Julia
The aroma of onions and peppers surrounded me as I stirred the potato mixture, taking advantage of Lachlan’s gourmet kitchen.
For a man who paid someone to prepare all his meals, he had an incredible setup.
Then again, this house was a dream. I practically had to pick my jaw up off the ground when I first pulled up to it.
I grew up in a wealthy family. The daughter of a notable architect. Now the sister of one.
But Lachlan’s house was on a completely different level. Maybe it was because he was so young that it seemed much more impressive. It served as a stark reminder of exactly who he was — one of the highest paid pitchers in the history of baseball.
I considered myself successful. But my success paled compared to Lachlan’s. And this house was evidence of everything he’d achieved in such a short time.
Despite all of that, it lacked…personality. Sure, the back yard boasted a baseball diamond and batting cage. Not to mention a massive, detached garage filled with classic cars, another love of his I’d recently learned about.
Other than that, though, this could have passed as one of my brother’s model homes. Gorgeous. Glamourous. Impersonal.
Maybe I’d been a mom for so long that I’d grown accustomed to a chaotic home and life. Nearly every surface of my house was covered with photos of Imogene throughout the years. Her first step. First lost tooth. First day of school.
Why didn’t Lachlan have any photos of his family?
It seemed odd, considering how close he claimed to be with his sister.
I tried not to fixate on it. Figured there had to be some logical reason behind it. Told myself not everyone liked to clutter their homes with photos and mementos.
Perhaps with his hectic schedule and the fact all sorts of people had access to his house — housekeeper, groundskeeper, pool cleaner, car detailer, chef — he didn’t want to leave personal photos lying around for fear someone might share them.
At least that was what I tried to convince myself as I gave the potatoes another stir, then opened the oven to check on the frittata.
Typically, Lachlan liked making breakfast for me. But since he had to leave town today for a stretch of away games, he was the one who needed to hop into the shower and pack. So I offered to make him a breakfast filled with all the stuff he needed to eat for peak performance. Tons of carbs with some lean protein and healthy fats thrown in for good measure.
Another reason I hated him.
If I so much as looked at a morsel of pasta, I gained weight. However, when Lachlan polished off huge plates of food, I swore a few more ripples of muscle sprouted on his already sculpted body.
“Whatever you’re making smells absolutely incredible.”
I straightened from the oven, skillet in hand, and looked Lachlan’s way, inhaling a sharp breath as he entered the kitchen.
Over the course of our short relationship, I’d seen this man dressed in a variety ways.
And undressed in a variety of ways, too.
But the sight of Lachlan in a crisp, perfectly molded, navy blue suit was something else altogether.
“God bless Australia,” I murmured, certain a bit of drool escaped my mouth. “And the team rule requiring you to wear a suit during travel.”
Lachlan’s laughter echoed against the high ceilings. “I take it you don’t hate this look on me.”
“Hate it?” I set the skillet on the stove and wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. Then I sauntered up to him, feeling woefully underdressed in my shorts and t-shirt. Hell, I wasn’t even wearing a bra or underwear. Lachlan’s voracious sexual appetite rendered them mostly useless anyway.
Hell, my voracious sexual appetite did, too.
Placing my hands on the lapels of his jacket, I hoisted myself onto my toes, curving toward him, my mouth practically watering with the promise of his kiss.
“Seeing you like this makes me want to climb on top of you.” I grabbed his tie and pulled him toward me, his lips a breath from mine.
“That can be arranged, love. That can most certainly be arranged.”