Page 19 of Reckless Dare

But it’s not the fruit that catches my attention. A delicate chain hangs from her neck with a locket nestled deep in her cleavage, teasing me. Not likely that she wears it for that intent, but the effect is there nonetheless.

“Eyes up here, asshole.” She leans against the half-opened door and points her fingers to her face. What woman doesn’t like a man’s lingering gaze? “I told you I’m not going on a date with you.”

I take advantage of her relaxed posture and push through, dangling the takeout bag in front of her face. I can almost pinpoint the moment she starts salivating as the aroma of Indian food tickles her nose and she licks her lips.

I crack my knuckles to distract myself from images of that mouth and tongue doing things other than craving dinner.

She might try to hide her excitement, but her stomach growls. The sound is followed shortly by her own growling before she shuts the door.

“Did you move in recently?” I take in the room.

The layout of this place is like mine. While my walls are white, London’s are some brownish pastel tone. The color choice and a set of frames covering the wall in front of me to my right seem the only designer touches made to this place.

Thank God for the view of Central Park, because those drawings are ugly. The woman has an interesting taste in art. Or none.

A large sofa is nestled right in the middle of the open space. A narrow wall—really a rectangle-shaped pillar—that separates the living room from the kitchen is empty. Mine has a TV and a fireplace. Hers seems to be waiting for a decorator.

“What?” She frowns at me and shuffles to the kitchen. “I’ve been living here for five years now.”

I follow her. “Were you robbed?”

“Look, I’m tired.” Her stomach growls again. “And hungry, which is the only reason you’re here. Stop asking nonsensical questions.”

“Nonsensical? I’m wondering why you don’t have furniture.”

By the looks of it, I might have woken her up. After last night’s gala, she must be exhausted.

She pulls out two plates and cutlery and drops them on the table against this side of the bare partition wall. “I have a table.” She points to it as I’m placing the bag on it. “I have a sofa and I have other essential pieces.”

I sit down, pulling the containers out. “Are you a minimalist?”

She sighs. “What did you order?”

“Indian. I hear it’s your favorite.” I open one box and a tantalizing scent of coriander, cardamon and cinnamon fills the space.

“I’m going to kill Paris. Why don’t you dine with her? She is the nicer sister, after all.” She throws back my comment from last night, and somehow that hoarse croak of her voice sounds like sweet harmony.

“She’stoonice for me. Come on, London, we can’t deny we’re attracted to each other.” I enjoy her snarling and scowling way too much.

“Oh, yeah, we can. I’m denying it. Eat your dinner. And for the record, this is not a date. I let you in only because I’m hungry and you brought food. Take out in pajamas is not a date.” She sits down and serves herself a bit from each box. I follow.

“So you want me to dress up and take you on an actual date?” I straighten my tie. Fuck. I don’t have a tie, but I realized a few days ago I keep playing with it. Some crappy subconscious bullshit.

London apparently notices as well. “Not so much for a casual weekend, are you? What are you doing in New York, anyway? Don’t you have assholes to defend in Chicago?”

I take a bite, a smile stretching across my face. “You Googled me.”

“After the number of accidental encounters in the hallway, I needed to make sure you’re not a serial killer.” She attacks her plate with the appetite of an athlete in training. I like that about her. She seems to be a woman who attacks life with ferocity.

“Oh, sweetheart, that information isn’t readily available online.” I take another bite. I don’t particularly like Indian. I got it because, as London deduced, Paris told me it was her favorite. I’m not delving into the fact I cared to find out. For the good of our neighborly relationship, of course.

“Okay, don’t answer the question. I’m happy to eat without talking to you,” she deadpans.

“I turned forty last year.” An odd part of me wants to tell her the real reason.

The words are on the tip of my tongue, but instead of becoming a voiced sentence, they seep through my body, eliciting a dry mouth, sweat beading down my spine and a sudden lack of air. I blame that on the Indian spice.

“I didn’t know there was a rule about moving once such a milestone is reached.” London is not looking at me, thank God.

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