Their eyes locked and held, and she studied him as though looking for something. He didn’t know what the fuck it was, but apparently she found it.
She lowered primly to a bar stool. “I could eat.”
She was staying.
The relief that went through him was as potent as it was alarming, and Luc inhaled a deep breath. He started to open the fridge, but there was something he needed to do first. Something he needed to say.
He advanced on her, noting the way her brown eyes went both wary and aroused as he neared. He nearly smiled. Good to know that strange push-pull effect was mutual.
Luc moved around her, pivoting the spinning seat of the bar stool so she was facing him. He started to put both hands on the counter to pin her against him, but at the last second his hands seemed to have other ideas and he gently cupped her face.
“Sims.”
“Moretti.”
He smiled at her tart response. Damn, he liked her.
“I like you.”
Her eyes went a little wide. “I like you—”
“Uh uh, let me finish.” His thumbs stroked over her cheekbones. “And I like your body a hell of a lot, but when I asked you to come over…it wasn’t about that.”
She arched an eyebrow.
He laughed. “Okay it wasn’t just about that. Just because I’m not looking for the whole long-term, love and marriage thing doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the company of a female. A particular female,” he added.
“So you’re using me for sex and companionship,” she said, her voice wonderfully free of feminine outrage.
“Are you okay with that?”
“Depends.” Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, her eyes affectionate. “Do I get to use you for sex and companionship?”
He leaned down to nuzzle her neck. “I sure as fuck hope so.”
“Then it’s a deal,” she said, pushing him backward playfully.
“You should also use me for my cooking skills,” Luc said, resuming his quest to make them something to eat.
“That whole Italian thing rubbed off on you, huh?”
“It did. As long as you like pasta.”
“I do.”
He held up two boxes. “Linguini or rigatoni?”
“Surprise me,” she said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands.
He set the linguine back on the shelf, then set the rigatoni next to the stove. Without missing a beat, he pulled a recently opened bottle of Chianti off the counter and poured them each a glass.
Ava lifted her glass to his. “To using each other.”
Luc grinned. Yes. He liked this one. He clinked his glass lightly against hers. “To using each other.”
Their eyes locked as they took a sip, and a tiny sliver of unease ran along his spine as he acknowledged the one not so minor detail that neither would address.
Using each other…
For how long?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Avie, baby. What the hell, where you been?”
Ava sighed around the straw of her iced coffee. She’d been unusually lucky these past couple weeks; her times at the studio had conveniently not overlapped with Davis’s time in the office.
It would seem her luck was out.
She plastered a smile on her face, spinning around in her chair to face him. Unnecessary. He was already in his usual position on her desk, crowding her space with chunky thighs and a leering grin.
“I’ve been working,” she said, carefully keeping the edge out of her voice. Davis had this annoying way of thinking that his female reporters should be both drumming up prime stories while simultaneously being in the studio where he could see—ogle—them. Not so much with the male reporters who had all sorts of leeway in their schedules.
“So tell me about the cop thing,” he said, picking up her drink and taking a long slurp.
There went $4.72 down the drain. No way was she touching it now.
“It’s going well. I have all the footage for the first and second hours. Lots of interviews with the NYPD, more than enough for my day-in-the-life section, following around Luc and Sawyer.”