I’d almost blown it already when I bent down to kiss her cheek. And of course Taylor called me on it. I chuckle to myself. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to leave everything up to her. I’m going to have a hard time keeping my hands to myself tonight. I grip the steering wheel harder and floor the gas.
After a little while, we settle into the drive. Taylor flips through my music, playing an eclectic blend to show off, or possibly mock, my diverse tastes, everything from classical to jazz to pop to old school rap.
“So have you decided what to do?” I ask, unable to hide my curiosity any longer.
“About?” she prompts, looking up from the mp3 player.
“Whether or not you’re going to stay here?”
“Oh.” Her chin drops.
It’s a strange reaction. Is she afraid to tell me something?
“For now. I can’t leave before I know more and, I guess like you, I’d rather be here keeping my eye on McAllister than to run back home. But I can’t imagine ever doing another assignment he gives me.”
I breathe again, relieved and still worried about her too.
After about fifteen minutes, Taylor grows restless. “So how long of a drive do we have and where exactly are you taking me?” she asks, shifting in her seat.
“It’ll be about an hour. We’re going to my house.”
“Your house?” she looks up at me expectantly.
“Well, my father’s house, I should say. He’s away on business right now though, so we’ll have it to ourselves.”
“Oh.” She pouts out her bottom lip and I grip the wheel tighter, forcing myself to concentrate on the road and not her full mouth.
“I’m going to cook for you.”
“You cook?” she asks, her voice full of surprise.
I nod, smiling. “Not much anymore, but yes.”
She smiles, inspecting me like she’s weighing each new thing she learns about me. “Did your mom teach you?”
“Yes, and Mrs. Lee, our housekeeper, and my nanny growing up. She still works for my father and though she won’t be there tonight, I instructed her to shop for everything I’d need to make you dinner.”
She flushes and looks down.
I wish I knew what she was thinking.
“Thank you. That sounds… nice.” Her voice is soft, just audible over the low music.
Or we could forget about eating and go straight to my bedroom. Or the hot tub. I accelerate, pushing the car faster.
After crossing through the gated entrance, I make my way down the private drive leading to the house.
Taylor leans forward in her seat to look at the houses we occasionally pass, each allocated a large plot of land and standing as impressive as ever.
I haven’t been here in over a year, preferring to stay at the school during breaks rather than here where it feels dead and cold. But on the plus side, it was somewhere I would have Taylor all to myself.
Chapter 42
I can’t believe this is where Colt grew up. His house is a mansion. Literally. He pulls into a long driveway, the house not yet completely in view from the well-manicured landscaping. The driveway is brick and he continues past the front of the house and the rather impressive circular drive with a fountain in the center, and parks behind the house in front of a four stall garage. I’m still in shock when he exits the car and strolls around to help me out.
The house looms in front of us, broad, two stories, Cape Cod style with pale blue clapboard siding, slate stonework and white shutters. It’s beautiful.
He leads me through the back door into a mud room with rows of pale wood lockers and various baskets and benches for storage. It looks like a home organization catalog.
He gives me a tour of the first floor while I struggle to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Large living room, office, family room, formal dining room, a sitting room that he calls a parlor and rolls his eyes, a library and a foyer that could hold half my parents’ house, before finally leading me into the kitchen.
There’s a rustic wood island in the center with six stools. The rest is shiny stainless steel, marble countertops and rich wood. It’s extremely spacious.
“Have a seat.” He motions toward the stools at the island.
I comply, sitting on a stool.
The island is decorated with various bowls and baskets of fruit, whole heads of garlic and fresh baguettes in various sizes.
He grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge and sets it in front of me. I wrap my hands around the coolness of the can, needing to grasp onto something normal in this museum of a house.
“What are you hungry for?” he asks, surveying the fridge.
“Oh, anything is fine.”
“I told Mrs. Lee I’d make you pasta.”
“That sounds great.”
Colt sets off to work, pulling various ingredients from the fridge and cabinets, a cute look of concentration on his face. He dices tomatoes, simmers cream sauce and boils pasta.
After asking to help about six times, I relax into my seat and enjoy watching him cook. He gives me little jobs, like tasting the sauce from the tip of a spoon, then smiles at me when I approve.
“So your dad’s away on business?”
He nods tightly. Okay…so he doesn’t want to talk about his dad.
I stroll over to the built in cabinets on the far end of the kitchen. There’s a photo of Colt and someone who looks like a younger version of Colt. “Who’s this?” I hold up the photo.
He glances my way. “My brother Reis.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
He nods. “He’s your age actually, a junior in high school. He goes to a private school in California though.”
Interesting. I set the photo down, appreciating the exquisite beauty of the Palmer brothers. Reis is a fraction shorter than Colt, but his face is softer, missing the hardened edge that Colt’s has. It’s nice.
The meal is amazing and after dinner, I offer to wash the dishes, but he says we can leave them in the sink and Mrs. Lee will be back in the morning.
Hmm. A whole night ahead of us. Alone. With Colt. And the no physical contact rule. Crap.
After dinner he gives me a list of options for what we can do. Movie theatre (they have one in the house!) swimming pool, hot tub, billiards or card games.
“What would you like to do?” he asks, prompting me to decide.
“I think I’d like to see your bedroom.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise at my boldness, then he leads me up the winding staircase without a word. We pass by several doors to well-appointed bedrooms and bathrooms until we reach the end of the hall. He pushes open the door.
His room is large, and spotlessly clean – thanks to Mrs. Lee, I presume. The walls are dark blue, as is the thick carpeting, and the furniture is all matching pale wood.
There’s a guitar and an amp in the corner, and a couple of lounge chairs in front of a large TV with a video game console.
I can’t really picture a younger Colt hanging out here playing games with his friends. I can’t imagine him carefree and relaxed letting off steam like a normal teenage boy. It’s much easier to imagine Colt fighting shirtless in a barn, practicing martial arts and going toe to toe with McAllister. I flush at the thought. Colt plus testosterone does funny things to me.
I realize I’m being quiet and Colt’s standing beside me, watching me.
“There isn’t much to see up here,” he says like he wants to leave, like he wants me to choose one of the pre-approved activities he suggested earlier. I wonder why.
I wander over to his TV and pick up one of the video games. “We could play…” I smile.
“I suck,” he admits, coming closer. “You’d probably kick my ass. Reis always does.” He takes the game and sets it down again.