In one hand Tate held a glass of wine. In the other, a closed folding chair. He’d lost the blazer and the tie. Unfastened a couple of shirt buttons, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
Holy. Hell. The man filled out his clothes like every inch had been tailored for his body. His stance was easy and comfortable. He exuded confidence. Yet there was still a wounded air to him.
“Well, hi,” she said, smiling. “I was just thinking about you.”
“That’s nice to hear. But…what was the “lucky girl” about?”
She laughed and it came out flirtier—and dirtier—than she’d intended. “Um…”
A smile kicked up one side of his mouth. He leaned his weight into one hip and propped his shoulder against the doorframe.
The heat those simple moves whipped through Olivia’s belly was out of proportion to her experience with men. He simply shouldn’t be able to look so sexy, so easily.
“Come on,” he nudged, his voice soft. “I can take it.”
“I didn’t come out looking for you because I was sure you’d be gone,” Olivia said. “I haven’t seen so many stunning women together at one time since I catered an event for the winners of the women’s beach volleyball competition at the Olympics in Rio de Janeiro.”
Tate’s smile widened, his posture relaxed a little more. “Really.”
“They don’t call them Brazillian bombshells for nothin’.”
He laughed, loose and easy, and Olivia reaped great pleasure as the shadow in his eyes lightened. “Good to know.” He shook his head. “How did we get on that subject?”
“Me,” she said with a smile, “thinking you would have been swept away by one of those bombshells in the other room within thirty seconds of my disappearance into the kitchen. Figured some smart girl would have you locked in her bedroom by now, all those fancy clothes stripped away, checking out the real you with her…”
Olivia caught herself before anything completely shocking spilled from her mouth. “Oops.” She grinned at Tate’s frying-pan-to-the-head stare. “I forget…Americans work a little differently. My family always says I’m way too…forward…fresh off the plane.”
Tate gave his head a shake and laughed. “Americans.” He stepped onto the balcony and unfolded the chair. “That sounds strange coming from someone who is so obviously American. But the rest of it…the rest of was…” He lifted his gaze to hers, paused a second, then shook his head wearing a puzzled little smile. “Exactly what I’d like to be doing. With you.”
Excitement bubbled up out of nowhere, filling Olivia with joy, and she laughed, “Hell, you just made my whole night.”
He still looked a little shell shocked, and didn’t make any move toward her, so she forced her excitement into a simmer. She should really let the guy move at his own pace. He’d been surrounded all night by all his hockey buddies in a very testosterone-heavy crowd. He might not like her heavy-handed skip-the-forplay-lets-just-fuck style.
If he took too long to warm up, she’d nudge him.
He offered her the wine and gestured to the chair. “I figured you could probably use these after all the work it had to take to put that kind of food on those tables tonight. I’m not the only one who was blown away by the quality and creativity. It’s all anyone could talk about all night, and in a room full of hockey enthusiasts, that’s saying something. Doing it all without warning after flying in from Paris is nothing short of miraculous. I mean, maybe not to your fellow chefs back in France, but definitely to everyone here tonight. And I have to tell you, there were some damned high achievers filling that room. Not an easy crowd to impress.”
Olivia’s guts jumbled. All her thoughts of sex faded into the background. And now she was the one standing there with the frying-pan-to-the-head stare.
She was used to compliments on her looks, used to being wanted sexually by men. And yes, her culinary skills were praised…occasionally. Mostly in a you-got-the-job-done-well sort of way. But she wasn’t used to being seen by men. Very few men saw Olivia for her talent. Very few people appreciated her skill. Yet Tate had just done both, so succinctly, so smoothly, so effortlessly, it humbled her. This man who owed her nothing, had validated her in a way she felt all the way to the bone. In a way even her own family had never appreciated.
“Thank you,” she said softly, setting her empty glass on a small side table. She stepped forward to take the full one in his hand. “This is incredibly thoughtful.”
His grin turned lopsided again. “I’ve spent my share of too many hours in skates. They may not be high heels, but…” he shrugged. “Your legs and feet can’t be feeling too great right now.”
Oh.
Wow.
She’d never imagined such minor considerations could make her want a man so badly. But those sexual urges were back—with a wild vengeance. Now, she didn’t just want him. She had to have him.
Olivia stepped toward him instead of turning toward the chair. Before she could reach out to touch him, Tate scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Olivia pulled in a breath of surprise and held the wine away from her to keep it from spilling. He’d surprised her—again.
She laughed at the surge of excitement rushing her veins. Then his hard body registered. His heat penetrated her dress and slid along her skin. His sheer size and strength. And, God, his scent. He smelled richly male, a mix of sandalwood, citrus, spice and man.
And every lick of humor melted into desire.
“Give me a little time.” His quiet voice tingled over her skin and made her eyes roll back in her head. Made her sex clench. “I’ve been out of the game a while. I’m…still getting the feel of things.”