Page 25 of Drive Me Crazy
Yep. I offered to let Ella stay with me … again. The first time, I hadn’t offered. She’d pretty much forced her way there. Thistime is all me. Honestly, I don’t mind her company and Chef Nicola keeps asking about her, anyway.
Before my brain knows what my fingers are doing, I’m texting my driver to meet me out front. And before my legs register the command, I’m walking into my house. I don’t know why I’m so worried. Or mad.
MUSIC ECHOES off the walls as I make my way to the kitchen. Maybe she’s listening to it while she works? I don’t know why she’d be working right now, but she’s a workaholic, so it wouldn’t surprise me too much. All I know is that if she brought a fucking bloke back to my place, I will absolutely lose any ounce of cool I have. I should’ve checked to see if Elliot Stabler was actually a fictional character or not.
Not much can prepare me for what I see.
Ella is dancing barefoot on the granite island in the middle of my kitchen like it’s her own personal stage. The way her hips shake is absolutely tantalizing, rooting me in my spot. I can’t move. My feet become cinderblock, stuck to the floor, impervious to my mind telling them to fucking walk. Singing into a kitchen spoon, rocking her hips to a Britney Spears song, she looks positively carefree. Wild hair falls out of the pink scrunchie trying to keep it in place. She missed the party of the year for a dance party of one.
I’ve never been so grateful my kitchen is open concept with no door. It allows me to watch Ella from the comfort of the shadows. She’s too lost in her own world to notice me anyway. I’m not sure how many songs I stay there for. Two, three? Five? All I know is I’ve seen Ella dance to pretty much every genre of music, from Broadway show tunes to Y2K rap.
I finally cough to announce myself, but it backfires terribly. She jumps back, smacking her head on a hanging pendantlight. The rough sound mixes with the music and I’m in front of her instantaneously.
“Shit, are you okay, love?”
“I may have a concussion.” She massages the back of her head where a bump will undoubtedly form. “So, ask me again in ten minutes.”
Ignoring my offer to help her off the island, she instead chooses to hop down and almost break her ankle in the process. We stare at each other for a full thirty seconds without speaking. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the other’s presence. Her nipples poke through her shirt and I can’t help when my eyes drift down. She crosses her arms over her chest in response.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask.
“Nothing.” Her cheeks burn bright red. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“It’s my house.”
She fights the urge to sass me but quickly loses. “Well, it’s my dance party.”
There’s no use trying not to laugh. Her smart mouth never ceases to keep me on my toes. “Your dance party?”
“I’m not waving around a spoon for fun. It’s my microphone.” Everything about her face saysduh. Ah, of course. Silly me. I notice her eyes look red and puffy; she’s been crying. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a night of partying.”
I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Making sure she’s okay? Finding out why she’s at my house instead of out? Avoiding the party because as much as I hate to admit it, it’s getting a little old? I answer her question with a question. “In the mood for an adventure?”
Her teeth trap her bottom lip as she considers it. Is it really that hard of a decision? Continue dancing half naked in mykitchen by herself or go on an adventure in Monaco with me, an extremely attractive man,with an accent.
“Okay.” Uncertainty marks her words, but it doesn’t stop a grin of practiced charm from flitting across my lips. “Just let me put on pants.”
“Are you sure?” I’m quite enjoying the view of her tanned legs peeking out from underneath the oversized Chicago Cubs shirt hanging on her petite frame like a dress. “Those are optional.”
“If I didn’t invite you to my dance party, why would I want to go to a no-pants party with you?”
Bare feet pad across the floor as she power walks to her room. Not her room, my room. The room in my house that she’s currently staying in.Whatever.
The incessant roar of fireworks makes it hard for conversation, so I settle into the back seat of my car as my driver pulls out of the driveway. From my vantage point, I have the perfect view of Ella’s profile as she rests her head against the window. I’m not sure if it’s the way she carries herself, or how gorgeous she is, or the fact that the only action I’ve gotten in a while is from my hand, but I can’t look away.
Ella taps her pointer finger against the cold glass. “Doesn’t that one kind of look like … you know?”
I lift my brows and wait for her to give me some sort of explanation.
Huffing out a sigh, she says, “Sperm.”
“Sperm?” It comes out dumbly as if I’ve never heard the word.
“Do we need to have the birds and the bees talk, Blake?” she teases. “Look! Look!”
The powerful burst of white does indeed look like drips of jizz. I’m more concerned that she notices this than that she’s right.
“It sort of does.”
