Page 33 of Golden Touch
L—
I got the summons to meet my baby niece.Thanks for wrapping the gift. Don’t worry—I will be telling Leilaexactlywho chose and wrapped the gift because my sister would never believe me if I tried to take credit.
Will bring back pizza because Leila lives over the Gin Mill.
Text me your topping choice if you don’t want margherita.
—N
P.S. Feel free to go without toppings on your body. Naked isalwaysan option.
I snort.
I make my guacamole, because the avocados are ripe, and it would be a crime to let them turn brown.
Then I also make a pitcher of sangria with a very cheap bottle of red wine and some oranges, because it’s a crime to eat guacamole without a fun beverage to go with it.
After leaving the pitcher on the counter to let the flavors combine, I paint my nails a color called Fiesta Red because I’m bored and lonely and why does the pumphouse seem so flippingsilentwhen Nash isn’t here?
When he goes back to Boston, I’ll get used to the silence again, right?
Two hours later, Nash unlocks the door and steps inside, carrying two small pizza boxes. “What’s up, pussycat? Is that sangria?”
I eye the jaunty pitcher on the table and wonder if I’m trying too hard. “It is. I also made guacamole because of those ripe avocados.”
“Score!” he says. Then he crosses the room in three strides and…hugs me?
I’m suddenly pressed against a sturdy, hard chest. He smells of fresh air and leather. The feel of strong arms around me is so good that I lean into it and lose myself for a moment.
Then he steps back and reality blinks back into place. “What was that?” I demand.
“Anyone who makes sangria and guacamole gets a hug. I’m in a fantastic mood.”
“Leila and the baby okay? Or is everyone exhausted?”
“Both,” he says. “They’re great, and they’re also exhausted.” He takes off his jacket. “I held the baby. You’d be proud.”
“Let me just alert the media.”
He snickers. “She was so tiny.” He tosses his jacket on the back of a chair. “I didn’t realize they made ’em that small. Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
He sits down at the table, and I grab the plates.
“Gotta say—you were right about the food-processor thing. Leila was very excited. You’d think I bought her a private jet.” He chuckles. “I’m her favorite brother this week. Thanks for that.”
“Told you so,” I say, because I just can’t help myself.
“Cool,” he says, opening one of the pizza boxes and taking a slice. “It’s fine to say, ‘I told you so,’ just as long as you don’t mind me saying the same thing back to you.”
“Pfft,” I say, passing him a plate and a napkin, because we have a routine. It feels natural to end each day right here at this little table. Not that I’d admit I look forward to it. “Can’t think of any reason you’ll be tellingme‘I told you so.’”
“Sure I will,” he says, picking up a slice of sausage pie. “One of these nights, right after orgasm number three, you’ll be on your back in bed. And you’ll look up at me and tell me I was right about everything.”
My breath hitches. Orgasm numberthree?The kitchen is suddenly too small again. I find myself studying him like I’ve never seen him before, trying to imagine it. In my experience, aman’s got maybe a fifty percent shot of hitting a single. Forget a triple.
Then again, after breathing the same air as Nash Giltmaker for a week, I can admit he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met. I can’t pinpoint why, even though I’ve put a lot of thought into the matter. Some days I’m sure it’s the shape of his smile, or the way he walks—shoulders back, chest out, like he could take on the world.
Earlier today I’d decided that it’s not even the way he looks, but some kind of magical juju that rumbles through me whenever I hear the deep sound of his laughter.
