Page 32 of Wilder at Heart
I’mfamished. And it took a guy who hardly knows me to work it out for me.
I open up my bag and put on some pyjama shorts and a camisole, but leave my bra on. It’s a warm evening, but I’m not about to give Theo any gratuitous nipple action. Obviously. Stepping out into the main reception area before he appears, I give myself the opportunity to survey the flat properly, and it’s incredible.
The entire space boasts dark wooden flooring that warms up the white walls, and it’s beautifully lit. There are no overhead lights on, just lots of table lamps, uplighters studded into the floorboards at regular intervals around the edges of the room, and picture lights illuminating the many and varied pieces of artwork adorning the walls. Of course. He has an art gallery. It makes sense he’d have a decent collection. The low-lighting is atmospheric. Enticing. This must be a great place for Theo to entertain.
Or seduce.
Ugh. I don’t know why that thought makes me feel nauseous. I remind myself to give the Sofa of Sin a wide berth. God knows what body fluids are still lingering on it.
At one end of the space is a black kitchen, the area punctuated with an enormous black island. At the other is a wallof sliding doors that Theo’s pushed open. I step out onto the terrace and breathe in the unmistakable smell of London mixed with jasmine. I look behind me for the source of the latter. Jasmine is in full bloom around the doors, and its scent is heady. Heavenly.
The terrace itself is enormous. It makes sense—this is the penthouse, after all. There’s more gorgeous mood lighting, the mature olive trees up-lit to perfection in their giant tubs, and clusters of good-looking rattan furniture punctuating the main area. Good Lord. This chunk of prime London real estate must be eye-wateringly expensive. It brings home to me just how much the Montagues are worth.
And don’t get me started on the view. We’re only twelve floors up, but the terrace must face south, because if I turn to my left I can see all the way to the City of London and beyond to Canary Wharf. There’s a distant but regular pattern of flashing lights from the planes queuing to land at Heathrow to my right. This spot must be amazing in the morning. And for sundowners.
I shake my head. He’s a lucky guy. I wonder if he knows how lucky. Unlikely.
There’s a softBellebehind me, and I jerk my head to find Theo sauntering out onto the terrace. He comes up behind me, barefoot, in pale blue cotton pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt. Thank God he’s covered up. He’s showered, his hair wet and slicked off his face and his t-shirt splattered with wet spots. What is it about guys’ inability to dry themselves properly before getting dressed?
But the t-shirt is more of an undershirt than a proper item of clothing, and its soft, worn fabric hugs the curves of his pecs in a way that’s pretty damn alluring. It kind of makes me mentally kick myself for not groping his chest earlier when I had a chance. Copping a feel of his flat stomach.
I should have been more opportunistic.
Bugger.
I avert my eyes from his torso and swing back around to the view. ‘This is incredible,’ I observe lamely.
‘Yeah.’ He rests his arms on the wooden rail at the edge of the terrace and leans forward. ‘I never get tired of this. Especially at this time of year.’ He glances down at my chest, making no attempt to hide the direction of his gaze, and smirks. ‘But maybe it’s a bit chilly?’
Jesus. I straighten up and fold my arms over my chest. It’s a really mild, still night, so I don’t want Romeo Montague speculating as to why my nipples have suddenly gone hard.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You certainly are.’ He meets my gaze, and his grin falters. ‘Right. Let’s get some food down you.’
CHAPTER 13
Nora
Ifollow Theo back through the glorious living area (happily, there are several alternate sofas I can appropriate during my stay) to the kitchen. The whole place smells amazing: a musky, oud-based scent that adds to the seductive vibe he’s got going on here. I’d put money on said vibe being anything but effortless.
‘Why don’t you sit your cute little arse down there’—he points at a bar stool—‘and I’ll get some crumpets on, if crumpets are your thing.’
While the guy won’t win any feminism awards, he has me atcrumpets.
‘I am definitely partial to crumpets.’
‘Sweet or savoury?’
‘Both… but right now, savoury.’
‘Coming up.’ He flashes me a grin and I sit back in my seat and watch the admittedly gratifying sight of Theo pottering around this sleek, sexy kitchen. I ogle his bum and enjoy how the muscles in his back and shoulders flex when he moves. He opens the oven and puts six crumpets under the grill, a number that makes me very happy indeed, because I can definitely sink half of those. And while they’re grilling, he opens the fridge.
‘Wine? I missed out earlier.’
Why not? It’s not even ten o’clock, and I’ve survived a run-in with my ex, a fake date, a fake (but unfeasibly enjoyable) kiss and a flood. That I’m now bunking up with my fake boyfriend makes me think I’ve earned a glass of wine.
‘Sure. Why not?’
