Mason
I can hear her up there, moving around. It’s making me crazy. I know she slept there last night, because I saw the movers bring her bed up the back stairs. So why isn’t she coming down here?
I scowl and reach for the remote, turning on the game just to drown out the sounds of her feet crossing the floor.
It was probably stupid to tell her to come down when she was settled in. Who knows when that will be? And I shouldn’t have made hanging out into a teaching thing; what if she really doesn’t want to learn? I still want to hang out with her, and I should have just said that.
I want to do a lot more than hang out with her. Why else would I have stayed home tonight, instead of going to Gastrique? So here I sit, hoping she’ll come down and knock on the door, and that’s just …
It’s stupid.
She was obviously into me. A little flustered maybe, but in no way unwilling or disinterested.
Yeah. I’m being stupid.
I stand and take two steps toward the back door—the one that leads out onto the patio and the back stairs to Claire’s apartment—but before I can get any further than that, there’s a soft knock at the door. I stop for a moment, then cross quickly to open it.
It’s her. She’s in a t-shirt and stretch pants, and shivering.
“Hey.” Her smile is sweet, and a little shy. “You said to come knock when I was ready.”
My blood begins to hum. So she’s ready, is she?
Because holy shit, so am I.
“If you still want to,” she adds hurriedly. “I don’t want to impose, but on the other hand it would be rude to ignore the offer, if you meant it.”
“I meant it.” I step back and gesture her in. “Come in for a second. It’s freezing.”
She steps in. “This is nice,” she says, looking around. “And wow, your kitchen makes mine look like a Fisher Price play kitchen.”
She’s not wrong; I’ve got two cooktops, two ovens, commercial-grade appliances—I’m not fucking around here. In my downtime, I do a lot of experimenting and brainstorming ideas for the restaurant.
Not that I’ve had a lot of downtime lately. But when Knives Out wraps at the end of this season, I’ll have some again.
I look at Claire and figure I can come up with a way to fill some of that time.
But for now—cooking. I move toward the kitchen, calling back over my shoulder. “Do you have any food up there?”
“I do,” she says. “I don’t know if any of it is what you’ll need, but I … well, I printed a list off the internet. Like, fancy pantry staples.”
I’m glad my back is to her; that’s ridiculously adorable and I can’t help smiling. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.
“Tomatoes?” I ask.
“Canned, sun-dried, and paste in a tube,” she says.
“Perfect.” I pull down a wire produce basket and toss in a couple things from the fridge, a couple spices. Turning, I snag a bottle of bubbly out of the wine fridge and walk back to Claire, who’s still standing near the door. “Hold this?”
She takes the champagne, and I cup my free hand around the back of her neck, pulling her toward me and up on her toes to kiss her. Slowly, thoroughly. She sighs against my mouth and leans into the kiss. I want to fist my hand in her hair, maybe bite that succulent bottom lip, but I don’t. I just explore her mouth, feeling her go pliant against me. Her soft, floral scent surrounds us, and there’s no sound except our breaths in between kisses.
Finally, I pull back. “Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way…”
Looking dazed, she touches the tips of her fingers to her mouth. It’s impossibly erotic, that feather-brush across her swollen lips, and the look in her eyes as she meets my gaze has me swelling in my jeans.
“Out of the way,” she repeats slowly.
“Yeah,” I say. “If I didn’t do that now, I was going to want to do it the whole time we’re cooking. Sharp knives, hot liquids—it’s not a good place to be distracted thinking about how your mouth tastes.”
“Oh,” she breathes, barely a whisper. “Okay.”
Hugging the champagne bottle to her chest, she turns and walks out the door, with me right behind her. I follow her up the stairs, very much appreciating the sway of her hips and the curve of her very excellent ass. I barely notice the cold, because the view is warming me up quite nicely.
Inside, her apartment is a riot of color: brick red and sky blue, with splashes of darker blue in throw pillows and the area carpet between the sofa and TV. It’s bold and classy, as I suspect she is. I like it very much.
“This is nice,” I say.
“I’m only hopeless in the kitchen,” she says. “The rest of the house, I’m not too bad at.”
I can’t help it. “I’m sure you’re good in every room,” I say.
She draws a quick breath, then the smallest of smiles flits across her lips. “We’ll see,” she says.
You bet your ass we will.
“But first, I need to rummage through your drawers.”
“Is that a euphemism?” she says, her eyes flirty.
“It could be,” I say, and I can’t resist leaning over and nipping quickly at that sexy bottom lip. “But I like to think I have a bit more finesse than to call what I’m going to do to you rummaging.”
“Fair point,” she says, and reaches out to take my face in both her hands. “You have to understand something, though.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not generally so quick to let someone rummage through my drawers. This thing I’m feeling right now … I like it, and I want to explore it. But I’m not great at sharing, Mason. If we’re going to, you know, get involved”—she uses air quotes, which makes me smile—“there can’t be anyone else at the same time.”
“Understood.” I brush a hand over her hair. “There’s no one else.”
“There’s no one else for me, either.”
I want to tell her there won’t be—not for a long time. I don’t know how I know, but I do. What’s happening here is going to be serious. Forever? Who knows; who can know so quickly? But she put hooks in me from the moment I saw her, and I’m not letting her go until I’ve had enough.
And I’ve got a feeling there might never be enough.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I hold her gaze with mine, and say: “Let’s get cooking.”