Longing filled her as she glanced down the back alley to her right. Her apartment was just around the corner in another old brick warehouse, a wonderful two-minute stroll away.
She was real big on her conveniences.
Knowing that she couldn’t simply go home because it was one big construction zone right now was a real morale killer. Having her own space, a place that was all hers where she could relax in and let the barriers down, knowing she was safe and surrounded by her things, was priceless. Not having that made her feel adrift and irritable. And staying with Peter didn’t help. Just being in the same house as him put her on edge.
Rubbing her palms together to keep them warm, she made her way to the red Mini sitting alone in the parking lot. That little car was her one extravagance in this new beginning of hers. Hell, she thought as she climbed inside, she’d even learned how to cook thanks to Rachael Ray. Before that woman’s recipe books, boiling pasta had only been a lesson in frustration.
Now she made a mean clam linguine. For one.
It was always for one.
And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Men were the root of all the problems in her life.
Thinking over the past three years of her life kept her occupied as she made her way through late-night Denver traffic. Once she pulled into the driveway to Peter’s house she felt the tension of the day melt from her shoulders. Not that she’d ever tell him, but she loved his home. It was big and private, with huge trees and a great swimming pool.
More than that, it was homey. Which was decidedly odd for a guy like Kowalskin.
Speaking of . . . he wasn’t back yet.
Noticing the lack of his obnoxious canary yellow FJ Cruiser in the oversized garage, Leslie drove her Mini in and parked. His metallic blue Ducati was there, but he never left it in the long-term parking at the airport. One of these days she was totally going to swipe it and take it for a cruise through the mountains. Yeah, one of these days soon. No doubt the aspens up in the park were stunning now that it was October.
That was one of the things she liked best about living in Colorado. The change of the seasons. In Miami there was only hot and less hot.
Once inside, Leslie changed out of her work clothes and pulled on a simple pale blue cotton cami and a pair of boy-cut printed panties. Briefly she considered throwing on a pair of pants, then dismissed the thought as the call of the refrigerator lured her and her stomach growled. God, when was the last time she’d eaten?
It must have been around eleven that morning, she thought as she padded down the plush carpeted stairs. No wonder she was ravenous.
Entering the large kitchen, Leslie flicked on the light over the center island as she made for the fridge. Inside were the remains of her dinner from the night before, and that shredded beef chimichanga was all hers. With any luck the guacamole hadn’t already gone all brown. It just didn’t taste the same after it had.
Feeling the urge to sing, Leslie began humming an Amy Winehouse tune and swung the door to the fridge wide. Instead of the typical single guy’s fridge with beer and an expired carton of milk, Pete’s was super well stocked with fresh produce and fancy cheese. A bottle of expensive chardonnay chilled on the door and a small pile of Honeycrisp apples filled one of the bottom drawers, making her smile. Quality food was so nice.
Mentally tagging a fat Honeycrisp as hers, she leaned into the icebox in search of her to-go box from the restaurant just as she hit the song’s chorus. Feeling it, her mouth opened and the words belted out as she shifted celery aside, perusing the middle shelf. “They tried to make me go to rehab. I said, no, no, no.”
She was really into it by the time she’d spotted her leftovers way in the back, which always happened with music. It was a part of her, filled her up. She loved singing.
Shoving aside a container of organic Greek yogurt, she grabbed the to-go box. “He’s tried to make me go to rehab, but I won’t go, go, go.”
“Are you trying to kill me, girl?”
Leslie jumped and rapped her head against the fridge hard enough to see stars. “Shit!”
One hand holding the leftover box, the other rubbing the rapidly forming knot on her head, she spun around to find Peter standing behind her with his duffle still on his shoulder. “Damn it, Peter. Why’d you have to go and sneak up on me? I nearly knocked myself out.”
Something is his pale eyes flickered to life as he stared at her, a lazy half grin on his lips. “I woulda had you covered, sweets. I know CPR.”
Her head stung like a bitch. “Well that’s a relief.” He’d probably just use it as an excuse to shove his tongue down her throat.
Noticing where his gaze was lingering, Leslie was about to make a snarky comment when he said, “You seem to be missing your pants.”
“Are my panties too much for you to handle?” She sounded tough, but the truth of it was she felt very self-conscious with Peter staring at her bare legs. Not like he hadn’t seen them before, but still. That had been an invitation.
This wasn’t.
“There’s so little of them that it must be a real waste of time to put them on. Really I’m just thinking about the economy of it all. For your sake.”
Right. And she only drank wine for the antioxidants.
“You’re such a giver, Peter. Always worried about the other person.”
He flashed a wide smile at that. “It’s my curse.”
They fell silent and she wasn’t sure what to do. Her whole plan for the next hour had been ruined. “Hey, why are you home now? Aren’t you supposed to be back in the morning?”
Peter dumped his duffle on the floor and shrugged out of his leather jacket. The muscles in his shoulders rolled with the movement, but she pretended not to notice. Just like she pretended not to notice that he had some darn good chest muscles, too.
“We got pushed to an earlier flight.”
Trying not to feel crestfallen that her plans to veg alone were smashed, she yanked open the silverware drawer and grabbed a fork. Taking a big bite to stop her from saying something she shouldn’t, Leslie made a face. Cold chimichanga was really not good.
Peter tipped his dark head to the side, his baby blues dancing. “You know I have a microwave, right?”
Yeah, but it meant she had to walk directly in front of him in her underwear. Wasn’t going to happen. She was just going to put up with cold Mexican leftovers. “I’m good.” To illustrate her point she shoved another forkful into her mouth.
Creases at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, making his blue eyes pop. Clearly the location of the microwave hadn’t been lost on him. The man loved to see her squirm.
Like the bee sting she’d acquired in his backyard during a barbeque a few months back. While she’d been in extreme agony from the delicate location of the sting on her hoo-ha, he’d spent the entire time laughing like an idiot as he’d worked the stinger free.
It was like he enjoyed seeing her suffer, the jerk.
“The last time you told me that, you were three sheets to the wind and definitely not good.”
Leslie dismissed the comment. “That was entirely different.”
“Was it?” he asked as he began to walk toward her.
She went stiff. “Yes, it was.” He had a way of moving that was sleek and stealthy like a panther. It made her nervous and edgy, especially since he was so stinking unpredictable. Just like the Colorado weather.
He stopped directly in front of her, in worn jeans and a white T-shirt. The man loved his white t-shirts. This one had the vintage Rolling Stones logo on it with the big lips and stuck-out tongue from their Forty Licks album. Of course he would wear something crude and suggestive like that.