Three Sweet Nothings (Blindfold Club 5)
(Double-tap text messages to read larger.)
Did he have any qualms about sending the message? Probably not. I tried to draft a sassy response, but couldn’t do it easily and didn’t have time. I had to tackle the willing list, and there were several items on there that required Googling.
Later, I was down on my ha
nds and knees, digging through my hall closet for my one missing ankle boot, when a knock came from my front door. It sent my stomach plummeting and soaring all at once.
It’d only been a few hours since I’d seen him, so it’d been forever and yet not enough time when I opened the door and gazed at him. He had on dark, inky jeans and an olive green sweater, covered with a tailored and expensive-looking leather jacket. My mouth wanted to water at the sight of my new partner.
His gaze drifted downward, noting my ivory oversized sweater with a cowl neckline that I wore over shiny black leggings. He seemed to approve of my outfit until he reached my feet, and saw how I was standing on an angle.
“Hi. You forgot something.”
“I know.” I motioned for him to come in and limped awkwardly back to my hall closet on one shoe, digging through the clutter. When I finally was victorious, I glanced up at him. “Are you staring at my ass?”
His tone was matter-of-fact. “Your ass is outstanding.”
I laughed softly and pushed away the flutters his heated gaze gave me, while struggling to get the other boot on. When I took my outstanding ass away from his view, he moved on to look at the rest of the space. The kitchen was straight back, and to the right was the living room. My left wall was covered in a mishmash of colorful frames.
It was pictures of my family, my friends, my time at college and law school. It’d taken me over a week to arrange and hang all thirty of them, and I loved how it came out. Yet Kyle peered at it critically. His focus lingered on the picture of me with Grant at my graduation.
“Where are we going?” I asked, yanking my coat down from a hanger and slipping it on.
“The Bedford. Have you been?”
“No.” I grabbed my purse. “But I’m ready when you are.”
My apartment was on the third floor over a shoe store, and the street was always busy during the day with shoppers, and at night with bar-goers. I followed Kyle down the stairs in the narrow hallway and out the main door, where we were violated with frigid winter air and the hum of cars traveling the street.
“I had to park a few blocks down,” he said, leading me along the sidewalk where our shoes crunched over rock salt. I banded my arms tight over my stomach as if I could hold the warmth inside my coat better, even though it was already buttoned up.
We crossed two intersections, and the headlights flicked on and off on the SUV parked at the curb. “This is me.”
Of course it was. The beautiful black Range Rover looked practically new. Street lights gleamed off its pristine body, defying the salt covered asphalt around us. Like his luxury vehicle was too nice to get dirty, immune to the snow plow sludge.
“What happened to the Acura?” We’d had some fun together in the back seat of his car during our year together.
“I sold it when I moved back.” He opened the passenger door for me, but I didn’t move to get in. “What’s wrong?”
“No. No romance.”
He glanced from me, to the open door, and back again, his expression broadcasting disbelief. But I held my ground, firm. This wasn’t supposed to be a date.
“Why don’t you get in and we can discuss where it’s warmer than ten degrees.”
He had a point. Why did he have to have so many perfect points? I got into the passenger seat and grumbled to myself as he shut the door and hurried around the front of the Rover. Dammit, his SUV was nice. All sexy leather and luxury, and probably a bigger back seat than his old Acura . . .
“Okay.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, which purred instead of roared. “Explain why me being a gentleman has you upset.”
“No dates, no flowers, no opening doors. This,” I motioned between us, “is just sex.” I needed to keep him firmly compartmentalized, or my feelings would stray into a muddy, gray area of emotion.
His expression was smug. “Please point out to me where in our agreement it says I can’t do anything you label as romantic.”
My face twisted as I tried to recall the exact wording he’d used in the text. Surely it was in the non-negotiable final paragraph.
But, was it?
Oh, shit. No. It wasn’t.