Recluse (Wolfes of Manhattan 2)

“That’ll be our food,” I said, walking to the door.

I quickly paid and brought the food to the kitchen, where Charlie had taken a seat at my small table. I pushed the newspaper and several books to the side.

“Sorry for the mess.”

“No worries. Looks like my place.” Then she reddened. “I didn’t mean… My place is nothing like this. It’s tiny, and—”

“Charlie, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” I pulled containers of food out from the bag.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“Nope.” I stood and brought some paper plates and plastic utensils to the table. “Not too classy, huh?”

“Classy enough. No dishes to do. Of course, not a friend to the environment.”

“These are all recyclable.”

“Oh. Good.”

I handed her a plate of food. “I hope you like it.”

She inhaled. “It smells divine, and as you can tell from my stomach’s behavior earlier, I’m famished.”

I smiled. Listening to her tummy growl while I was painting her had given her a human side that actually helped me. I’d been thinking of her as this ethereal creature, something above humanity, because of her dazzling silver eyes.

As I looked at her now, I couldn’t process how she didn’t see her own beauty, which was why I’d wanted her to describe mine.

If she could see mine and put it into words, maybe she could begin to see her own. She’d called me amazing-looking, and while it was a huge compliment and warmed me—a lot—she hadn’t actually done what I’d asked.

“Go ahead and eat,” I said. “Later you can tell me what it is about me that pleases your senses.”

She stared at me then. Stared hard. “There’s nothing about you that doesn’t please my senses—if you’re talking about the five senses, I mean.”

“Why are you limiting it to the five senses?”

She reddened. “Well, you were kind of rude when I got here.”

“It was nine at night.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you were rude for showing up at a virtual stranger’s house at that hour.”

I berated myself inwardly. Why was I reverting to asshole mode? I was attracted to this woman. I liked her. I’d just fucked her, for God’s sake.

She huffed. “It’s New York!”

“So?”

She put down her plastic fork and shook her head. “You know, I’m starving, but I’m not going to sit here and take this shit from you. I can’t believe I let you fuck me. This is not who I am.”

I had to fix this. Quickly. God, I sucked with women.

I searched frantically inside my brain for the perfect words to say, but all I could come up with was, “Don’t go.”

“Why shouldn’t I?

Yeah, I needed an answer to that. An answer that wouldn’t paint me as an asshole with zilch experience with women.

“Because you’re hungry.” I said.

“You’re unbelievable.” She stood. “I’m starving. You’re right. But suddenly the company is making me kind of nauseated.”

“Don’t go,” I said again, this time more strongly. “Please.”

“Please? Why? You tell me I’m beautiful. You make love to me. You order me food at midnight. You speak in beautiful words about art and about life…but then you can’t stop yourself from being a jerk. What’s up with you, anyway?”

If only I could give her an honest answer.

But I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

“I want you to stay. I want you to eat until you’re full and satisfied. And then I want to take you into my bedroom.”

“I have work tomorrow.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t work there.”

“Still, I work. Besides, there’s another big meeting tomorrow at ten, during which I suspect we’ll get just as much nothing done as we did today.”

That made her laugh—an adorable laugh because clearly she hadn’t wanted to laugh at all.

I smiled at her.

“You’re impossible,” she said.

“I won’t deny it.”

“I’m going to finish my dinner. Then I’m leaving.”

“Have it your way, but you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you find so amazing about me.”

She regarded me, an indignant look on her face, and then she shoveled pad thai into her mouth. She was challenging me. Challenging me to make her say something. Challenging me to make her stay.

Fine. I’d accept the challenge. We sat quietly as we both finished our food.

When both our plates were clean, I met her gaze.

She swallowed, placed her plastic utensils on top of her empty paper plate, and returned my stare.

“Your eyes,” she said. “They’re so dark they’re almost black, and I swear to God they get darker when you look at me as intensely as you are now. I know that’s physically not possible, but they do. Your hair. So long and silky. It’s perfect. Not one tiny bit of frizz. Women would kill to have that hair, Roy. Your nose is perfectly aquiline, reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David. And those forearms… Muscular and corded. You know? Other women can have their biceps and traps. Give me a good forearm any day.”