“You’re not asleep, either.” She pushed the door open. “How’s your book going?”
“Better, thanks to you.”
“I didn’t do anything except feed you.”
“Your words—helped. I made a start with the book.”
She was ridiculously pleased. “Has this happened to you before?”
“If you’re asking me if strange women often break into my apartment to cook and decorate, then the answer is no.” He caught her eye and sighed. “You’re talking about writer’s block? Only at this time of year.”
“But you wrote a book last year and the year before so you must have found a way to deal with it.”
He leaned forward and sloshed more whiskey into the glass. “The way I deal with it is to make sure I’ve finished the book before now.”
“But this year you didn’t.”
“I was touring. Six European countries and twelve US states.” He set the bottle down. “I ran out of time.”
“And now the book is due and you’re feeling the pressure, which makes things worse. It’s like trying to get to the top of Everest in a day when you’re still at base camp.”
“That’s uncannily accurate.” He downed the whiskey in one mouthful. “And now you can go and sell that story to the press. Call it a Christmas bonus.”
“Oh please, do I look like someone who sells stories to the press?” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry—I keep forgetting you think everyone has a hidden side. Why do you write?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you write?”
“I have a contract, a deadline, readers—you need me to go on?”
“But before that—you di
dn’t always have all that. What made you start writing in the first place?”
“I can’t even remember back that far.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Eva sat down on the sofa next to him and curled her legs under her. “My grandmother taught me to cook, and it was something we shared. Something we loved to do together. A hobby. I never for one moment thought that one day I’d earn a living cooking. It was pleasure, that was all.”
He lowered the glass slowly. “What are you saying?”
“I know the world is waiting for your next book, but presumably it hasn’t always been that way. There must have been a time before you were published when you wrote for yourself, because it was something you loved to do.”
“There was.”
“How old were you?”
“When I wrote my first story? Eight. It all seemed a hell of a lot easier then.” He stared into his glass and put it down on the table. “Ignore me. Go back to bed, Eva.”
“And leave you with your friend Mr. Whiskey Bottle? No. If you want company, you can talk to me.” Her gaze met his. His eyes were velvet dark and so sinfully sexy they might as well have been designed to tempt a woman to abandon self-control and live in the moment. There was no way the human race would ever die out while there were men like him on the planet.
The flames flickered in the hearth, but she knew the fire wasn’t responsible for the sudden flash of heat that washed over her skin. She saw the same heat flare in his eyes and felt the sharp savage burn of sexual tension.
His gaze slid to her mouth and for a wild, crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.
She stopped breathing, paralyzed by the moment, and then Lucas looked away, dragging his attention back to the whiskey bottle.
“Hemingway said, ‘A man does not exist until he is drunk.’”