Page 43 of Wicked Design
“Exactly what the government’s food pyramid advised.”
“Hell no. This is a feast. Our feast. Come on.” He ushered her inside.
Chilled air grazed her. Willingly, she stepped into its cool embrace.
He flicked on the lights.
His man cave was pretty dull, especially for an artist. No lewd posters…not even any of his oils on the wall. A battered sofa dominated the space, flanked by two sorry-looking end tables and cheap lamps.
Clover loved the decor. “You shop in dumpsters like I do.”
“People throw out too much good stuff. A little Clorox with a Lysol chaser and most things are good to go again.” He put his bag on the cocktail table. “Take a load off. I’ll get us beers, unless you’d prefer tap water or orange juice.”
“Booze.” She put her backpack next to his bag. “Do you mind living like this?”
He peered over the refrigerator door. “You mean alone?”
An emotion she couldn’t read passed over his face. Possibly confusion, hope, or maybe dread that she might be angling to move in. Already. Although she wasn’t one to take things slowly and trouble over every detail, she wouldn’t throw herself at him. At least not too much. “Scaling down like you have. When you were with your folks, you lived large, right? Probably had a pool and everything.”
“Round-the-clock staff, too. A chef, housekeeper, and full crew for the fifteen acres surrounding the mansion.”
Only rock stars and Wall Streeters lived that well. “Never alone, huh? Thanks.” She accepted the beer and pressed the chilled bottle to her neck.
He finished his sip. “More like never a dull moment. There were more hook-ups between the staff than what goes on in Chicago Med.”
“No kidding? I need a spreadsheet to keep up with the romances, engagements, and breakups on that show. Did you ever talk to the people who worked for your parents, or did they grovel when they saw you?”
He laughed. “I wasn’t the crown prince. Believe me, my nannies had the upper hand and weren’t afraid to use it. Way harder than I spanked you.”
“You had nannies?”
“Called the first one Mama until Mom heard my faux pas. She set me straight fast then disappeared again. She and Dad were busy. Him with his corporate empire. Her with the conservative political groups plotting to take over the world.”
“That’s awful. Not their advocacy—that’s a whole other story—how they treated you. Judgmental, I know, but a kid needs parents. Mom nursed me well past my second birthday. I have the pictures. Want to see them?” She pulled out her phone.
“Ah…”
“I’m kidding, okay?” She put the device on the cocktail table. “Not about the photos. They’re real. Your stomach keeps growling.” The spicy burrito scent got to her, too. “Ready to eat?”
“Yep. You’ll be the appetizer.” He lifted her Betty Boop T-shirt. His eyes goggled. “Whoa.”
The bra was pretty. Red satin with white polka-dot netting and a center bow. A steal on eBay.
He fingered the satin strap. “Did you wear a matching thong?”
“Strip me and find out.”
Her tennies and shorts landed on the sofa. He draped her shirt over his shoulder. “Turn around.”
She struck a Betty Grable pose, matching the old-time star’s war poster, hands on her hips, face turned to the side, her smile coy yet inviting.
Van Gogh stared at Clover’s naked ass and pointed. “Never take that underwear off. I mean it.”
“Not even for sex?”
“We’ll work around it.” He cupped her butt. “God, I love thongs.”
“If you let me take mine off, you can wear it.”
