Page 112 of The Worst Best Man
She glanced down the hallway but decided to stick to the main living space. In this dress, they wouldn’t make it out of his bedroom until morning.
It was cool, beautiful, just like him. It also felt a little empty, a little lonely. And she wondered if that too reflected the owner.
Aiden was watching her, leaning against the island and working his tie free. He slid the silk out of his collar and coiled the tie on the counter.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s very beautiful.” And it was. A showplace. She did not want to know what it was worth. Real estate in this part of the city was beyond astronomical. It would have been cheaper to build a summer home on the moon. But there was a lifelessness here, and it made her sad. The idea of Aiden coming home alone to the cool museum-quality beauty… She wondered if he felt at home here, if he ever relaxed here.
“Thank you,” he said.
She picked up a gilt frame. It was a photo of Aiden’s father behind his desk in an office, the city skyline outside the windows behind him.
“Tell me about your family,” she said.
“Why?”
“So, I know what I’m getting myself into with this gala thing this week.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Aiden wasn’t one to count on luck. Luck, as far as he was concerned, was a fickle bitch. Timing, preparation, and aggression usually worked more in his favor. But for some reason, that fickle bitch was smiling on him today. Frankie was in his home, making plans to step into his world.
All in.
“This is your first time in my place, and you want to talk about my family?” Aiden teased, stripping out of his jacket. He saw the hungry look in her eyes and reveled in it. Wanting, being wanted, with that intensity was new. And humbling.
“Would you like a drink?” he offered.
“Do you want one?” she countered.
“How about water for us both?”
She followed him into the kitchen and snooped through his refrigerator and pantry.
“Well, there’s some actual food in here,” she said, sounding surprised.
“What did you expect? Bags of blood?”
“Ha, vampire diet. No, I mean, I wasn’t sure if you actuallylivedhere.”
He eyed her as he filled two tumblers with ice.
“Of course, I live here.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt you sleep here. But do you put your feet up on the coffee table? Do you make eggs at midnight on this fifty-burner stove? Do you pay bills and swear at the TV when the Giants are playing?”
Her definition of living fascinated him.
“I sleep here. I work here. Occasionally I eat here. I can’t recall ever putting my feet on the coffee table, but that might be because the designer referred to it as ‘priceless and one-of-a-kind,’ so that kind of billing most likely kept my feet on the floor.”
“Do you just lounge around in suits all the time, sitting up straight and counting gold coins?”
He laughed and handed her a glass of water. “Your mind is a fascination.”
She wandered back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. She wriggled onto the cushion and then pulled her feet under her.
“This isn’t the most comfortable piece,” she complained.
