Page 33 of My Sexy Boss
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
A bemused smile played on his lips. “No worries. And you were right. The zucchini bread was delicious.”
I knew my face was turning all kinds of red and pink. I seemed to get that way a lot around Trace, and I suspected he loved making me squirm. Grabbing my keys, I pushed my chair back. “I have to get going.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I have some stuff to do.” I pointed at his computer case. “And you probably have things to do too.”
“I’d rather sit here and talk with you,” he said.
“I have to go to the Embarcadero to pick up some things at the farmers’ market before it closes.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe we’ve never run into each other before. We go to all the same places. I’ll take you there. I need to pick some things up too.”
My brain told me to beg off and just go on my own, but my body shivered at the anticipation of spending more time with him. “Okay,” I said, a thread of elation winding around me when his face lit up like a little boy’s on Christmas morning.
For the rest of the day, we roamed the front and back of the Ferry Building, checking out the vendors, tasting various samples, and laughing a lot. It was one of the best days I’d had in a very long time. When we got back to Trace’s car, which was a wicked-ass black rose metallic Corvette, he took my bags of vegetables, cheeses, jams, olive oil, artisan bread, two double chocolate brownies, and several handmade bars of soap and placed them in the trunk alongside his one small bag of avocados and bananas. A part of me suspected he hadn’t had any plans to go to the farmers’ market, and that gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.
When he unloaded the trunk in front of my apartment building, the late afternoon air had a sting to it. I zipped up my hoodie and held my arms out for the bags.
“I’ll take them up for you.” He slammed the trunk and walked to the front door.
“What about your car?” A sense of relief came over me for having the good sense to clean my apartment earlier in the morning.
“Is there a garage in your building?”
I shook my head. “Parking is a real bitch around here.”
“Is there a lot nearby?”
“There’s one around the corner, but it’s pretty expensive.” When he laughed and jumped back into the car, I realized that what was expensive for me was pocket change for him.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in my apartment unloading the grocery bags. I still couldn’t believe he was in my space helping me put vegetables in the fridge and jars of jalapeño and blackberry jam in the cupboard. After everything was put away, he took the beer I handed him, went into my small living room, and sat on the couch. Looking around, he said, “I really like your place and what you’ve done with it.”
“Thanks.” I sat in the chair next to the couch. “I love it here, especially the bay window.”
He glanced at the window seat and curved panels of glass and nodded. “It adds a sense of the old San Francisco along with the crown molding. It’s nice and so opposite my place. Mine is ultra-modern.”
“No bay windows?” I smiled.
“Only floor-to-ceiling.”
“I bet the view is spectacular.”
“It is. That’s what sold me on it.” He glanced at the phonograph in the back of the room and a grin broke over his face. “I haven’t seen a record player since I was a kid. My grandparents used to have one when I was young and I was fascinated with it. They’ve since moved on to CD players.” He stood up and went over to it, then rummaged through the albums. “Cover art back in the sixties and seventies was unbeatable.” He pulled out one of my Bob Dylan albums. “I love this guy. I grew up on him, Springsteen, CCR, Buffalo Springfield, and a lot of others. My mom would play the songs and grab my hands, and we’d dance and dance around the ballroom in my grandparents’ house.” He lifted his head, a far-off look in his eyes. “Damn. I haven’t thought about that in years.”
“Do you want to put something on?”
“Yeah.”
The crackle of vinyl filled the air, and then the clear, haunting voice of Dylan broke through it. Trace came back to the couch, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes as the music played. His Adam’s apple vibrated as he mouthed the words to “Just Like a Woman,” and I wanted to run the tip of my tongue down his throat. I didn’t even notice that he’d opened his eyes until I sensed him looking at me. The blood rushed to my ears; his eyes were molten, burning with lust. I looked away, then met his gaze again. He blinked at me, a muscle tensing and then loosening in his jaw.
“Why’re you sitting so far away?” He patted the spot next to him. “I don’t bite. Well, I do, but I promise I won’t unless you want me to.”
My head reeled at the comment, and when I stood up, light-headedness made me sway and fall onto the couch. Catching me, he said in a low voice, “You always end up in my arms.”
As he brushed his fingers against me, goose bumps sped across my skin. I sank in his hold and cocked my head to the left. He swept my hair from my neck and then kissed it, just below my ear. The kiss was soft, tender, and it took my breath away. Then he moved his lips down to my shoulder, leaving a trail of soft, feathery kisses in their wake. I moaned and he pressed me closer to him. I ran my hands over the curves of his stomach and down the corded muscles of his arms.
