“Have you had dinner yet?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer.
“I take that as, ‘Yes, I’d like dinner, but I won’t accept food from you.’ I’m sure if I ask what you’re in the mood for, you’ll answer with ‘Whatever,’” he states. “Once I offer pizza, you’re going to say, ‘No, I’m vegan.’ Then, I’ll have to search for bread and peanut butter because that’s all I have to offer.”
“Ha, as if,” I protest. “I’m a picky eater, so I wouldn’t let you just choose my food. Pizza wouldn’t be my first choice—some places don’t know how to cook the crust. We barely know each other. How can you expect us to compromise on which toppings we’ll add or if we want extra cheese or no cheese?”
“You’re vegetarian,” he assumes.
“Why would I be vegetarian?” I challenge him.
He looks at me and shrugs. “You seem like a tree hugger, cow lover, carrot eater.”
I glance at myself. I dress like any average twenty-six-year-old: t-shirts, hoodies, jeans, and comfortable shoes. If I were wearing one of my peasant blouses I would understand his assumption. Then again, this guy might be used to women who wear tight dresses, high heels, and do more than comb their hair after they shower.
“I do love cows,” I confirm. “Horses are my favorite farm animals, followed by chickens. Now about my eating habits, there’s a list.”
“A list?” he questions. “Please, I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for you to confirm that I’m right.”
“Well, for starters, I don’t eat pork, but I like bacon and ham.”
“You’ve never eaten a good pork chop,” he claims. “So, you’re not vegetarian, but I bet you don’t eat steak either.”
I arch an unamused eyebrow and continue, “I like steak, but I won’t eat hamburgers. I don’t like the feel of ground meat. It’s weird.”
“You’re quirky.”
“I’m proudly quirky,” I corroborate.
Pierce pours us wine and takes out some menus. “Okay, we need to feed you. How about some Ethiopian food? Do you like to eat with your fingers?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Are you good with your fingers?”
He shows me his hands, wiggles his fingers, and smirks. “I’m excellent. Do you need a demonstration?”
He places his big hands on top of the kitchen counter. They are long, and I bet they could reach deep, deep inside me if I allow myself to play with him for the night.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure it’s boring to watch a man type or… What else do you do with those?” I question innocently.
“You like to play coy, don’t you?”
“You said it earlier. It’s the lack of self-preservation. A part of my brain sometimes shuts down and doesn’t care much about consequences,” I confess, not sure why I’m babbling at him. I can’t even blame the wine because I haven’t even taken a sip of it. “Some days, I curl up into a ball to avoid getting hurt and others… I don’t know.”
He looks at me and says, “I like you, Leyla. If we’re honest, I’ve wanted to kiss you since I stepped into the animal hospital. The problem I see is that you seem like the girl who’d want me to meet her parents.”
I can’t help but burst into laughter. “Obviously you don’t know me, or you wouldn’t say that. So, what kind of women do you kiss?”
He studies me for a couple of beats before answering, “I usually hook up at bars—on Saturdays. I have a hotel ready for the night and never exchange phone numbers. I feel like if we do more than flirt—”
“I’ll invite you to Sunday dinner with Mom and Dad?” I laugh, and I’m not sure if it’s to avoid crying or because this is too funny. “Lucky for you, my parents are dead. There won’t be an awkward invitation.”
His eyes open wide, and I’m pretty sure he’s uncertain how to react. Should he drive me home? Offer me his condolences, or… This is why I avoid people. The questions begin, the looks of pity follow, and stupid comments end what could’ve been good.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I warn him. “Any chance of letting you kiss me might be gone pretty soon.”
“I’m sorry, I just”—he runs a hand through his hair—“I feel like an insensitive asshole.”
I wave my hand casually as if it doesn’t matter.
“It’s okay, really,” I assure him.
But it’s not okay.
Not this week. This is why I’ve been working for more than 24 hours, why I chose to come to his house. Why I don’t want to be alone. If he were to stab me today, I would not care. I might actually be thankful because it’s over.
“Still, I didn’t mean to—”
“They died years ago. I’m fine,” I insist.
Which is a total lie, but people choose to ignore the truth. I’ll never be fine, and today is worse than other days. It’s my mother’s birthday.
“After the awkward little piece of information, let’s keep going with you wanting to kiss me, and your finger skills are…you never described them.”
He clears his throat, “So, if anything happens tonight between us?”
I chuckle, “Aren’t we a little cocky, Mr. Aldridge.”
“Wait, you just told me to… Are you playing with me?”
“I might,” I answer, taking a sip of the wine. “How good are you at making me forget this awkward conversation and anything that happened before I met you?”
His piercing eyes lock my gaze to his.
You should leave, Leyla, I think as he takes off his jacket and unbuttons the first three buttons of his shirt.
You should definitely go right about now, I repeat as he marches toward me.
But I can’t move. I don’t think I’m breathing as I watch him towering over me. His eyes are pinning me down.
“Are you sure about it?” he whispers so close to my ear that his breath’s warmth makes my entire body shiver.
I nod lightly, hypnotized by his stare. My breathing is becoming shallow, and he hasn’t even touched me.
He nudges my chin up with his thumb, and then he runs it along my lips. Slowly, he bends closer. The feel of his mouth almost touching mine makes me gasp.
He raises an eyebrow, “You are impatient, aren’t you?” He kisses the corner of my lip, and I try to catch his mouth, but he moves away.
Laughing, he bends and kisses the other side. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight.”
“We are?” I ask, reaching the back of his neck and pulling him to me. I’m not going to wait for him to toy with me.
He smiles right before our mouths meet, and sparks fire between us. The heat, his scent, and the intoxicating taste of this guy hit me like cocaine laced with meth. I’m unable to think of anything further than the feel of his hands as they slide along my body. The way he devours me has my heart drumming hard against my ribcage.
This isn’t just a friendly kiss.
It’s so much more.
It has the right balance of fire, sweetness, and lust.