With all the metallic pipes, concrete, and structural joints shining through, the space should feel cold and uninviting. But it’s not. The furniture is dark and chunky and plush. Richly colored rugs cover the wide-plank ebony flooring. Thick drapes frame the multistory wall of windows in sections. Jesus, those curtains must be forty-feet long.
There’s a lot of brick—the walls, the fireplace, the base of the massive kitchen island. Overhead, skylights glow with sunlight between the splintery wood beams. And like his office, there are no photos or personal keepsakes. His parents are dead, yet there isn’t a sign of their life together displayed anywhere in this room. Maybe I’m the only one who needs a shrine of pictures to cope with grief?
“Do you have siblings?” I approach the couch, stopping a few feet in front of him, locked in eye contact.
“I’m an only child.”
Is that why he’s so rigid? He never learned how to share or play with others?
His black pants are starched to crispness, even after squeezing in and out of the Midget. Who irons his clothes? A butler? A maid? Whatever woman slept over the night before?
Stop it, Danni.
“Sit.” He pats the cushion beside him.
“If you talk to me like a dog, I might crawl onto your lap and lick your face.”
He holds his arms out, as if welcoming my threat.
Baffling, volatile man.
I’m reminded of our scorching kiss and how much I already miss the feel of his velvety lips. But the cold shoulder I received immediately after he stuck his tongue down my throat prompts me to choose the spot beside him.
“I didn’t take you for a Bud Light guy.” I reach for the beer.
“I’m not.” He sips from his bottle and makes a face. “But you like it.”
How did he—? Oh, right. I was drinking beer the first night he came to my house.
His attention to detail is uncanny. And creepy. And kind of endearing.
“You stocked your fridge,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair, “knowing I’d come here?”
“Yes.” A devious flicker dances in his eyes.
Before I can question him further, the elevator dings.
Three servers bustle out, dressed in suits and carrying trays of domed platters. I stand, and Trace joins me.
“People can come and go,” I whisper, “right into your penthouse?”
“I can lock the elevator with the push of a button.” He moves toward the kitchen. “I hope you like Moroccan cuisine.”
“I do.” Suspicion narrows my gaze. “When did you order food?”
“At the homeless shelter, when you sent me outside.”
The servers leave as quietly and quickly as they arrived, and I recognize one of them from Bissara.
When the elevator shuts, I turn to Trace. “This is the fine dining cuisine you’ll be serving in the new restaurant?”
“Yes. A few samples of the dishes.” He extends an arm toward the platters. “Dig in. You haven’t eaten all day.”
The rich scent of spices permeates the room, an infusion of lemon, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. My mouth waters as we pile our plates with zaalouk, couscous, beef, lamb, anchovy, and unleavened pan-fried bread.
I follow him back to the couch, balancing the heavy dish in my hands. “I think I need a bigger plate.”
“Or a bigger stomach.”
“Oh, no. I’ll eat all of this. Watch and learn.”
I moan and hum throughout the meal without a single decipherable word. Fuck me, it’s good. Better than good. The old Bissara wouldn’t have been able to compete with this.
When the last crumb is scraped from my plate, I lean back and attempt to untangle the knots in my hair. Nothing’s taming this shit without a brush.
“Did you hire a new chef?” I ask.
“I brought in a New York chef to design the cuisine and teach the existing chef how to prepare it.”
“Wow. That’s…really nice of you. I’m sure the Bissara chef was relieved to keep his job.”
“He kept his job because he works for next to nothing. I’m running a business, Danni, and I make decisions based on profit. Not emotion. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“Of course.” I grit my teeth. “I almost thought of you as human for a second. My bad.”
I move to collect the dirty plates, but he beats me to it, stacking them and carrying them to the kitchen. I stay on the couch as he makes a phone call, his timbre too low to make out what he’s saying.
He tilts the mouthpiece away from his chin and catches my gaze from across the room. “You left the prescription in the car. Do you need it brought up?”
“No, it’s not for me.”
Virginia won’t run out of her arthritis pills for a few days. Besides, I need to leave soon. Playing house with Trace Savoy is wreaking havoc on my already confused brain.
“That’ll be all,” he says into the phone, ends the call, and returns to the couch.
“Thanks for dinner.” I stand, tugging on the short hem of my cut-offs. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me.
“Why?”
“Watch a movie with me.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder.
“What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek.
I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around.
He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”
My pulse spikes. “Why did you suggest that one?”
“You have the movie poster framed in your bedroom.”
Oh. Duh. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”
His thumb moves over the remote, his attention on the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”
“No way.” I press a hand against my heart as excitement percolates through my blood. “How in the ever-loving world is that possible?”
“It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without the experience,” he says dryly.
“No shit.” I trip over his legs in my hurry to climb onto the couch beside him. “Prepare to be blown away.”
And just like that, I’m committed to spending the next hour and forty minutes with Trace Dirty-Dancing-Virgin Savoy.
As he rents the movie, the elevator chimes again. What now?
He hands me the remote and crosses the room to greet whomever steps off the lift. I can’t see around his tall frame, so I crane my neck and lean.
The same three servers sweep through the kitchen, gathering the platters and dirty dishes. But they’re not alone. Someone stands on the other side of Trace. When he shifts, long slender legs come into view. A form-fitting skirt suit encases a curvy body. Dark brown hair falls around slender shoulders. Golden skin glows on a face I’m not thrilled to see.
Marlo Vogt hands him a black gift bag, and as they exchange words too quiet for my ears, her fingers slip around his waist, resting on his hip with familiarity.
My stomach cramps, but I can’t look away. Because I’m a fucking masochist.
In five-inch heels, she’s only an inch or so shorter than him. They look like they belong together. Dressed to the nines. Elegant postures. Perfectly coiffed. Beautiful. I want to gag.