. She’s probably upstairs.”
There’s an upstairs? Braden taps something into his phone. Within a few minutes, a gray-haired woman enters the room—where did she come from?—leashes Sasha, and walks her out, never saying a word.
A sweet yet pungent fragrance punctuates the air—tomato and basil. We must be having Italian. Great. I love Italian. Except at the moment I’m feeling like anything that goes into my mouth will come right back up.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Braden says.
I stop myself from laughing. Comfortable? Here? Does he know how impossible his request is? We hardly know each other. We’ve shared one meal and two kisses. That’s it. Besides, for a girl who grew up in a modest farmhouse and now lives in a tiny downtown Boston studio, this glitz will never be comfortable.
I almost wish we could just go to bed and get it over with, spare us the strain of a dinner together.
“Wine?” he asks. “Or something stronger?”
“Wine is good.”
“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” He pulls a bottle from an ornate wrought-iron rack.
I was right. We’re having Italian. “What’s for dinner?”
“Penne arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” He opens the bottle, pours two glasses, and hands me one.
I take a sip. “Yes. Love it.”
“Good.”
He hasn’t smiled since he picked me up at the office. Last night, he smiled a few times. He seems darker tonight, and though his demeanor should frighten me, it doesn’t.
I’m all in now.
His kisses invade my mind, negating all other thoughts and keeping my brain fuzzy. I’m hyperaware of him next to me, and an invisible energy pulses between us. If I touch his arm, I fully expect a shock to spark through me.
“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”
He leads me to the kitchen. All marble and hardwood, of course, with a giant island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.
“Please.” Braden waves his hand over the platter. “After you.”
“No, go ahead,” I say. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”
“Of course.” He takes a skewer, loads it up with the antipasti, and then drizzles olive oil over it. He holds a napkin to catch the drips. He pulls the green olive off with his teeth.
And I imagine those teeth around my nipple.
Oh my God.
At least now I know how to eat the antipasti. Of course if I eat…
“Please,” he says again after swallowing.
I nod. I’ll choke it down somehow. I grab a skewer and push a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. I move it toward my mouth.
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
I lift my brows.
“The olive oil.”
Actually, I left the olive oil out on purpose. The “preparing for an interview” workshop pops into my head again. I don’t want olive oil dripping on my blouse.
“I’m watching my fat intake,” I lie.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” He takes the skewer from me and drizzles the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
I pull the chunk of cantaloupe off with my teeth.
He inhales sharply.
The olive oil is peppery and slightly bitter against the sweet melon, and the effect is delicious. Braden was right. I pull the next piece, the prosciutto, off my skewer.
He inhales again. “Your mouth. Watching you eat is better than porn.”
I widen my eyes and meet his gaze. His eyes are like blue lightning.
This is turning him on. I’m eating, and he’s getting turned on.
It’s not completely out of the blue. I thought about my nipple when he bit into his olive. But he’s Braden Black. I’m just…me.
I set the skewer down on a napkin and take another sip of wine, wishing it were bourbon. I don’t know a lot about wine, but Wild Turkey, I get. I grew up with the woodsy scent and the notes of caramel and cinnamon. It burns a little going down, part of its charm.