Get your mind out of the gutter, Stewart.
Sylvie’s relationship with her boss turned sour, but this was different. First, Jett wasn’t married. Second, we had a contract, so there would never be any sort of confusion. And last, Sylvie had assumed she was having a romantic relationship and that Ryan loved her. Jett and I had nothing but a sexual arrangement that was tailored to our needs and suited the both of us.
The pro points began to dominate, or maybe it was the way I subconsciously wanted to progress. Somehow I knew I’d accept Jett’s offer before I admitted it to myself.
The screen of my smartphone lit up with a text message from Sylvie. I skimmed its contents about an important looking letter that had arrived on the day of my departure. Deciding it wasn’t important, I made a mental note to call her later. My stomach grumbled, and I realized not only had I wasted my afternoon obsessing over a decision that had been made the moment Jett entered The Black Rose, but I had also skipped lunch.
Night was slowly falling, and a million stars dotted the black skyline. The air had noticeably cooled down, making me shiver in my thin shirt and skirt. I changed into a pair of blue jeans and a red snugly pullover, and made my way downstairs to find something to eat.
***
The scent of pasta, fresh pesto, and seafood hit my nostrils the moment I descended the stairs and turned right, following the narrow hall to the kitchen. Was Jett cooking? Hardly likely. I had yet to meet a man who could do more than warm up macaroni and cheese. He probably had a chef at his beck and call, and good for him. And me, because I was famished.
Through the open door I heard the clanking sound of pots and pans being hazardously moved around. Whoever was cooking had a hard time not breaking anything in the process. I gently knocked on the door, then pushed it open and froze to the spot as I took in the picture before me. Jett, dressed in blue jeans and a white tee, was standing in the middle of a cream-colored state of the art kitchen that looked like it cost more than I had made at Sunrise Properties in a year. The place was a mess—with dirty pots piling up in the sink, dishes, chopping boards, kitchen utensils, and flour littering the work surfaces.
“Hey.” He barely looked up as he dove his fingers into a pot of hot water and fished out a thin green Fettuccine band and popped it into his mouth. I stared at him as he chewed slowly, his brows furrowed as though he couldn’t decide whether the pasta was boiled to perfection or needed another minute. In the end he nodded, satisfied, and emptied the pot into a stainless steel colander.
“Need help?” I inched forward, then stopped in mid-stride, my breath catching in my throat as he turned to me with a dazzling smile that made me want to throw myself into his arms and beg him to do whatever he wanted to do to me. Moistening my lips, I took a step back but didn’t avert my gaze. His feet were bare; his blue jeans hung low on his hips. His hair was damp from the heat, and the muscles of his torso were clearly visible beneath the white snug cotton of his tee. But what drew my immediate attention was the tattoo covering his upper left arm. I hadn’t noticed it the morning I woke up with him in my room, maybe because his left side had been turned away from me and there were so many other things that had captured my attention, like his barely covered modesty.
I inched closer to peer at it, but didn’t dare touch him. The solid black curves ended in points and interlocked in a complex pattern that looked like your usual tribal tattoo, only there was something about it that seemed odd. Right in the middle of it, the swirls combined to resemble a face surrounded by tiny leaves. For some reason it seemed strange that Jett had a tattoo. Judging from his business reputation and the fact that he had no problem signing a sex contract, I figured him as your usual I-don’t-love-just-fuck type, but the tattoo made it seem as though he had a past people didn’t know about. I wondered whether his confidence was the result of once being a bad boy. Maybe his assertiveness wasn’t just cockiness. Maybe he dared take what he wanted because his past had taught him he could.
“Brooke?”
Jett’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts. I peered up into his deep eyes the color of green marble, only now realizing he had been speaking to me.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked whether you liked seafood.”
“Seafood’s great, thanks.”
Something shimmered in his gaze. He regarded me in silence for a moment, his expression indecipherable. And then his mysterious mood shifted, and a lazy smile lit up his face. “I gave the chef the evening off.”
“Why?” I leaned against the counter and watched him decorate the plates by pouring a thin layer of cream sauce onto the white china and then drawing thin, concentric circles with a teaspoon.
“Why not?” He shrugged, as though no further explanation was necessary. “We’re in Italy.”