Page 25 of Forked (Frenched 2)
Me. Too.
What would happen if I took a step closer? Would his hands come out of his pockets? Would they pull me in or hold me at length? Suddenly I had to know.
Before I could think it through—and this is the problem with me—I swayed toward him, lips parted.
Nick cleared his throat and took a step back. “Want something to drink?”
Disappointed and trying not to show it, I rocked back on my heels and smiled too brightly. “Sure.” What the hell are you doing? You made the rule— you have to stick to it
While he went over to the kitchen, which took up one entire side of the apartment, I peered up at the open loft above it, which was accessed by a wooden staircase with no back slats and appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by wires. Is that where he slept?
Don’t even think about it.
Moving over to the island, I slid onto one of three stools—the only real seating in the entire place— propped my chin in my hand, and looked around the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of his apartment, it appeared to be fully appointed, as if he’d moved in here with only his clothing, his pots and pans, and his spice rack.
It was beautiful, of course—stone counters, stainless appliances, glass tile backsplash. The cabinets were a deep brown wood, the hardware chrome.
Above the island hung a gorgeous bronze Art Deco light fixture with frosted amber glass shades. “I love that,” I said, gesturing toward it. “Was it here when you moved in?”
“Yeah, it was. It was salvaged from the original building, they told me. It’s what sold me on this place.” Turning his back to me, he retrieved two old- fashioned glasses from a glass-paned cabinet.
“That’s so cool.” The fixture lent a little touch of glamour to the overall feel of the kitchen, which was luxurious and masculine at the same time. Nick looked perfect in it. “You’ve done really well, Nick. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” He poured a few fingers of scotch into each glass. “You’ve done well, too. I hear Devine Events is very successful and you’re excellent at your job.”
“Oh?” I arched a brow. “And how did you hear that?”
Sliding a glass toward me, he said casually, “Lucas told me.”
“You asked Lucas about me?”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Maybe once or twice.”
“I see.” I made a mental note to ask Lucas exactly how many times Nick had asked about me, what his exact words were, and what exactly had been said to him in return.
Nick picked up his scotch. “Try this.”
I lifted mine and inhaled the aroma. Part sweet, part spice. My mouth watered. I glanced at the bottle to see what it was. “Auchentoshan Virgin Oak?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a thing for virgins.”
“Don’t I know it.” I sipped, closing my eyes and letting the scotch roll seductively over my tongue before swallowing. “Mmmm. Delicious. I love it.”
“I thought you would.” He took another drink before turning away to switch on one of his double ovens.
I put my glass to my nose and breathed in again, half annoyed and half flattered that he’d know my taste in scotch, or even that he thought he would. While I sipped again, Nick pulled out a battered black binder from a drawer, its pages spilling out.
“What’s that?”
“It’s Noni’s old recipe book. It has the cake recipe in it that she used to make for all our birthdays. She gave the book to me a few years ago but she made me promise not to tell my aunts or cousins.” From another cupboard he took out a mixing bowl, measuring cups and spoons, and an old hand mixer, which surprised me.
“Don’t you have one of those fancy KitchenAid things on a stand?”
“Nah. I like this one.” He pulled the beater attachments from a drawer and nudged it closed with his hip. For some reason the movement sent a spike of lust straight through my core. “I need it to do the frosting on the stove anyway.”
“You’re even making the frosting from scratch? I’m impressed.”
He smiled as he attached the beaters to the mixer. “Good.”
