Then my eyes flit to hers and I can only think one thing:
She belongs here.
In my bed.
In my flat.
In my life.
It's ridiculous. There's no room for anyone in my life. No matter how badly I want to cancel my meeting and cook her breakfast.
I cooked for Laura.
I don't cook for anyone else.
"Morning." Eve pushes herself up. She pulls the sheet with her. Holds it against her chest. Shy again.
Driving me out of my fucking mind again.
"Are you leaving?" Her eyes move over me slowly. That same care and curiosity. "I guess it's a stupid question. Or maybe you hang out in that suit. I still haven't seen you in casual clothes."
"You saw me without a tie."
"Without a shirt."
"I can't help that you fell asleep before me and woke up after. I was naked."
"Were you really?" Her cheeks flush.
I shake my head. "Boxers."
"Hmmm." Her eyes light up with an epiphany.
Does she realize I had to wear something to keep myself from touching her? Or is there something else going on behind her gorgeous green eyes?
"I've never slept over before. Well, not with a guy. With my friends from high school. And the one who—" She motions to the tattoo on her forearm. "She rushes me out sometimes. Or she did. It's been awhile."
"You don't see her anymore?"
"I've been busy. Though… I guess I could now." Her voice shifts to a playful tone. "Or I could make an appointment for the couple's tattoo."
"Is that a dare, Miss Miller?"
"If it is?"
"Only one way to find out."
"I'll consider that." She scoots a little taller. Pulls the sheet a little higher. "Do I need to—"
"No. Stay as long as you want. The door locks on the way out. But if you stay until I'm back from work, I'll make it worth your while."
"Ah."
"There's tea in the kitchen. And porridge on the stove. That's what you prefer to eat?"
She nods. "Thank you."
"Take your time. I want to imagine you naked in my bed."
Her blush deepens. She shakes it off. Looks up at me. "Good morning. And I guess… goodbye." She lets her sheet fall as she scoots to the edge of the bed. Wraps her fingers around my tie. Tugs gently.
I bend enough to wrap my arms around her. Pull her upright. Hold her against me as I kiss her goodbye.
It's sweet, gentle, domestic.
Dizzying.
"What do I say here? Have a good day?" Her smile is soft. "Have a good day."
"You too."
She falls back into bed. Wraps herself in the white sheets. Watches me leave.
I try to put her out of mind as I walk to work—it's only a dozen blocks, no reason to take the subway.
When that fails, I try to imagine her tangled in my white sheets.
Her head thrown back, her hair falling over her eyes, her hand between her legs.
I try to imagine her groaning my name as she strokes herself to orgasm.
For a minute, I do. Then my mind shifts to unfamiliar places.
Eve groaning over her tea. Donning one of my shirts. Laughing at a TV show from the couch.
Pulling out her notebook, twirling a teal lock around her finger, chewing on the cap of her pen.
Making herself at home as she spills her thoughts.
As she finds everything I try to hide.
Chapter Thirty-One
Eve
I fall back asleep. Dream of a tall, dark, handsome stranger whisking me to his massive apartment and erasing my problems. Wake to the sun bouncing off the steel and glass. Casting light all over the airy room.
Plain walls, framed photos, white sheets.
Exactly what I expect of Ian. Only lacking in a personal touch.
Sure, the framed photos are nice—greyscale shots of Manhattan—but they aren't him.
He's not a man who loves the city. His heart is in London. No matter what he claims.
There isn't anything of him in the room. Only a closet full of pressed suits. Ties in every color. Dress shoes and belts in black and brown.
The man knows style. I guess we have that in common.
We know what our attire projects. Know how we're presenting ourselves. Take care in cultivating a shield that doesn't look like a shield.
He does have casual clothes in his dresser. Under the drawer of boxers—all black, mostly silk, some cotton.
Those fitted running pants.
Sweat wicking tanks.
Jeans.
T-shirts.
A pair of actual shorts.
It's hard to imagine Ian in shorts. What the hell is he going to wear to this beach party?
And why is he throwing a party in the Hamptons? Maybe it's for my sake. To show me off to his friends. Or show his friends off to me.
Maybe his motives are more simple. He wants to strip me out of my bikini and fuck me in the pool.
I don't exactly object.
There's something in the bottom drawer. A leather photo-book.
I leave it where I found it. Resist the urge to peel open the worn cover and run my fingers over old images.
He's twice my age. He's already lived an entire life.
Yes, I want to know every detail. To understand why he stayed married so long and divorced so quickly. To understand why he offered me half a million dollars for thirty days.
To understand him.
But it's not a good idea. This ends in less than four weeks. That's it. I never see him again. Never feel his rough touch. Never taste his soft lips. Never hear his dirty demands.
It's going to be hard enough giving that up.
If I fall for him?
Not considering it.
I put the photo book out of mind as I fix breakfast. The oatmeal warming on the stove is still good. There are raisins in the drawer next to the fridge. Cinnamon. Almond milk.
A mug of chai sitting on the counter. I add almond milk. Warm it in the microwave.
He made me tea and breakfast.
He bought this for me. An entire tin of Masala. Or maybe he already owned it. Maybe he's a man of eclectic tastes. Just because he orders Earl Grey or English Breakfast every time we—
No, I'm getting ahead of myself. The tea I like is in his cabinet because he wants me in his apartment.
Because he wants me naked in his bed.
Those are the terms of this agreement.
And I…
Well, I can't exactly complain.
I finish my breakfast. Wash the dishes. Leave them in the drying rack.
For a rich man with the world at his fingertips, Ian is surprisingly DIY. His entire kitchen is built for effort. No processed food. No dishwasher. No crock pot.
Pots, pans, spices, raw ingredients. The highest quality. Everything, always.
His military training or a love of cooking? Both, maybe. And maybe I shouldn't contemplate that. Or anything else about his life.
But I do. I look for something to wear in his dresser. Find an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of boxers. They're soft and smooth even if they're a little tight.
He's athletic—a broad chest, a tapered torso. I'm all hips and ass.
I move to the couch. Find the remote next to the flat-screen TV. Scan the available DVDs.
Quiet dramas with all sorts of subtext and pent-up suffering.