“Is that what you want? Do you want to be fucked, Blaire?”
I bat my eyelashes. “I’m afraid to answer you. I might not sound friendly enough.”
A growl rumbles from his throat as his hand reaches for my face. I hold my breath as his palm grows closer. It’s nearly to the side of my neck when the door chimes ring.
My breath exhales in one loud whoosh as his hand drops to his side. His eyes are alight with humor.
“Dinner’s here,” he says as his face breaks into a megawatt smile.
“You’re kidding me.”
He turns toward the door. “Hope you like Italian.”
“You’re just … gonna …”
I squirm as he walks toward the doorway. My thighs ache with an unsatisfied need. And the only way to sufficiently meet that need is on his way to answer a freaking door.
Holt pauses and turns around in the doorway. “Am I just gonna what? Leave you there? In the guest room? Where you wanted to be?”
My jaw hangs open.
The doorbell chimes again.
“I’m coming!” Holt shouts down the hallway.
“I’m glad one of us is.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “One more thing. In my house, I’m in control, Miss Gibson. Don’t forget that.”
With an aggravating, delicious wink, he disappears into the hallway. And I’m left reeling in the guest room. Just as I asked.
Dammit.
Fourteen
Holt
“I’m absolutely stuffed,” Blaire says.
She rests her head against the side of the leather armchair. Her dark hair splays against the material as she closes her eyes and sighs happily.
I finish the rest of my manicotti and then place the empty container on the coffee table between us. The meal was excellent, but the conversation was even better. Who knew that discussing criminal litigation over dinner could be so fun?
I pick up my wine and settle back on the sofa. Blaire looks right at home with her legs curled up under her. There’s a peace on her face—a look of pure contentment—that’s as lovely, or even lovelier, than when she’s smiling or laughing.
The cool, outside air breezes in through the open French doors. It’s offset by the soft warmth of the electric fireplace next to my companion.
“I could fall asleep right here,” she says, opening her eyes again.
“Do it then.”
She smiles a sleepy smile. “I’ve already been rude once today.”
The fireplace crackles next to her as she reaches over and picks up her wine glass. She takes a long sip and gazes around the room filled with some of my favorite items.
“This is my favorite room in your house,” she says. “Well, this is my favorite of the rooms I’ve seen so far. I’m not sure how many others there are.”
“This happens to be my favorite room as well. And I’ve seen all of them.”
She grins at my joke. “What makes it your favorite?”
“I don’t know. I think it just represents all the things I hoped this house would feel like when I bought it.”
“Which is …?”
I blow out a breath and take a sip of my wine.
Gazing around the room, I try to figure out why it’s my favorite part of the property. I’ve wondered this a number of times and never boiled it down to a simple answer.
“It has a good vibe,” I say, figuring that’s a good enough answer. But I should’ve known better.
Blaire presses her lips together. “Good try.”
“What do you mean good try?”
“I mean, that answer is insufficient.”
I laugh. “Remember that whole conversation we had earlier about you not making me feel like I’m at work?”
“Remember that whole conversation when you told me you wanted me to feel like we’re friends?” She cocks a brow. “So answer my question. Why is this room your favorite?”
I set my glass back down and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “This room reminds me of my grandmother’s library when I was a little boy. It had tray ceilings and these grand bookcases that she had stuffed with books. I’d stand in front of them and just revel in the colors of the spines. And she had this yellow birdcage with two finches with little orange faces.”
Blaire’s face softens. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It was. She was such a powerhouse and emitted this energy that just captured you when you got close to her. It was crazy. But then you stepped into her house, and it … it had this calmness. This tranquility, I guess. As though she left all the craziness of the world at the end of the driveway.”
“What was she like?”
I try to imagine summing up my grandmother in an easy word or phrase. The idea is almost hysterical.
She was a firecracker. The best adventurer. The best homemade pie baker and the dirtiest joke teller I’ve ever met. It’s impossible to condense her life and all that she was into one statement.
“Well, she was a lot of things,” I say slowly. “She owned a bookstore and managed a bank. But then she got into real estate after her father died, and she inherited a lot of money.” I stand and stretch my arms over my head. “She bought houses and sold them. She had a huge rental portfolio. One day, she broke down on the outside of town, and a homeless man changed her tire. It changed something in her. Soon after, she started a charity in town called Shelters for Savannah and donated all of her rentals to the cause.”