It actually pisses me off on her behalf.
My brother has always been a selfish asshole, but this might be a new low, even for him. Matthew loves women. Hell, in college he went through them like Kleenexes. When I kept up with him early in his career, he had a new one on his arm every other night. He swore they always knew the score, and none of them seemed to care.
But this? This is new.
Why date her if he wasn’t even going to bother to find out what her favorite drink was or if she preferred staying in or going out? None of those details were in her information. But do you know what was?
Her bra size.
A knock sounds at the door. Like a man walking to the electric chair, I drag my feet and move slowly until I’m finally standing directly in front of the large piece of mahogany. When I glance through the peephole, I only see the man from downstairs. He’s directly in front of the me, blocking the view of the woman accompanying him.
Reluctantly, I disengage the lock and turn the knob. “Good evening, Mr. Wilder. Your guest is here,” he states, stepping aside and revealing the woman behind him.
The very beautiful woman.
“Thank you,” I croak, my throat suddenly extremely dry.
Kyla glances up, her hazel eyes look almost espresso under the dim hallway lighting. The moment our gazes meet, the earth moves. I actually have to grab onto the doorjamb to keep myself upright. In fact, I wonder for a brief moment if we’re experiencing an earthquake. I must be the only one feeling it though, because she doesn’t move to the doorjamb with me.
“Hello, Matthew.” The sweetest sound, the voice of an angel.
“Kyla.”
Her smile is slow and…endearing. Adorable, even. It’s not seductive, brimmed with red, harlot lipstick, as I would expect. There’s an innocence to it. Purity mixed with goodness and light. I realize Matthew is way out of his league here, and frankly, so am I.
I’m so screwed.
Chapter Four
Kyla
There’s something in his eyes that pulls my attention and holds it firmly in place. I’m not sure what exactly, but I’m drawn to those chocolate eyes more so than ever before, and I can’t place why. I’ve always been attracted to Matthew—I wouldn’t be dating him if I wasn’t—but there’s something different about him. Something softer and, dare I say, friendly about him.
In the short time I’ve known him, Matthew’s always been a passionate man. No, not with me, per se, but in business. I’ve read enough articles and heard enough talk to know he’s ruthless in the boardroom. He wants what he wants now and isn’t above doing what’s necessary to get it. I’ve come to admire his desire and drive, even if it’s not exactly directed toward me.
“Come in,” he states, stepping back to allow me entrance. He thanks the doorman who accompanied me to the apartment and closes the door softly behind me. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, stepping around me and walking toward the expansive kitchen.
“Oh, sure. A glass of red wine?” I ask, setting my bag and jacket down on the edge of the couch.
Matthew seems to stumble around the kitchen, which strikes me as odd. It’s almost like he’s nervous or something. Maybe he senses that our time together is drawing to a close. I mean, he didn’t even kiss me hello. He rarely takes my lips, but there’s usually a chaste kiss on the cheek in greeting.
Sighing, I head for the kitchen and pull out the closest barstool. I watch as he opens the wine fridge and glances down at the bottles. What is he doing? I observe in complete fascination as he pulls a few bottles from the top rack, glancing at the contents, before sliding them back into place. A small smile breaks out on my lips as he struggles. I should feel horrible at finding humor in his difficulties, but the fact that the Great Matthew Wilder isn’t perfect is all I can focus on.
Taking pity on the man who seems to always have it together, I stand up and move toward the glass-front cabinet beside the small refrigerator. I feel his eyes on me as I pull the door open and retrieve a bottle of my favorite wine.
“Oh. I must have misunderstood you,” he mumbles quietly, reaching for the bottle.
As his warm, rough fingers graze against mine, I jolt of electricity slides through my veins, landing squarely between my legs. A small gasp slips from my lips, but I quickly cover it with a cough. Glancing up, I find his dark, intense eyes focused solely on me, but he remains quiet. If he felt anything from our touch, he doesn’t say a word, which only makes me wonder if I possibly imagined it all along.
I retrieve the corkscrew and two glasses from the same cabinet and set them on the counter. Matthew makes quick work of opening the wine, though he does seem to fumble a touch when removing the cork. Maybe he’s had a long, trying day.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the glass he sets in front of me. The liquid is cool and tart, a rich woodsy scent filtering from the glass. I’ve always preferred the dry red over the sweeter whites, even as a younger woman. My friends always tease me about my preference, but it doesn’t bother me any.
“Food will be here soon,” he says, taking a sip of his own glass and grimacing. Another grin breaks out on my lips as I watch in complete fascination as he takes another tentative sip before setting the glass down and pushing it aside. Apparently, Matthew isn’t a fan of red anymore.
“How was your afternoon?” I
