“It smells amazing in here,” she said, pulling back just as easily, like it was nothing, like our bodies pressed together and her lips so close to mine hadn’t affected her, whereas they’d left me dizzy and reeling.
“I’m making an island specialty, Kalbi ribs,” I said, guiding her farther inside before I shut the door behind us. “Hope you’re not vegetarian.”
“Vegan, actually,” she said, setting her clutch on the kitchen island before she turned to face me.
All the blood drained from my face.
Shit-shit-shit.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I rushed out. “I should have asked before I… fuck.”
I was already on my way over to the oven, like if I tore the ribs from the rack and tossed them off the balcony, I could somehow still save this date. Luckily, Belle laughed before I could get my hands in the oven mitts.
“I was kidding,” she said, folding her hands easily on the granite island, her eyes dazzling and playful. “Ribs sound amazing. Although, I’m kind of wishing I would have waited to see what you were about to do to rectify the situation.”
I chuckled, backing away from the oven and swiping my brand-new bottle opener off the counter next to it. “You were about ten seconds away from seeing a rack of ribs go flying off the balcony.”
“Would have been a most unfortunate night for some unsuspecting Chicagoan down below.”
“Indeed. No matter how delicious these things are, I don’t think they’d feel great falling on your head from thirty-seven stories up.” I nodded to the bottle before opening it. “Thank you for the wine, by the way. You didn’t have to bring anything, but I appreciate it.”
“It’s the least I could do,” she said, biting back a smile as she surveyed my condo. “Especially since you went to so much trouble to host.”
“Are you making fun of my dinner table, Ms. Monroe?” I asked when I finally wriggled the cork free. I watched as she took in the setting, which was nothing more than two giant boxes covered by a tablecloth in the center of the living area.
Those boxes were the ones with all my football memorabilia in them, but that was a little secret I’d keep to myself.
I’d also picked up two plush cushions for us to sit on, placed on either side of the boxes, like we were having dinner in India or Japan. It was all I could do without any furniture, but when I’d set it all up, I’d actually kind of liked it. And I’d at least bought some flowers for the middle of the make-shift table, along with a candle on either side.
“Not at all,” she said, taking the glass of wine I’d just poured for her. She kicked off her heels, looking back at me over one shoulder. “But I hope you have a blanket somewhere, otherwise you might get dinner and a show.”
I frowned, confused, but when Belle gestured to her tiny dress, realization hit me like a defensive lineman.
Fucking idiot, how was she supposed to sit on the floor in a dress?
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I said, rushing over to the pile of boxes along the wall. “I do have some blankets.” I murmured the next part more to myself. “I just have to find them.”
Belle chuckled, and I felt her hand wrap around my biceps as I shuffled boxes around. She squeezed until I stopped and turned, and then those blue-green eyes danced in the candlelight as she looked up at me.
She took a long, deep breath.
I mirrored it, letting her calmness soak into me.
“It’s okay,” she said, her eyes still captivating mine. “You go back in the kitchen and do whatever needs to be done in there. I’ll look for a blanket. Deal?”
How the hell did she do that?
How did she calm me with just one look, one breath?
God, she was gorgeous. That was all I could think as I stood there, staring down at her, the candlelight playing with the shadows in her eyes.
After a moment, I nodded, stealing her glass long enough to take a sip of wine before handing it back to her. “Deal.”
Her eyes heated in approval, and she took her first sip of wine from the same place I had, licking her lips as if she’d tasted mine on the glass.
The sight of her tongue sweeping across her lips sent a bolt of electricity right to my cock.
I cleared my throat, stepping past her and back into the kitchen where it was at least twenty degrees cooler. “So, Belle Monroe, interior designer,” I said, picking up where I’d left off working on our salads before she’d arrived. “How did you end up owning your own firm?”
“I think I learned relatively quickly when I was interning that I didn’t like working for anyone else,” she answered, opening the first box against the wall and sifting through it. She balanced her wine in one hand while she looked with the other. “It just felt stifling, to be told what I could and couldn’t do, which jobs I could take on, to have all these limitations. And not just as an intern,” she added. “Even the associates had to work within parameters.”
“Something tells me you’re not the kind of girl who colors inside the lines.”
Her eyes sparkled when she flashed me a smile. “Far from it.” She took a sip of wine, setting her glass down long enough to move that box to the side and open the next. “So, as soon as I graduated, I took out a business loan to start my own firm. I already had clients lined up at the door, so it wasn’t long before I was able to pay off that loan and start netting a profit.”
“That’s really impressive,” I commented, genuinely, my hand hovering over where I’d been mixing all the salad ingredients in a mixing bowl.
“Thank you,” she said,
