He pointed at the cart he’d just loaded with eighty bottles.
“Ah. Right.” She scratched the back of her neck, uncharacteristically flustered. A fucking sight to behold. He wanted to pull her apart, watch the atoms of her squirm in pleasure, and take his own sweet time putting them back together. He wanted her to feel the way he did.
“My ex-fiancée was a chef,” he said.
Her look was blank. “And?”
“She was—is—damn good. And she thought everyone should have at least three signature dishes they could prepare without needing a recipe.”
“To impress at dinner parties?”
He laughed. McKenzie would, too, at the idea of wanting to impress. “To be able to eat good food. By yourself or with others.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“There are three dishes I can make. Because a professional Michelin restaurant chef taught me.” Rue blinked, like it still wasn’t clear. “I could feed you well. If you’re still hungry, that is.”
She gave him a wide-eyed look and slipped into speechlessness. Then she moved closer, and the blood in his veins thickened as she pushed onto the tips of her toes. Her heat warmed him, and her chin tilted up, and her mouth—
He turned his head away before her lips could touch his.
Which, his body immediately let him know, was a supremely fucked-up idea. Go back. Kiss her. Lock the door. Pull her shirt up and her shorts down. Bend her over. You know what to do next. She does, too.
Rue took a step back, looking confused, maybe hurt by the rejection.
Eli’s body revolted. He was so hard, he could feel his erection pulsate against the zipper of his jeans, bent at a painful angle. When she made to leave, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. “Wait.”
She lifted her chin. Her eyes held a hint of challenge.
“I live nearby,” he said. A gambit. “You could come over. Retrieve your property.”
“My property?”
“You left something in that hotel room.”
He watched her scan her memories, and her eyes widened when she stumbled upon the answer. “You could have thrown them away.”
“The thought never occurred to me.”
“They’re not your size, you know.”
“They definitely worked when I used them.” He was being deliberately crude, maybe to remind himself of what lay underneath this distance between them. Maybe to remind her.
“You can’t have Kline, so you stole my underwear.”
“Oh, Rue. I can have Kline.” Her eyes narrowed, and he continued, “I just wanted a keepsake. If you don’t want them back, you can leave them with me—it’s a good home. But come over anyway. For fun.”
That last n lingered between them. A long matrix of calculations played out on her beautiful face. He let her think it through, waiting breathlessly for the outcome. His heart skipped a beat when she said, “Okay. I’ll come over.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
He needed to calm down. He couldn’t be this worked up, just because of a handful of words.
“Cool. I have one condition, though,” he said.
“A condition?” She’d clearly never considered the possibility, and maybe he wanted to fuck her more than ever when she looked confused. It was the asshole in him, the one who got off on being one step ahead and in charge, the one who wanted to lock her in his room and keep her there for months.
“If I take you to my place, you’re not running out on me.”
Her arms crossed on her chest. “Are you planning on holding me hostage?”
“That seems like a lot of needless work. And a felony.” He let go of her shoulder. It didn’t seem prudent to keep touching her.
“I’m going to leave when I want to leave,” she said calmly.
“I’m not asking you to marry me and have my triplets, Rue.” He kept his tone casual. Anything resembling earnestness or emotional intimacy would have spooked her. “You don’t have to stay any longer than you like. If you want to leave because it’s too much, or you’re bored, or because the sex is not what you expected and simply doesn’t do it for you, by all means, go. But don’t run out like you did last time. It scared the shit out of me. I’m asking you to communicate.”
“I just . . .” She didn’t continue, but he didn’t need her to.
“I know.” Something softened inside him at her lost expression. “It was intense for me, too.” He had no illusion that he could fuck her out of his system. If he was honest with himself, he’d known this was going to be something else from the very first night.
She was something else. Utterly unique. Unpredictable. Deliciously complicated.
Rue pointed at the water. “I have to go help out.”
“And I have to do my best to sink Alec in a kiddie pool.”
“A worthwhile endeavor.” Her mouth curled. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
“Will you?” Or will you chicken out again?
“Yes.”
Her expression was impenetrable, but there was something in her tone—something Eli recognized in himself. Am I holding you hostage the same way you hold me? Tell me, Rue. Just between you and me.
Because this time, he was sure she would come.
18
OUR CURRENCY
RUE
Idrove behind Eli’s hybrid, tailing him down the tree-lined streets of Allandale, through the soft glow of the bistro lights. He lived in a charming two-story single-family home, a mid-century construction with reddish bricks and a wide lawn that had me instinctively thinking of his ex-fiancée. Were we going to have sex in a bed he’d bought during a relationship-straining trip to IKEA? Was what had broken them up a disagreement over the Ekoln soap dispenser?
Irrelevant. None of my business. But I’d never been to a man’s place. Maybe by accident in college, with some guy I wouldn’t have recognized the following day if he’d sat next to me in Chemistry 201. This was Eli Killgore, though. Breaking my streaks. Ruining my plans. Making me want to do terrible, disloyal things.
“Still want to do this?” he asked, waiting for me at the door when I got out of the car. His voice had burrowed among the sulci of my brain and was now prominently featured in my dreams. A few dirty ones, which I could easily brush off, and lots of unsettling, preposterous scenarios. He’d stand behind and ask to observe my X-ray diffraction, or explain what a leveraged buyout was with Nyota nodding by his side. Whenever I reached out to touch him, he’d say, Let’s revisit this tomorrow.
It was finally tomorrow. “Yes.”
Instead of unlocking the door, he bent down and kissed me hard, a hand closed around my waist, the other palm pressing me against the wall. It was sudden, and instantly good, and the very opposite of the kind of restraint he’d shown back at the hotel, in Kline’s echoey hallways, an hour earlier at the rink. He wanted me to feel trapped. To know exactly how hard he was and how quickly. To be aware of his strength, deep inside my bones.
“Jesus, you feel good.” He trailed open-mouthed kisses down my throat. His fingers slid up to cup my breast, and his eyes followed suit. I’d never felt more beautiful than when he looked at me. Like I was the final prototype of someone’s entire fantasy life.