“Come on in.” Nick stepped aside so I could enter, and closed the door behind me. “I wanted to change out of my work shirt, so I left the door open in case I was upstairs when you got here.” He slipped his arms into the sleeves of the plaid shirt but didn’t button it.
Setting my purse and little suitcase down, I took in the huge airy space, marveling at its two-story ceilings, gleaming wood floors, red brick walls, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows arched at the top. It was beautiful—and almost completely empty.
No couch, no chairs, no tables. Just a huge flat screen TV mounted on a brick wall, and an enormous white fluffy thing in the middle of the floor. “You’re a Minimalist, I see. Is that…a bean bag?” Curious, I moved closer to it. “It’s huge!”
“It’s amazing.”
I glanced sideways at him. “Couldn’t you afford a couch?”
“This is way better than a couch,” he scoffed, rolling up his sleeves. “Go ahead, try it.”
I was tempted—it actually did look plush and comfortable, and it had to be six feet across—but for the life of me, I could not think of a graceful way to sit on it. My dress was so fitted, I’d have to sort of just fall backward and plop into it. “Maybe later,” I said, strolling toward the windows to admire the twinkling lights of nighttime Detroit. “Wow, your view is incredible. This whole place is incredible, actually. It just needs some furniture.”
“Thanks. I like this apartment too; I’m just not here very often, which is why I haven’t bought much.” Nick came to the windows and stood next to me. My body responded to his nearness involuntarily—a tightness in my chest, a shortness of breath. “And I’m not really sure how long I’ll be here.”
I turned to him. “You’re thinking of moving?”
He looked at me, his hands in his pockets, and something about his body language suggested he was keeping them there for a reason. “I’m thinking of doing a lot of things.”
Me. Too.
What would happen if I took a step closer? Would his hands come out of his pockets? Would they pull me in or hold me at length? Suddenly I had to know.
Before I could think it through—and this is the problem with me—I swayed toward him, lips parted.
Nick cleared his throat and took a step back. “Want something to drink?”
Disappointed and trying not to show it, I rocked back on my heels and smiled too brightly. “Sure.” What the hell are you doing? You made the rule— you have to stick to it
While he went over to the kitchen, which took up one entire side of the apartment, I peered up at the open loft above it, which was accessed by a wooden staircase with no back slats and appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by wires. Is that where he slept?
Don’t even think about it.
Moving over to the island, I slid onto one of three stools—the only real seating in the entire place— propped my chin in my hand, and looked around the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of his apartment, it appeared to be fully appointed, as if he’d moved in here with only his clothing, his pots and pans, and his spice rack.
It was beautiful, of course—stone counters, stainless appliances, glass tile backsplash. The cabinets were a deep brown wood, the hardware chrome.
Above the island hung a gorgeous bronze Art Deco light fixture with frosted amber glass shades. “I love that,” I said, gesturing toward it. “Was it here when you moved in?”
“Yeah, it was. It was salvaged from the original building, they told me. It’s what sold me on this place.” Turning his back to me, he retrieved two old- fashioned glasses from a glass-paned cabinet.
“That’s so cool.” The fixture lent a little touch of glamour to the overall feel of the kitchen, which was luxurious and masculine at the same time. Nick looked perfect in it. “You’ve done really well, Nick. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” He poured a few fingers of scotch into each glass. “You’ve done well, too. I hear Devine Events is very successful and you’re excellent at your job.”
“Oh?” I arched a brow. “And how did you hear that?”
Sliding a glass toward me, he said casually, “Lucas told me.”
“You asked Lucas about me?”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Maybe once or twice.”
“I see.” I made a mental note to ask Lucas exactly how many times Nick had asked about me, what his exact words were, and what exactly had been said to him in return.
Nick picked up his scotch. “Try this.”
I lifted mine and inhaled the aroma. Part sweet, part spice. My mouth watered. I glanced at the bottle to see what it was. “Auchentoshan Virgin Oak?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a thing for virgins.”
“Don’t I know it.” I sipped, closing my eyes and letting the scotch roll seductively over my tongue before swallowing. “Mmmm. Delicious. I love it.”
“I thought you would.” He took another drink before turning away to switch on one of his double ovens.
I put my glass to my nose and breathed in again, half annoyed and half flattered that he’d know my taste in scotch, or even that he thought he would. While I sipped again, Nick pulled out a battered black binder from a drawer, its pages spilling out.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Noni’s old recipe book. It has the cake recipe in it that she used to make for all our birthdays. She gave the book to me a few years ago but she made me promise not to tell my aunts or cousins.” From another cupboard he took out a mixing bowl, measuring cups and spoons, and an old hand mixer, which surprised me.
“Don’t you have one of those fancy KitchenAid things on a stand?”
“Nah. I like this one.” He pulled the beater attachments from a drawer and nudged it closed with his hip. For some reason the movement sent a spike of lust straight through my core. “I need it to do the frosting on the stove anyway.”
“You’re even making the frosting from scratch? I’m impressed.”
He smiled as he attached the beaters to the mixer. “Good.”
Curious, I got off the chair and wandered around to Nick’s side of the island. “Can I look at the book?”
“Sure.” He pushed it toward me and I opened it, careful not to lose any of the scraps of paper and recipe cards stuck in the front. Gingerly I began turning the pages, keenly aware of the fact that Nick had moved behind me in order to look over my shoulder, definitely standing closer than a friend would. I could smell him.
Chewing my bottom lip, I tried hard to focus on the recipes and not on the proximity of my ass to his dick. The other voice in my head, the one that liked to speak up when I was watching QVC or trying to decline the dessert tray at Andiamo, said, If you arched your back just a little, pretended like you were stretching, you could totally “accidentally” rub your butt on his crotch. See if he’s hard.
I willed that voice to shut up and go away, since I didn’t need any additional temptation where Nick was concerned. I turned a few more pages, smiling at the names of Noni’s favorite dishes. “This is amazing. Some of these look really old.” The pages were yellowed and brittle, the recipes painstakingly written out in spidery cursive on notebook paper stained over time by splatters and spills. “Kitty’s Deviled Hamburgers. Bride’s Pie. Papa Joe’s Gravy.”
“Yeah, that one’s old for sure. Papa Joe was my Great-Grandpa Lupo, which would have been Noni’s father-in-law. He was a great cook, ran an Italian restaurant downtown for years.”
I glanced back at him, and my forehead nearly hit his chin, he was so close. “Really? I never knew that. I thought your family was from Bay City.”
“Noni’s family was from up there. But she was a Bosco who married a Lupo. The first Lupos in this country lived in Detroit, near Eastern Market. They ran a restaurant.” Nick took another sip of his scotch before stepping away from me to pull ingredients from the fridge—butter, sour cream, eggs.
“Really? What a coincidence. Or maybe not—guess it’s in your blood, huh?” I sat down ag
ain, admiring the smooth, confident way he moved around the kitchen, remembering how he used to cook for me at my apartment in college. The best meals were the eggs and bacon he’d fry up at three AM after several good bouts of hot, sweaty sex. If there was anything better than bacon after sex, I had yet to discover it.
“Actually, the Lupo history is pretty interesting,” Nick went on. “Papa Joe was a bootlegger during Prohibition. Ran whiskey from Canada.”
I gasped. “Stop it. Really? That’s so cool! I can’t believe you never told me about that.”
“I wasn’t really interested in family history back then, but I love it now. My mom found some old photos for me, and I’m having prints made to hang at my restaurant. You know, people even say I look like him. My great-grandfather, I mean.” He opened a high cupboard, taking out flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.
“Yeah? Got a picture I can see?”
He carried the dry ingredients over to the island. “I do, actually. On my iPad, which is upstairs. I’ll get it.” He kept talking as he made his way over to the steps. “I think it’s a wedding picture.”
I clapped my hands and took off after him, too impatient to wait for him to come down. “I want to see!”
Nick climbed the staircase ahead of me, and despite the insubstantial look of them, I was happy to note that they did not sway or jiggle. I followed him up, which gave me a nice eye-level view of his ass. At the top of the stairs, he switched on the light and pulled his iPad from a black leather messenger bag on the floor next to his bed.
While he looked for the photo, I glanced around at the sleeping loft. The head of his platform bed, queen-sized from the looks of it, was pushed up against the brick wall and neatly made up with plain white sheets. He makes his bed now. That’s different.
It’s been seven years, Coco. He’s probably matured in a lot of ways, just like you have.
But I bet he’s still phenomenal in bed.
Heat rushed my face. Blood rushed my core. I crossed my arms and my legs, squeezing my thighs together against the ache that was building there.
“OK, come here and look. I found it.” He went over and sat on the bed, holding the iPad on his lap, and I walked over and lowered myself beside him, careful not to sit too close.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, putting a hand over my heart. “You do look like him. And what a gorgeous picture. When was that?” It was indeed a wedding photo, black and white and pretty old from the looks of it, although the digital copy appeared to have been restored. The groom, whose wide mouth, full lips, and dark eyes were eerily like Nick’s, wore a black suit, and his diminutive bride stood next to him. She wore a simple but lovely white lace dress with a high neck and short sleeves, and a sash around her small waist.
“I’m not sure. Nineteen twenty-something? My grandfather was born around nineteen twenty-five, I think, so they must have been married by then.”
“Look how little she is.” I pointed at the petite woman, whose skin was so fair it looked translucent. She had wide eyes and a lovely heart-shaped face. Her lips were dark, as if she wore deep red lipstick.
Immediately I felt she and I were kindred spirits. She was smiling—they both were, which seemed unusual for such an old photo. Most of the time, people in old photographs look pretty miserable, but this couple was truly happy, you could just tell. Something like grief squeezed my heart, which was ridiculous. What did I have to be sad about?
“Yeah, she was little. Her nickname was Tiny. I don’t even know what her real name was. She died when I was just a few years old.”
I looked at him. “You don’t know your great- grandmother’s real name? That’s not right. We have to find out, I want to know about her.”
He smiled, his eyes still on the picture. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Because she wears red lipstick. Because they look so happy. Because I think it’s interesting,” I said as he laughed at my reasoning. I thumped his leg. ”Have you forgotten I was a history major? I eat this kind of stuff up.”
His eyes, light and shining, met mine. “I haven’t forgotten anything about you, cupcake.”
My heart stopped.
I willed him to lean closer, to whisper my name, to touch my lips with his…but he didn’t.
“We’ll ask Noni about her this weekend,” he went on. “And speaking of Noni, we better go make that cake. It’s after ten already.”
I swallowed. “OK.”
But he didn’t move, and I didn’t either. I couldn’t. My stomach muscles were clenched so tight it almost hurt. He looked at my lips, so I licked them, let them fall open. Tipped my chin up, ever so slightly. Come on, Nick. Kiss me, already.
He smiled. “You totally want me to kiss you right now.”
Shrinking back, I slapped him on the shoulder. “I do not!”
“You did, you so did,” he said, laughing as he stood up. He tossed the iPad onto his bed. “You licked your lips.”
Steaming mad, I clenched my fists at my sides and trailed him down the steps and back into the kitchen. He was so fucking infuriating! “That doesn’t mean I wanted you to kiss me. Because I don’t.”
“Oh no?” He whirled around and grabbed me hard by the shoulders. His lips hovered over mine. “Then tell me not to kiss you,” he said, his breath warm and soft on my mouth. “Say it’s against the rules. Say you don’t want it.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why did he have to play these kinds of games? I knew what he was doing—he wanted me as badly as I wanted him, but he wanted it to be my idea so he wouldn’t look like the asshole. So he could say that I was the one who broke the rules. That I was the one who wanted him more.
No way.
He was either going to take me the way I wanted to be taken or not at all. I wasn’t going to offer him a fucking invitation, not after what he’d done.
“I don’t want it.” The lie slid out through clenched teeth.
He paused before letting go of me. “Good.
Because I don’t want it either.”
Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out and grabbed his crotch. Beneath his jeans, his cock was thick and hard and totally erect.
I smiled wickedly. “Liar.”
Satisfied with his awestruck expression, I removed my hand and turned to the ingredients lined up on the island. “Well, don’t just stand there. We’ve got a cake to bake, remember?”
“Coco.” He said my name with enough force to make me wonder if he was angry at what I’d done. I faced him again and saw his hands fisted at his sides. And there was something other than shock in his eyes. They were darker than they’d been a moment ago, making my nether regions tingle. And was it the oven making it so hot in here?
I felt for the counter behind me. “Yes, friend?”
Rushing toward me, he wrapped his hands tightly around my head. “Don’t.” Then he crushed his mouth against mine, igniting a fire within me that consumed any lingering doubts or desire to play the coquette. I threw my arms around him and molded my lips and body to his. Later we’d probably argue over who started this, but right now all I could think about was getting closer to him.
We kissed like it was the first time, like we were back in his truck and we couldn’t believe we’d just met, like we’d better get our fill of each other because such insane chemistry couldn’t possibly last—surely it would burn out as quickly as it sparked.
But God, God, it felt good.
“Nick,” I whispered as his mouth, that incredible, luscious mouth that had taught me so much about pleasure, moved down my throat. He closed his fingers in my hair, sending needles prickling across my scalp and down my spine. I tugged at the blue shirt, impatient to feel his skin against mine, to wrap myself around him, to get him inside me.
He dropped his arms and I shoved the shirt from his shoulders, but as it dropped to the floor, he did too, sinking to his knees in front of me. Breathing hard, I watched him slide his hands up the outsides of my thighs, pushing the dress to my hips. “C
hrist, this body,” he whispered, resting his forehead against my white lace panties. His hands flexed on my hips. “I’ve dreamed about this.”
“You have?” My fingers threaded through his thick dark hair.
“Yes. And this.” He kissed me through the lace. “And this.” He dragged the panties down to my knees. “And especially this.” He slid his tongue between my legs, which nearly buckled at the first firm, wet stroke.
At the second stroke, they began to tremble.
By the third, I wasn’t even sure I had legs.
“It feels so good, Nick,” I whimpered. “I don’t think I can stand.”
“Fuck standing.” He yanked my underwear all the way down and I stepped out of them, holding onto his shoulders for balance. As he stood, he reached behind me and hitched my legs up around his hips, my dress riding all the way up to my waist. Our mouths and tongues collided, and I locked my ankles behind him. God, I’d missed this. I’d missed everything about him.
He set me on the edge of the island and I clawed at his white tank, breaking our breathless kiss only to whip the shirt over his head. At first I was so ecstatic to feel his hot skin under my palms, I thought of nothing but running my hands all over his chest and torso and back. Every curve and line on his body begged to be touched, kissed, licked.
Oh yes. There would be licking tonight. I didn’t care if we were just friends, I was going to lick this man up, down, and sideways. I was going to trace his tattoos with my tongue, savor every inch of him, drink every last drop—
And then I remembered.
Taking him by the shoulders, I held him away from me slightly so I could look at his chest, which rose and fell with ragged breaths.
I inhaled sharply.
My name was still there.
My throat tightened. I reached up and ran my fingers over it, black cursive letters on smooth golden skin. Other, unfamiliar tattoos marked his body— animals and symbols and words I’d examine later in delicious detail—but for now, the only one I saw was the one he’d gotten on our ill-fated wedding day. “You still have it.”
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