The light changes, and the GPS announces that Brady needs to turn left in a quarter of a mile.
“We’re close to my apartment now,” I say, the warmth in my chest continuing to spread across my body as I think of how Brady wants to kiss me.
“Good. And before you think I’m going to go all rake on you, pin you to the sofa, and kiss you until I can’t take a single breath, you can stop right there. I do intend to get to know you this evening. Your mind first.”
“My God, you are a gentleman and a rake,” I declare.
Damn. That sounds like an excellent book. I should write that.
Too bad the only thing I can write is professional non-fiction articles.
Brady grins. “A gentleman and a rake. Contradictory. I like it.”
I do, too, I think as I stare at him. I do, too.
Soon, we are parking by my apartment building. I clear my throat as we get out of the car, and Brady comes around to greet me on the sidewalk.
“I was going to open your door for you,” he says, staring down at me with a glimmer in his eyes.
“Thank you, but you don’t have to do that for me. I can not only open my own car door, but I expect to.”
“Oh, I know you can, but I like opening them for you,” he says. “Keeps up my gentleman status, you know.”
Brady places his hand on the small of my back. Once again, electricity flows through me the second his hand makes contact with my body. What is it about Brady that has me so acutely attuned to his every touch? To the way he looks at me? The way his mouth forms different smiles based upon what I’m saying?
My God, it’s different, I realize as my head spins.
I lead the way up to the small building. “I’m afraid my apartment is going to be very small to you if you have a nice new place in the Navy Yard. It’s been renovated recently, of course, but it’s tiny.”
“As long as I can walk around without stooping, it’s all good,” Brady declares. “That has been a problem for me. I made sure my apartment here has a high ceiling, so I do not always have to duck.”
I know he’s 6’5” from his stats on Google. As I crane my neck to look up at him, I can’t help but giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asks as we troop up the narrow wooden staircase to my floor.
“That you picked an apartment so you don’t have to lower your head, yet you’re here with me, and I’m super short, so you have to stoop over to whisper in my ear.”
Or kiss me, I add to myself.
We reach the landing, and Brady puts his hand on mine, pulling me to a stop. He puts one hand on my cheek and oh so slowly lowers his head down toward my ear.
“Do I look like I mind bending down to do this?” he whispers, his breath once again hot and rushing deliciously over my skin as he speaks.
“No,” I murmur back.
“Because I don’t,” he whispers again, his words tickling my ear.
Then he slowly rises, gazing down at me. “So we have that settled, yes?”
I’m so besotted with this man.
“Yes,” I reply, unable to formulate a full sentence.
“Good.”
I lead him to my door and retrieve my key, turning it in the lock. We step inside, and Brady shuts the door behind us as we enter.
The room is dark but illuminated by the light from the streetlight near my window, shining through the curtains and providing just enough light so I can see where to walk. I move over to the end table next to the sofa and turn on the table lamp.
“As you can see, this is my living room, dining room, and kitchen,” I joke, as all three rooms are tiny and right on top of each other. I come back to the entryway, where I have little hooks next to the door, and slip out of my coat and hang it up. Brady does the same, and I can’t help but notice he smiles as he sees the hooks.
“At my place, the coat is tossed on to the sofa,” he says, hanging up his coat next to mine.
“Oh, no, everything has a place,” I say, shaking my head.
Brady’s lips twitch with amusement. “In your world, I see that it does.”
He moves to the center of the living room, his eyes taking in the space. My décor is based on my love for blue and white. I watch as he first studies the living room, with my chambray love seat and oversized chair for two, both filled with pillows in shades of blue, with white cable-knit blankets across the back. The white and glass coffee table, with a drawer that slides out. Inside the drawer, which you can see if you look down on the glass top, I’ve put books on decorating. My art is a large silver-rimmed mirror over the sofa, adorned by antique blue-and-white Delftware plates hanging all around it. He turns around and moves toward the two bookcases on both sides of my TV. One is crammed full of romances, and the other has my nonfiction books.
Brady inspects them closely, his fingertips moving carefully over the well-worn spines of the paperbacks I have kept.
“You re-read your books,” he says softly.
“The spines give me away,” I reply.
Brady retrieves one from the shelf. “Saving a Rake,” he says, pulling out the title. “You have a thing for rakes, don’t you?”
I’m glad the room is only softly illuminated, or he’d see me blushing.
“There’s something to be said for a man changed when he falls in love,” I say.
“Hmm,” Brady says, placing it back on the shelf. He moves farther, carefully examining the books, and pulls out another one. “The Rake Who Loved Me, by Penelope Davis Scott. You must have really liked this one—the spine is nearly cracked in half.”
“The rake in that one was intriguing,” I admit.
He chuckles softly. “He must have been.”
“Are you going to read all my book titles?”
“Perhaps,” Brady says, still scanning over the spines of the books. “I find this deep dive rather fascinating.”
To my surprise, he even bends down and examines the bottom shelf.
“The next bookcase has non-Regency books,” I add helpfully.
“Don’t rush me; I’m calculating the ratio of rake to viscount titles,” he teases.
I can’t help but grin. Brady rises and moves to the next bookcase.
“Ah! We have cookbooks,” he says excitedly. “And books on how to scrapbook. Knit. Soap-making?” He turns around and studies me. “Do you do all these things?”
I screw up my face. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, I tried all those things out as hobbies, but they didn’t quite work out.”
“How so?”
Oh, lord.
“Don’t you want to see Willy and Petey?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
Brady casually leans against the bookcase. “I do, but I want to hear about these craft books.”
I let out a groan. “I’m still trying to find the perfect craft for a hobby. Those weren’t it.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “They weren’t?”
Okay, I know I said I was all about the deep dive and being truthful, but does he need to know I nearly blew up my apartment with a soap-making incident?
No. No, he doesn’t.
“Sometimes, they sound way more interesting in the gathering stage.”
“Gathering stage?”
“You know, when you discover a new hobby, and you go all-in at the craft store. Finding all the supplies. Figuring out what you can make. Joining groups on Connectivity to talk about your crafts. That part is fun. But then you get started and … well, I either get bored, impatient, or the craft turns out like crap and ends up in the Box of Fail.”