Sebring

“What are you doing, Livvie?” I whispered.

But even doing so, without delay, I pushed open my door and swung my carnation pink patent leather Jimmy Choo, spike-heeled pump out.

I got out of my car. I beeped the locks. I walked up the iron steps. And I stood in the recess, knocking on the big, square door.

I dropped my hand and my head, staring at the pointed toes of my fabulous pumps peeking out from the bootleg hems of my expertly faded (because I bought them that way), low-rise jeans.

“I should not be here,” I whispered to my toes.

You are not hard to look at.

I squeezed my eyes tight.

You’re sharp and smart and funny.

I swallowed.

And straight up, I’d rather sit around eatin’ spaghetti talkin’ to you while lookin’ at you before I fuck you than sit in my place by myself waitin’ for you to show and climb on my dick.

Maybe I could do this.

Because he could do this.

He didn’t want any attachments.

He knew the boundaries.

He wanted nothing to do with my family (smart man) and he wanted my family to have nothing to do with him (again, smart).

He knew. He knew he existed in our world the way he did, which was providing integral services to people who could afford them.

And he knew I existed in our world as part of my family’s business which was just plain toxic in our world and any other (thus he wanted nothing to do with it).

He’d keep me on the straight and narrow.

I heard a loud noise that sounded like scraping steel and then another one that sounded like heavy steel rolling on steel. I lifted my head and watched the door slide to the side.

Like last night when he’d shown for the first time wearing jeans, a Henley and a leather jacket rather than opening the door in a dress shirt and nice trousers, Nick Sebring was at home in comfort.

Thus casual.

Tonight, not a nice Henley and faded jeans.

Faded jeans and what appeared to be a cobalt blue V-neck cashmere sweater.

At the sight of him my clit started tingling.

“Yeah,” he whispered and the tone of that word made my gaze go from his wide chest to his face.

My stomach turned over.

His eyes stopped traveling the length of me and cut back to my face.

“Rather look at you while I’m eatin’ spaghetti than do it alone,” he finished.

That felt nice.

No, I should not be there.

“Uh…hey,” I pushed out.

His mouth quirked, he took one step toward me, grabbed my hand and pulled me in.

I heard the sound of scraping metal again as the door was being rolled back as well as the bolt being turned.

But I was looking around the space.

Deeply distressed, thus deeply attractive gleaming wide plank floors.

To the right, a couple of steps up through a wide exposed brick arch, a room that held a king-size bed. This space was large and illuminated only slightly by a modern lamp on the nightstand that gave off a reddish-pink glow as well as the outside lights coming in the huge arched, multipaned window that was at the front of the unit.

His bedroom area held masculine, sturdy, wood furniture, all with minimal design but what design it had held a bent toward a modern that would turn classic, not go out of style.

To the left, a seating/TV area with another enormous window and beyond that, colossal open space. This space included a kitchen with stainless steel countertops and appliances, black cabinets and an enormous butcher-block topped island. It also included a modern dining room table with high backed chairs that seated six, as well as an area beyond that was set up with a desk facing the room, a desk that, from the scatterings on its top, was used.

The back wall was also exposed brick.

Inward and to the right was another wide brick arch with step up that led, from my vantage point, to space that held workout equipment.

I took it all in, noting the only incongruous piece in the entirety of the place, including incidental furniture, rugs and wall art, was a beat-up old La-Z-Boy recliner in the seating area.

Even the mouthwatering smell of garlic and spices that was wafting from gleaming and steaming pots in the kitchen, the enormous-bowled, fine-stemmed, tall red wineglass and breathing bottle of wine sitting on the bar and the plethora of salad paraphernalia, foodstuffs and half-drunk glass of wine on the butcher-block island were utter perfection.

It was like a professionally dressed movie set for the interesting hot guy with trustworthy eyes and a fantastic body who the heroine was sure was too good for her. Until, of course, he convinces her she’s worth the time he’s going to spend getting her in his king-size bed in his fantastic bedroom space and making beautiful love to her.

A movie where, at the end, he’d have no problem leaving that fabulous unit to buy a four bedroom house in a trendy country setting (that’s more like a suburb) whereupon they’d immediately adopt a Labrador puppy and start making a family.

When in real life the man who owned and decorated (or oversaw the decoration) of a place such as this would have zero tolerance for a clueless heroine he had to train. Instead, he’d only have eyes for a woman confident in every aspect of her life. He would also never end up in a trendy country setting that was actually a suburb. He might eventually end up in a mini-mansion much like mine or a country house that had already been completely refurbished so he could start raising horses without delay, but never a trendy country setting.

And if he adopted a dog, he’d pick whatever breed struck his fancy, as long as it wasn’t too happy-crazy-bouncy and the dog was fine with either going with him everywhere he went like a hot guy canine sidekick or being chill hanging out and waiting for Dad to come home.