Page 13 of Flirty Thirty

I meet up with him, desperately trying to hide the fact that my breathing is close to a woman in labor. My eyes scan around the suite, brows pulling in. What couldpossiblybe disappointing? The furniture, maybe? The white-only color choice isn’t my personal preference, but he has his own furniture to replace all of that. The windows are reflective up here as well, going from ceiling to floor facing the back side of the house which is just the rocky mountain wall. It gives the place a more private feel, for sure.

He strides toward the bathroom, the deep, jetted tub taking up most of the space—as it should—leaving a marble shower in the corner, his and hers sinks, and a private area for the toilet. He doesn’t comment with anything but a “hmm” before moving onto the closet.

“This is the quietest you’ve been since we’ve met,” I joke as he clicks on the light and walks through the giant closet that could very well double as a nursery… if that’s what he wants. I’d use it for what it’s designed for; maybe spend nights with my shoes. I mean, there’s a spot right there that I could prop a pillow up and curl under a blanket with my brand new Manolo Blahnik’s.

Yes, this closet is going to make it on my bucket list.

“I’m analyzing myself,” he says, stealing my attention away from the rack of Prada bags I’m currently coveting. “Trying to decide if I’m being reasonable or too picky.”

“Have you reached a verdict?”

He flicks the light off and heads back into the main suite. I silently say goodbyes to the shoes while he takes a stance in front of the window similar to the one he used in the formal.

“This view,” he comments. “I expected something a bit more… well…” We simultaneously tilt our heads, which causes us both to grin, and only me to blush.

He lets out a gravelly sigh. “Just more.”

He has a point; the view here is equal to staring at the side of a building wall, though this is mountainous rock instead of brick. Compared to the view of the formal, yes… there is something left to be desired.

“Can I be honest?” I ask him.

“Please.”

“When buying a house, there are two things to consider,” I say, turning toward him. His blue eyes are so intent on listening that my brain stutters. “You will not find the perfect house, but you will find something close to it. It’s just a matter of figuring out what imperfections you can live with.”

His jaw clicks, and he thoughtfully nods at the window. “Wise words.” He slides a hand into his back pocket. “Mind if I take some pictures?”

“Go for it.”

He holds the phone out, camera facing me, his lips forming into a playful grin. I shove his arm down and shake my head.

“Of thehouse.”My heart adds an extra beat when my fingers get the dose of warmth from their short and sweet contact with his skin. I’m reminded of the sweet way he wiped the whipped cream from my nose, the way my breath disappeared for half a moment of perfection.

He doesn’t take many shots of the house, even as we make our way through the second level and the main. He pauses in the kitchen, setting his phone on the island and peering inside one of the ovens.

“Seeing if your head fits in there?” I tease.

He comes out with an achingly sexy smile on his face. “Well, besides the bedroom, the kitchen is my favorite room in a home.”

“Because?” I ask, noticing he used the word “home” not “house.” It’s a veryfamilyword; I usually only hear it from buyers who are couples. Rare in a billionaire bachelor.

“Food,” he says as if it’s an obvious thing. “Preparing food, cooking food, baking food,eatingfood.” He spreads his arms wide. “This is where the magic happens.”

I bite back a laugh. “And the bedroom?”

“Magic happens there, too.” He drops his arms, settling one of his hands on the oven door before pushing it back into place.

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” I say, shaking my head.

“You just set it up so nicely.” His eyebrow twitches. “The honest answer? Sleep. Sleep happens there. Rest, rejuvenation… the start of a new day and the end of an old one. All in the bedroom.”

He takes a deliberate step toward me, and a rush flows through my skin, as if I’ve been dipped head first into warm oil and set out in the sun to dry.

“Trying to wax poetic?” I try to tease, yet my voice has taken on its own version of staccato.

He shakes his head, blond hair tousling with the movement. “I like the idea of new days,” he says, stepping ever closer. I feel as if I should step back, keep the distance between us the same, but my feet have melted into the floor. “That there’s hope to start over when things don’t necessarily go your way. Like when you hope you find that woman who will make every day worth getting out of bed… or staying in it. Whatever the mood calls for.”

He stops in front of me, his stare heating up my already warm cheeks. His eyes explore my face, examining from the top of my crown, over my cheek bones, and down my nose to my lips. I feel like I should be self-conscious about it somehow—in fact, I expect the dose of insecurity—but…I’ve never felt so desirable in my life. My thoughts start to escape me, and I have to strain to focus on our conversation. Whatwerewe talking about? Bedrooms? Kitchens? No… mornings. We’re on how he’s a morning person. Just another thing we’re polar opposites in.

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