He holds his arm upward and glances at his cast. “It’s difficult to eat with a retired right hand,” he says.
“I’m not feeding you pie.” I scowl, but lower myself down next to him anyway. I nudge him for being shameless enough to ask. “You’re spoiled. Who spoiled you? Your first? Lisa?”
“Not really.”
“You loved her?”
“I worshipped her.” He glances at me with his most somber expression, the one that makes his face look extra chiseled. “Do you love Trent?” he asks.
He looks so intently at me you’d think that discovering my answer is his reason for living.
“I don’t know, I mean it takes a while to love someone like that. I really like him. I want to love him.” I’m tempted to tell him that Trent and I are on a break, but I don’t want him to ask any questions, so I don’t.
“Does he love you?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“You know because he tells you that he does.”
“He hasn’t told me.” I turn my face away and glance at the Van Gogh over the limestone mantel. “What are the words worth, anyway? Paul told me a million times, until he added don’t before the L word.”
His voice flattens with displeasure. “But we’re not going to talk or even think about that motherfucker anymore. He’s…fish food.”
I laugh. “Oh, Tahoe.” I sigh and drop my head back and stare at his ceiling as he does the same. “Were you unfaithful to her?”
There’s a frown in his voice, and a bit of a scoff too. “Yeah, Regina, ’cause that’s what you do to a woman you worship.”
Neither of us lift our heads as we continue staring at the ceiling—a beautiful ceiling with thick wood beams. “Tahoe, come on. You can’t keep it in your pants, you have too much testosterone.”
“I keep it in my pants with you.”
The comment makes me too aware of what he has in his pants. And I sense him turn his head to look at my profile.
I swallow. “Because I have a boyfriend, and we’re friends, and there’s Rachel and Saint.”
I turn my gaze to his, and he eyes me. He’s so close that I can see the light blue flecks inside the darker color of his eyes. “I don’t think you love Davis,” he says.
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t have kissed me like you did on New Year’s.”
“We were both drunk.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t that drunk.”
I sit up and scowl. “You weren’t?”
He sits up too, and shakes his head.
The sudden mix of honesty and raw hunger in his eyes hits me somewhere in my chest, and I feel suddenly vulnerable.
“I’m going to get some water. Do you want some?”
I don’t wait for a reply. I don’t know where exactly the kitchen is, but I don’t really care. I need to get away.
I walk around, trying to locate it. I navigate my way through the apartment until I find the kitchen. I find a water glass after looking through all twenty cabinets.
I’m unsettled.
Just knowing I’m here, the place where he sleeps, works, showers. Just knowing he is close to me right now… here, in this decadent guy cave, does some serious things to me.
I shudder and return to my water.
I grab the glass and head to the faucet to fill it, then start taking a long gulp when I see a dark figure to my left.
I was so lost in thought and I’m so startled, I hear glass shatter, a dark rumbling voice telling me not to move, and the beat of my heart.
“God, T-Rex—!” I start.
“My fault,” he interjects, eyeing me cautiously. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”
I want to say that it was my fault until I realize I did nothing wrong, so instead I laugh and say, “Yeah. It was.”
He looks at me and smiles. “Go get a fresh shirt from my closet, I’ll clean this up.”
I hesitate only a second before deciding I don’t want to stay soaked and therefore I head out of the kitchen, down the hall in search of his bedroom.
I pause at the threshold and peer inside, taking in the massive bed and modern decor. It’s dark outside, only the lights of the city illuminating the room, and the moon casting a gray-blue light on Tahoe’s bed.
Unwillingly I picture him lying there—lying there beautiful and naked—and I instantly chide my brain for coming up with the image in the first place, especially when I have never imagined Trent like that.
I search the drawers and then settle for a long-sleeved White Sox T-shirt, and when I slip it on, something on one of the twin nightstands catches my eye.
It’s my photograph, right next to his watch and his wallet. The one where I’m looking at the camera, looking vulnerable and caught by surprise.
I try to ignore the hot little clench in my stomach as I force myself to head back to the kitchen.
Tahoe stands by the kitchen window, staring at the Chicago skyline with a clenched jaw, as if he’s trying to control some inner frustration.
Every sharp angle and smooth curve of his face is beautifully outlined in the dark. His blue eyes practically glow when he turns and sees me in his White Sox T-shirt. Something raw and hot flashes in his gaze for the briefest second before he quells it. I can’t breathe.