“Yeah,” he replied sheepishly. “My mom set it. I better call her or she’ll just keep blowing up my phone. Take your time.”
I stared after him, admiring his big naked body—that gorgeous ass, muscular back, broad shoulders. Trent Mackay was all man, and my cock definitely approved. It twitched as if signaling readiness for round two. I cupped my balls with a sigh. Not yet, but I might as well face facts.…I was going to need a lot more of exactly what we’d just done to get him out of my system.
This was far from over. For me, anyway. I might need to convince Trent, though. After last night, he had to have clued in that I wasn’t exactly a catch.
Sure, I was successful and I had money in the bank, but I’d inadvertently opened Pandora’s box and revealed some ugly truths. I was hopelessly damaged goods. But I could make a casual sexual alliance worth his while.
I studied the chipped, dingy white tile and concocted a few scenarios while I showered. Then I toweled off and redressed in a daze, aware of the deep timbre of his voice from the next room.
“…yeah, I know, but I haven’t had time and the recipe looked complicated. C’mon, don’t worry. I eat. I eat a lot. The last thing I need is more pasta. You got a quinoa recipe?” Trent burst into laughter and held his phone from his ear, nodding a greeting my way with a rueful shake of the head. “Yeah, Ma, I was kidding. I don’t know how to make quinoa either. Listen, I gotta go. Love you.”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
Trent set his phone on the kitchen peninsula and pulled his jeans on. “You didn’t. My mom can talk for hours about nothing in particular.”
“Like quinoa?”
“She can’t even say the word right. She calls it quin-ona.” He snickered. “We were at some bougie café on Third Street a few months ago and let me tell ya, my mom comes in one volume and it’s loud. So needless to say, when Mom yelled, ‘There’s no quin-ona in this twenty-dollar salad, is there?’ I was kinda mortified.”
I grinned. “You don’t sound mortified.”
“I’m not. I love that she says what everyone else is thinking. Want coffee?”
“Uh…no, thanks. I don’t have much time.” I glanced at my watch and narrowed my gaze thoughtfully. “What are you doing today?”
“I have a shift at the restaurant tonight. Otherwise, nothing much.”
“What about tomorrow? Or the next day?”
“I’m not sure.” Trent gave me a suspicious once-over as he buttoned his jeans. “Why?”
“Well, I was thinking…you should come to London with me,” I blurted.
Shit, did I really say that out loud?
Trent froze, his fingers still on that button. The same fingers he’d stretched me open and fucked me with and— Nope. Don’t go there. Just sell him on how freaking awesome a trip overseas could be. With me.
“Is my hearing off, or did you say something crazy?”
“It’s not so crazy. I’ll tell Charlie that I could use your British expertise.”
His WTF expression was comical, but I wasn’t joking. I’d given the matter sufficient thought in the shower and concluded…why the hell not? What if we just went with a “Trent is my fake boyfriend” story? It was a less significant and less titillating tale than the Pierce Story.
“As you know, I’m no expert.”
“But you’ve read a lot of Shakespeare, and your English lit collection is impressive.”
“So is my murder mystery collection, but I haven’t killed anyone…yet,” he snarked. “I’m flattered by the invite, but like most normal people, I can’t afford a last-minute plane ticket to Europe. And I’m pretty sure my assignment with Charlie is to stay away from you.”
“What if the assignment changed?” I asked carefully.
He frowned. “Are you up to something?”
“No, I’m greedy. And I like you.”
Trent smiled, caressing my cheek sweetly. “Right back atcha. But I’m not going to England with you.”
Huh. Most men in his position would have jumped at that opportunity. And that was how they’d view it…as an opportunity.
“Okay.” I leaned into his touch like a love-hungry cat, then stepped aside. “Well…thank you for last night. Thanks for the ride and for not calling for a straight-jacket when I went off the rails.”
“It was my pleasure. Let me get you some coffee.”
We were cautiously casual, chatting about the weather and why Kahlúa reminded him of airports or something silly like that. Our good-bye was awkward as hell. Neither knew how to address the obvious shift between us. So we left it alone.
And it didn’t feel right.
Look, I wasn’t the sentimental type. I liked to think I was a pro at rolling with the punches. Life doled out lemons every day, and my job was to make lemonade. Or better yet, lemon merengue pie. Never mind, I didn’t like lemon merengue, but you get the idea.