My gaze lingers on the imprint of her lips, making my cock twitch. I can imagine Cleo on her knees with those red lips wrapped around my cock.
Fuck. I need to clear my head, or I’ll blow my chance with her.
Cleo leans over the pot, her eyes half closed, inhaling the scent of the sauce. Her top falls open, exposing tightly pressed cleavage—two soft, enticing pillows.
“You made this yourself?” Cleo asks, unaware of the devious thoughts running through my mind.
“Ah-ha.” My words come out strangled, and I have to walk away to compose myself and adjust the hard-on in my jeans.
“It smells good.”
Which is about the nicest thing Cleo’s said to me since I arrived.
“My mum’s old recipe,” I manage to say, trying to pull myself together. I take two deep bowls out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. “I’m lucky she taught it to me before the accident”
Cleo doesn’t look surprised, and I gather she knows my family history.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she says softly.
I have a pang of regret for a moment, as I always do at this time of year, even though it’s been almost fifteen years since they passed. It stays with you, that kind of loss.
“Thank you.”
I want to ask where her family is, but I can already guess if she’s volunteering for a foster charity.
“Do you always spend Christmas by yourself?”
She takes a large swallow of wine. “Yup. I haven’t got any family.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cleo looks away, and for just a moment, her guard comes down. I get a glimpse of the vulnerable girl behind the hard exterior. I reach out, wanting to give her comfort, and my hand closes over hers.
Which is the wrong move. Cleo’s expression closes up, and she pulls her hand away, clasping it around the wine glass as she takes another sip.
“I don’t need your sympathy. It is what it is.”
That statement saddens me even more. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, but at least they were around for my childhood.
Even though Cleo hasn’t told me, I can guess what her situation is. However, it’s clear she doesn’t want to talk about it. If I push her too much, she’ll close up completely.
It’s a big step forward that she’s agreed to have dinner with me. I can’t fuck this up.
“I hope you’re hungry because there’s a lot of food.”
She looks grateful that I’ve changed the topic to a lighter one, and I take the plates to the table and dish out the food.
My brother has a grand dining table that sits eight. I guess it’s for all the diner parties they throw, but it feels too big for just the two of us.
I set the plates with mine at one end and Cleo next to me. I’ve lit the candles on the table, and with the lights off and just candles and fairy lights on, the only thing missing is music.
I flick my phone on and Iron Maiden comes blaring through the speakers.
Cleo almost chokes on her forkful of food.
“Sorry,” I say, quickly turning it down. “I like listening to music when I cook.”
She arches her eyebrow. “Which album?”