Page 117 of Biggest Player
And there he stands . . .
... looking effortlessly handsome in a casual shirt and jeans. Bare feet. Freshly shaved. His smile is warm, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes that makes my heart skip a beat.
Dammit, I was not prepared for this kind of hotness.
“Hey, you made it—and you look so fucking cute,” he says, stepping aside to let me in, but then he pulls me in for a quick kiss on the lips I wasn’t expecting. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I step inside, and the interior of the house is just as impressive as the exterior. Modern yet cozy, with tasteful artwork on the walls and soft lighting that creates a welcoming ambiance. We’re in Arizona, so the sun is always out and it’s always bright, but some houses are dark and gloomy despite that.
Dex’s is not.
High ceilings, rounded doorways.
It’s beautiful.
I follow him to the kitchen, where mouthwatering smells waft toward my nose and greet me. An exquisite dining table is laid with charger plates and dishes and more silverware than I can count. Everything looks like it came from the pages of a magazine.
“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed as I glance around taking it all in. “I thought you were lying when you said you were a good cook.” I hardly know where to focus my attention, eyes bouncing to every surface within their range.
He’s a good decorator too.
Beside me Dex laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes me shiver to my core. “I told you. But you haven’t tasted it yet, maybe it tastes like shit. Who knows, maybe it’s total shit.” He jokes. “Come sit.”
I settle myself on a stool at the counter and watch as he pours us each a glass of red wine.
“So,” I begin, pointing over my shoulder toward his front door. “I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but I think I saw someone suspicious out front.”
Dex nods. “Paparazzi maybe?”
Oh.
I guess it makes sense that paps watch his house, but it still feels weird. “Do they sit outside like that a lot?”
He shrugs, taking a sip from his wineglass. “Sometimes.” He hesitates. “I think they caught wind that I’m dating someone.”
Is he talking about ... “Me?”
He grins. “Yeah you.”
We clink glasses, and I take my first sip, giving him a furtive glance over the brim.
He is so damn good looking.
God, how did I get myself into this mess?
What mess?
The mess where I’m dating a man who doesn’t want kids, who is in the public eye—not to mention, he’s younger than I am.
That Mess!
I shift my gaze and give my muddled brain a shake, glancing to the counter where some cooking supplies are still out. Fresh tomatoes. Containers of sugar. A rolling pin. Flour scattered across the cold stone.
“Wait.” My jaw drops open as I connect the dots. “Did you make the pasta from scratch?”
He shrugs humbly. “Cannot confirm or deny.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” He has to be lying—evenIdon’t make my own pasta—never, not oncehave I attempted it. Never wanted to! And here is this grown man—a man-child, really—who has prepared it for our date. “How long did that take you?”
