Page 28 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

“Your kitchen is that huge and you just have milk and coffee?”

“I should know what’s in my kitchen, I guess. But I don’t.”

“I guess there’s no need if you never cook. Can I poke around?” I ask.

He shrugs, but now he followsmeas I pad into the kitchen. It’s so… atmospheric. The countertops are a busy gray marble floated on bronze cabinets. I tap one of the doors: it’s metal. Never seen that before.

“This is a proper chef’s kitchen.”

“Well, it would be weird if a place of this size didn’t have a decent kitchen. The people who buy it after me will never cook, but the kitchen will be an important part of their purchase.”

I look up to take in his expression because I’m not sure if he’s joking. His grin travels down my body like a live wire. I look away. He’s exactly that same charming, sexy guy I should have run away from as soon as he introduced himself at the party. Here I am living with him, pretending I’m about to be his wife.

“Did you develop this place?” I ask, trying to keep things about business.

He shakes his head. “I’d never live in one of my developments. If anyone found out, which everyone would, I’d have people banging on the door in the middle of the night to fix their AC.”

I laugh. “You think?” I pull open a drawer to find a beautiful set of saucepans tucked inside like they’ve never been touched.

“Believe me. On my second Manhattan development, I had my unit picked out as soon as we finalized the architect’s plans. I couldn’t wait to get moved in. I kind of resented the fact I had to sell all the units in my first development. They were all a thousand times nicer than the place I was sharing with Fisher. And then I moved in and I didn’t get a moment’s peace. People would knock on my door if their doors squeaked when they opened. It was hell.”

I can’t help but laugh. Leo seems unflappable most of the time, but I can imagine his patience getting tested when people were knocking down his door. “Why didn’t you take a unit in your first development?”

“I didn’t want to cut into my margins. I was… my finances weren’t… I didn’t have themoney, basically.”

I look up from where I’m taking in the vast array of kitchen utensils, half of which I couldn’t assign a use to. “I always assumed you came from money, like everyone else in New York real estate.”

He chuckles. “Nope.”

I like that he wasn’t born with money and had to start at the bottom. It makes him… I try to distract myself before I can mentally finish the sentence.

There are plenty of ingredients beyond milk in the fridge. I could whip something up easily. “Are you rich enough now to have a pantry?” I ask.

“If you promise not to judge me.” He waits expectantly for my reply.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m not a great liar. I don’t make a habit of making promises I can’t deliver, and I can’t promise not to judge you when I don’t know what’s in your pantry. Do you collect the panties of the women you sleep with? Are they displayed there behind glass or something?”

I stop and close my eyes. What am I doing? Leo is my boss, not actually my boyfriend or even friend. I can’t expect him to put up with hearing my inside voice.

“Sorry, I was trying to be funny.”

“It’s an interesting theory,” he says, without missing a beat. “But I save my panty collection for my office.”

I manage to meet his gaze, and he’s grinning at me. “The pantry is here.” He opens a set of kitchen doors that look like cabinets, but they reveal a walk-in pantry. Which is full.

“Jesus Christ on a bike. You have enough ingredients here to open your own deli.”

“Nah, a lot of these containers are empty, waiting to be filled. But there’s pasta, flour, tins of beans and… stuff.”

“That’s for sure. There’s plenty ofstuff.” I survey theshelves, taking in the expensive ingredients, running my finger over the labels of all the different pastas and cans of tomatoes. “Would you mind if I cooked? It’s like… I’m a TV chef or something. I have everything I could want in this kitchen.”

“Knock yourself out.” He leans against the counter and watches as I ransack his kitchen. I feel his eyes on me like a tangible string, pulling my attention to him. I should be focused on this magnificent kitchen, but Leo takes up ninety-eight point seven percent of my attention.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say.

“Are you a good cook?”

I start to laugh, because I’m bordering on giddy for his pantry, yet cooking isn’t my thing. “I wouldn’t say I’m one of those people who loves to cook. But I make a great mac and cheese from scratch if you want to taste it. If you want some fancy three-star restaurant to deliver instead, I understand.”

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