Not today.
Since my cooking skills are lacking, I won’t be whipping up any gourmet meals. Instead, I make my way to the pantry and grab a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. Next, I open the fridge, grab the jelly, and start making my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, feeling like a five-year-old.
It’s when I start to cut the crusts off the sides that I hear the heavy footsteps coming from behind me.
I turn to see Gideon striding over in my direction.
My heart races at the sight of him.
Gideon has been gone for the past two days. I haven’t seen him since the “incident,” as I like to call it. We both opened ourselves up the night at Lincoln Center, and it’s left me feeling confused about where that leaves us. I wrestled with the possibility that our night was why he left and stayed away for days. Was he running? If so, from what? Me? The feelings?
Ugh. Sometimes being me is exhausting. My ability to overthink is something prize-worthy.
I peek up at him again and smile because he’s back…and wow, does he look good.
He must have had a meeting because normally he’s not dressed up, but today he is. He’s wearing a gray suit that’s probably more than my monthly rent payment. It’s tailored to fit him perfectly, and I can’t stop staring.
Jeez, I’m a sucker for a man in a suit. There’s something about the way a man in a suit carries himself, all put together and polished. It’s like he’s walking confidence incarnate. And when he smiles…like he is right now? Forget it. I’m a goner. Gideon, in a suit, is my kryptonite. And I’m not ashamed to admit it.
It’s like he can hear my thoughts because he chuckles, deep and masculine.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.
My face feels warm. I hope I’m not blushing.
You’resoblushing.
Now it feels awkward standing in front of him gawking like a lovesick teenager.
Not lovesick.Notlovesick.
I repeat the words over in my head, trying to calm my racing heart and shaky legs.
He deserted you. He left after you opened up to him.
I remind myself of this, hoping to shift gears and pull myself together.
A part of me knows he’s busy and runs a business, even if it’s a shady one, but another part of me can’t help but wonder if I was right and he’s been avoiding me.
“Crust cut off. I didn’t take you for the type,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“And what type would that be?” I lift my brow. “This I’ve got to hear.” He doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at me as I lift the knife to cut another side. His gaze tracks my every move, and I have to try my hardest not to melt on the floor from his perusal. “Would you like your own, or are you just going to stare at mine?”
He chuckles. “Obviously, I want one. Exactly like yours.”
“Crust cut off and all?” My head dips, my gaze fixing on the sandwich I’m currently putting together, a crooked smile plastered across my face for reasons I don’t even want to work out.
No such luck.
Immediately, my mind goes to the other night.
His fingers inside me while I played my cello like it would be the last time. The way he worked my body like he knew exactly what it needed.
My cheeks heat to inferno levels, and now, I’m without a doubt blushing, and I hope to God he doesn’t see it.Wrong again.