I shut my eyes, caving. “Okay, fine. Day after tomorrow, we will have a platonic dinner, and I get to check out your house.”
“Thank you,” he said, closer now.
I opened my eyes to look up at him.
His hands went to the lapels of my blazer, smoothing them absently.
“You going to see that guy tonight?”
“I’m not talking about him with you. That’s out of line.”
“Does he know about me? Did you tell him that you and I—”
“Stop. Stop this instant or I’m done.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I can’t do that.” He opened them again and focused on my jacket, or specifically, the buttons of my jacket.
Quick as a flash, and nervy as all hell, he unbuttoned it, sucking in a gasp at the tiny scrap of cloth I had on under it.
I took two quick steps back, buttoning it up again in a hurry.
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “Fuck. You wear shit like that to work often?”
I shrugged in a noncommittal way.
“Fuck. Well, that messes with my head. What can I do to convince you to let me see that again?” He smiled. “I barely got a glance. If I’m going to be fantasizing about that tonight, it would be nice to have a very clear picture.”
I pointed my finger at the door, trying to hide my smile. “You need to go, before you talk yourself out of cooking me dinner in a few days.”
He cursed, sent me a comically longing glance that had me trying not to laugh, and left.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I dressed with care the morning of my non-date with Tristan. Of course I did. I always put time and care into looking well put together for work, but that day I woke up an hour earlier than usual, taking extra care, and picking out my clothes with a giddy fire in my belly.
I went with a cream-colored pencil skirt that hit a few inches above the knees, and a fitted lavender silk high-necked halter top with a cutout design at the collarbone that revealed a bit of skin, and a hint of cle**age. It also left my arms, the top of my back, and the upper section of my sides bare.
When paired with a matching cream blazer, it was quite professional. When taken off, very sexy.
I was pleased.
I parted my hair down the middle and pulled it back in a severe chignon. The severe style brought out the paleness of my eyes. A heavy, smoky eye shadow gave them extra pop. A pale pink lip finished the look.
Work moved at a snail’s pace, but that was to be expected. I overcompensated by staying as busy as humanly possible, putting details for various showings together that didn’t need to be done for another month.
Kate and Sandra, the two women that worked the gallery with me, both part time, seemed to know something was up with me.
Sandra, who’d known me for years, cornered me in my office and shamelessly fished for information. “So Kate tells me that Tristan Vega came by yesterday; that he went into your office.”
I looked up from what I was doing to give her a very bland look. “Yes, he stopped by briefly.”
Her head tilted curiously, and she just kept studying me. “So he’s shopping for some art? Is that what you’re helping him with?”
I sighed. To say I wanted to avoid this conversation like the plague was putting it mildly. “I’m in the middle of something. Is this urgent, and is there a reason you’re asking?”
“Oh, sorry, no,” she said, looking like I’d just burst her bubble. We were friends, and her natural curiosity had been about anything other than Tristan, I likely would have indulged it.
I felt like a jerk, but it was necessary. The last thing I wanted was for rumors to start up about Tristan and me.
I normally stayed at work until six, and today was no different. I stayed until five o’clock sharp, not indulging even a small break in pattern.
It was pretty much torture to wait, and when it was time to go, I had to rein in the urge to rush to my car.
The entire drive there, I kept asking myself: What on earth are you doing? Why did you agree to this, no matter the justification?
No matter the temptation.
This didn’t fit in with any of my plans, small scale or large.
Going over to have him cook me dinner. Just he and I, alone.
No pretenses, or none that I could convince myself weren’t bogus.
How could we call this anything but a date? How could we act like this, of all things, was purely platonic?
This tarnished facade that we were calling a friendship was quickly coming clean, before it had really even begun.
I was disappointed in myself, because that pretense, if nothing else, would have let me have more time with him.
My self-control, in the face of this blissful infatuation, had no chance at all.
His house was intimidating, but I should have anticipated that. It was common knowledge that he had one of the best contracts in town and was paid handsomely for his talent.
It had its own gate and a long drive up to the actual house. Dayum, the man must be loaded. It was a hard concept to reconcile in my mind. We’d been so young and poor together, back in the day.
He met me at the door before I even knocked. He beamed at me.
I took him in. He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, but still a dress shirt. And slacks. It was so strange that I just gaped at him for a moment. Where was my T-shirt and jeans rocker?
“You look amazing,” he told me, bending to kiss my cheek before I saw it coming. He was in and out in a flash, too fast for me to take exception.
“You too,” I said through numb lips and a suddenly dry throat. “Did you just come from a meeting or something?”
“Nope. Been cooking for hours.” He pulled me inside.
I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas. I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.
“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes. “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”
His smile was playful. “You’ve been missing out, boo. Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”
“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”