“Good luck, my friend.”
When we ended the call, I checked on the ribs cooking in the oven — far from my favorite way to cook them, but without a grill on my patio yet, I didn’t have much choice. I’d gone out after my workout this morning to buy everything I’d need to make dinner, but had decided not to get more than just what I needed — mostly because I knew Belle had a plan for my place, and I didn’t want to screw that up.
Thinking about her being here often, putting her hands on everything, leaving her mark… it gave me a thrill I couldn’t explain.
I checked my appearance one more time in the mirror, turned on my favorite jazz playlist, and finally let my mind wander to the absolute enigma that was Belle Monroe.
When I walked into Monroe Designs, I expected to discuss furniture. I expected to answer questions about what kind of art I was into and the importance of chi. I expected to cut a check and set a date for the work to begin. I expected it to be a quick meeting before I had lunch and my first off-season, low-key workout with Gerald, the second-string quarterback for the Chicago Bears.
I never expected Belle Monroe.
The moment her office door swung open and I found her on the other side of it, I was swept up in everything that she was. Her long, copper-blonde hair had been curtained over her shoulders, which were tall and straight, her bow-shaped lips curved into the slightest smile as I stepped into her space. Her eyes were a delicate mixture of crystal blue and sea green, and they seemed to shift in the light, changing back and forth between the colors until I decided there was no possible way to say which one was more dominant. She was tall, and slim, and she held herself with an air that told me she took no shit.
The way I was instantly enamored by her was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
It was like I’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
I wanted her from that very first moment, and when she didn’t recognize me, when she didn’t question my lie about being in real estate, the hope in my heart bloomed like a lotus out of the mud.
Now, I realized I was getting ahead of myself. I just met the girl. She could be boring, or a psycho, or completely pleasant but just not my type. We could be looking for different things. She could change her mind and decide dating a client is completely off-limits. It was ludicrous that we hadn’t even had our first date and already I was imagining her as my girlfriend.
But for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a piece of meat, and I didn’t feel like just a friend, either.
It was like the Goldilocks just right girl had fallen into my lap, like the reason everything before now hadn’t worked out had just walked into my life.
And I was determined to play my cards right so I could keep her long enough to find out if I was correct in that assumption.
I blew out a breath, adjusting the cuffs of my long-sleeve button-up so they rested just below my elbows, and praying like hell that I could pull tonight off. Volunteering to cook dinner for us had been a risky choice, but I wanted to impress her — and if I knew anything by my first meeting with Belle, it was that she’d seen it all.
If I wanted to impress her, I’d need to play my best cards first.
Unfortunately, as much as I loved to cook, I wasn’t exactly good at it. My mom had joked all my life that I could burn water, and though I’d managed to perfect a few recipes over the years, I mostly tended to ruin the dishes I attempted to cook, no matter how I followed directions.
But tonight, I’d taken care with every ingredient, double and triple checking temperatures, marinade times, and notes for how to get every dish just right.
I crossed my fingers I wouldn’t fuck this up.
My phone buzzed with a call from the front desk downstairs, and they let me know Belle was here. I told them to send her up, and then I tried not to pace a hole into my new floor as I waited for the knock to come.
When it did, I double-checked the setting one last time — candles lit, jazz playing, city lights acting as the perfect backdrop. The Kalbi ribs made my entire place smell like home, like we were having a luau on the island, and with a satisfied smile, I smoothed my palms on my jeans and opened the door.
Belle stood on the other side, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a small clutch in the other. She was dressed to kill in a short, form-fitting black dress, the neckline plunging, straps barely two centimeters thick where they wrapped over her shoulders. Her hair was swept back in an elegant up-do, the side of it braided, and with all that hair pulled back it was impossible not to notice the length of her neck, the dainty necklace resting around it, the small diamond centered right in the middle of her chest. Her eyes were smoky and sultry, the curl on her pink lips one that told me before she even said a word that she was trouble.
And God, did I want whatever trouble she was.
“You going to let me in, or should I open this out here?” she asked, her brow arching on a wide smile as she held up the bottle.
Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.
I stepped to the side with an easy grin, taking the wine from
