Page 45 of The Billionaire's Ride

“You can wear that pink one from the party.”

“The one with the broken clasp? No, I can’t risk flashing all of London’s high society.” She throws back her nearly empty water glass until the last drop hits her tongue.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind,” I say, holding her gaze and gripping the counter so I don’t pounce on her again.

She blushes and lowers her gaze. A moment later, she snaps her fingers. “I know the perfect dress. It’s this new red, ‘40s style Stella McCartney. Very classy. I just need to figure out how to get my hands on it.”

“Excellent. Now, I could use a real drink. You thirsty for one too?” I ask, grabbing a silver shaker from the cabinet.

“I’m thirsty for you.” She flashes me a playful smile, and I bite my lip with a low growl.

“Don’t tempt me with the stove on.”

“We wouldn’t want to start a fire, now would we?” The girl is so fucking cute sitting there in my shirt with her hair in soft waves around her face and that look in her eyes. I could stare at her all night. But instead, I splash the gin and vermouth in the shaker, pour the liquor into two martini glasses, then slide one across the bar.

Kate takes a sip and smacks her lips. “Mmm, that’s good. I could totally get used to this.”

“What? A decent martini?”

“After incredible sex while you make me something to eat, yes. What are you making, by the way?”

Then I realize I’m making her my favorite dish. I don’t think I’ve done that for a woman before either. I’ve gotten Kate out of her shell. Is she breaking me out of mine too? “Welsh rarebit. It’s the only thing I know how to make well.”

“Is that because you grew up with a house chef?” she asks with a giggle.

“No, I learned this one from my mate’s mum when we were younger,” I say, thinking back to those easy summer days at Collin’s family’s home.

“I’m teasing you. I grew up with a nanny who made a lot of my meals too.”

“What? Lisa Lake doesn’t cook?” I joke.

“She does. But you know a model’s life. Always on off to the next shoot!” Kate averts her gaze, and I’m sure she’s thinking of my reputation. But I want her to know I’m not just what people think of me.

“Well, you’ll like this. It’s delicious. Not as delicious as you, though,” I say, and her eyes light up behind the rim of her glass.I lean on the counter to get a better look into them. “How about some music?”

“Like what? Barry Manilow?” She laughs wildly. As embarrassing as it is, it’s worth it to hear her laugh like that.

“No, I’ll need three more of these before I put that on.” I hold up my cocktail, and she giggles again. “I’ve got something for you.” I walk around to my vinyl cabinet and choose a classic Billy Joel album. I spin the record and set the needle. A moment later, the sounds of Billy tickling the ivories in ‘Piano Man’ fills the room.

When I return to the kitchen, Kate’s martini glass is already empty. She gazes up with a daydreamy look in her eyes. “Oh, I love this song,” she says, beginning to sway.

“Me too.” I hum a few bars under my breath.

“This song reminds me of my parents getting ready to go out for the evening when I was a little girl. They would play it on vinyl too.”

“Is that when you were living in New York?”

Kate’s eyes glisten in the golden recessed light. “Yes, you remembered.” She grins, then lets out a wistful sigh. “I would sit on the bed with my teddy bears and books and watch my mom put her makeup on. She’d dress in these gorgeous sequin dresses that were hot in the early ‘90s. My dad would wear these gaudy, shiny cuff links, and he always let my mom tie his tie. I remember thinking they were perfect, like a prince and princess.” Kate pushes her empty glass around the counter and goes quiet for a minute. I already know how her parent’s love story ends. It’s the same ending as my parents.

“Can I have another?” she asks, and I whip up another martini. The moment she takes a sip, she says, “Oh, man. I’m a little tipsy. I need to eat something soon.”

“Well, you’re in luck. It’s ready.” The toast is crisp, and the sauce is steaming. I serve up a plate, sliding it her way. “Goahead,” I tell her, and she slices her fork into the bread and takes a bite.

“Mmm,” she says, her eyes wide. “This is really yummy.”

“Right?”

“Not as yummy as you, though.” She winks, and it takes everything I have not to lunge over the counter, pour that sauce all over her body, and lick it off bit by bit. We talked more over the toast, downing our martinis. She wipes her mouth with a napkin after cleaning her plate. “I have an idea. Let’s keep drinking and play ‘Copacabana’!”

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