whispered.
“My phone’s on the counter.”
“You should get it then.”
“I should,” he agreed.
He didn’t get it. He got me instead, because my resolve went out the window about three seconds later when he kissed me again. Carefully set lines blurred, my red dress hit the floor, and we were both goners.
***
I’d expected an air of awkwardness the next morning. I’d even prepared for it. Ryan wasn’t going to get a chance to politely ask me to leave his bed because I was up before he even stirred. I was getting in first and cutting myself loose. The idea was to play it cool, thank him for the nice time, and lie about getting together again soon.
Once I was dressed, I sneaked into the adjacent bathroom to wash my face and sort out my rat’s nest hair. The top drawer of the cabinet didn’t make a sound as I slid it open. Finding a hairbrush was my objective, but curiosity side-tracked me.
The drawer was as neat as the rest of the apartment. I picked up a small bottle and studied the label closely. Even then, I was none the wiser as to what shaving oil was – but it sounded sexy as hell.
He had everything from hair products to moisturisers. Perhaps looking drop dead gorgeous took work.
The last thing to catch my eye looked like a big ChapStick. I pulled the lid off, checked it out and concluded that it was still a big ChapStick. “For people with big mouths,” I mumbled.
“Not really.”
I jumped, dropping it on the floor. The stick rolled across the tiles, coming to a stop at his feet.
Ryan picked it up, showcasing every muscle on his bare back as he stooped. It was an unfair move on his part. Thinking straight was hard enough without that kind of display.
“It’s a styptic pencil,” he explained, rolling it between his fingers. “It’s good for healing shaving nicks.” He handed it back to me and I quickly dropped it back in the drawer. “Are you snooping on me, Bente?”
If anything, he seemed amused by the prospect.
“Do you know the definition of investigative journalism, Ryan?”
He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’d like to hear yours.”
“It’s a form of journalism in which reporters deeply investigate a single topic of interest.”
“I’m all for deep investigating, Miss Denison,” he murmured in a low tone. “What would you like to know?”
My eyes darted between his eyes and his mouth. “Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve got you all worked out, pretty boy.”
“I’ve got you all worked out too,” he replied, taking a few slow steps closer to me.
“Really?” I asked dryly.
“Yes. You’re a shameless stickybeak.” The way he hummed the words against the side of my neck made defending myself impossible. “Are you done spying?”
“For now,” I mumbled.
“Excellent. We can get back to more important tasks, then.” He abandoned the mind-scrambling neck kissing and led me to the kitchen. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a stool. “Please.”
“You’re very bossy, Ryan.”
I wondered if he realised it. He was forever issuing orders. It should’ve been a quirk that grated on me, but it didn’t.
Ryan disappeared from view while he searched a low cupboard. “I don’t mean to be.” He popped back up, set a cast iron pan down on the counter and pointed at the stool again.
I gave in and sat down. “What are you doing?”
“You’re very inquisitive, Bente,” he teased.
“We make quite a pair then, don’t we?”
He smiled, and it was magnificent. “ Oui , sweetheart. We do.”
“One night together and you’re calling me sweetheart?” I tried sounding appalled, but failed. “That’s a bit Fatal Attraction isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “No more Fatal Attraction than you snooping through the drawers in my bathroom.”
He had a point, so I changed the subject. “What are you cooking?”
Ryan walked to the fridge and peered inside. He seemed to be having trouble deciding, which was understandable. There
“My phone’s on the counter.”
“You should get it then.”
“I should,” he agreed.
He didn’t get it. He got me instead, because my resolve went out the window about three seconds later when he kissed me again. Carefully set lines blurred, my red dress hit the floor, and we were both goners.
***
I’d expected an air of awkwardness the next morning. I’d even prepared for it. Ryan wasn’t going to get a chance to politely ask me to leave his bed because I was up before he even stirred. I was getting in first and cutting myself loose. The idea was to play it cool, thank him for the nice time, and lie about getting together again soon.
Once I was dressed, I sneaked into the adjacent bathroom to wash my face and sort out my rat’s nest hair. The top drawer of the cabinet didn’t make a sound as I slid it open. Finding a hairbrush was my objective, but curiosity side-tracked me.
The drawer was as neat as the rest of the apartment. I picked up a small bottle and studied the label closely. Even then, I was none the wiser as to what shaving oil was – but it sounded sexy as hell.
He had everything from hair products to moisturisers. Perhaps looking drop dead gorgeous took work.
The last thing to catch my eye looked like a big ChapStick. I pulled the lid off, checked it out and concluded that it was still a big ChapStick. “For people with big mouths,” I mumbled.
“Not really.”
I jumped, dropping it on the floor. The stick rolled across the tiles, coming to a stop at his feet.
Ryan picked it up, showcasing every muscle on his bare back as he stooped. It was an unfair move on his part. Thinking straight was hard enough without that kind of display.
“It’s a styptic pencil,” he explained, rolling it between his fingers. “It’s good for healing shaving nicks.” He handed it back to me and I quickly dropped it back in the drawer. “Are you snooping on me, Bente?”
If anything, he seemed amused by the prospect.
“Do you know the definition of investigative journalism, Ryan?”
He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’d like to hear yours.”
“It’s a form of journalism in which reporters deeply investigate a single topic of interest.”
“I’m all for deep investigating, Miss Denison,” he murmured in a low tone. “What would you like to know?”
My eyes darted between his eyes and his mouth. “Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve got you all worked out, pretty boy.”
“I’ve got you all worked out too,” he replied, taking a few slow steps closer to me.
“Really?” I asked dryly.
“Yes. You’re a shameless stickybeak.” The way he hummed the words against the side of my neck made defending myself impossible. “Are you done spying?”
“For now,” I mumbled.
“Excellent. We can get back to more important tasks, then.” He abandoned the mind-scrambling neck kissing and led me to the kitchen. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a stool. “Please.”
“You’re very bossy, Ryan.”
I wondered if he realised it. He was forever issuing orders. It should’ve been a quirk that grated on me, but it didn’t.
Ryan disappeared from view while he searched a low cupboard. “I don’t mean to be.” He popped back up, set a cast iron pan down on the counter and pointed at the stool again.
I gave in and sat down. “What are you doing?”
“You’re very inquisitive, Bente,” he teased.
“We make quite a pair then, don’t we?”
He smiled, and it was magnificent. “ Oui , sweetheart. We do.”
“One night together and you’re calling me sweetheart?” I tried sounding appalled, but failed. “That’s a bit Fatal Attraction isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “No more Fatal Attraction than you snooping through the drawers in my bathroom.”
He had a point, so I changed the subject. “What are you cooking?”
Ryan walked to the fridge and peered inside. He seemed to be having trouble deciding, which was understandable. There
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