22. Wren

CHAPTER 22

Wren

“ S omething smells delicious.”

Blane’s voice made me jump. How did he creep up behind me so silently?

“I-I thought I’d make dinner. Mr. Beauregard picked up the ingredients.”

“Call him Joseph—we don’t stand on ceremony around here. What are you making?”

“Nothing fancy, only a stir fry. I really, really craved bok choy and beansprouts.”

When I was six, I’d thought a diet of cakes and candy would be the best thing ever, but now that I’d tried living the reality—with the addition of potato chips and alcohol—I finally understood the attraction of the produce section.

“Do you want a glass of wine to go with that?”

“Just a small one? I figured I’d make Myrtle dinner as well, but I can’t find her. Cat-Myrtle, I mean.” Girl-Myrtle had dropped by for coffee earlier while Blane was out, and she was a little strange. One minute, she was sipping a cappuccino, the next, she was scratching like crazy. Then she stuttered a bit and literally ran out the door because she’d forgotten to turn off her curling iron at home. Doubly weird because her hair was straight with a hint of frizz. “Do you think she’s gotten lost on the Strip again?”

“No, she’s at a friend’s place.”

Huh? “Your cat has playdates?”

“Something like that. And this isn’t a criticism, but could you put more syrup on her waffles in the mornings?”

“More syrup? I used half the bottle. Is syrup good for cats?”

“Probably not, but Myrtle wants what Myrtle wants.”

“How do you even know what she wants?”

Blane pulled the cork out of a bottle of white with a quiet pop . “I can tell by her general attitude.”

That was weird, but at least Blane cared about his pet. Too many cats ended up in the shelter. Permanently in the shelter.

“Maybe there’s some kind of cat-friendly syrup we could get?”

We. It was a slip of the tongue, but Blane’s lips just quirked in a lopsided smile that made my stomach flip-flop.

“We could, but she won’t like it. I’ll ask Joseph to check the pet store. Or Vee might know—she also has a cat.”

Blane set a glass of wine beside me and leaned against the granite-topped island, framed by a vase of fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit. Roses and peonies, and the bowl—an ornate creation made from silver spirals—cost more than I earned in a month. I knew that for certain because I’d gotten curious and googled it.

Today’s suit was charcoal, his dress shirt open at the collar. A perfect specimen of a man, if you went for the smart, uptight type. Which I never had, but I’d tried the disorganised, pedantic, personality-of-a-cockroach type, and where had that gotten me? Laughed out of Cheyenne, that’s where. Dom had worn suits, but he’d never looked good in them. No, he’d had the aesthetic of a used car salesman, and he constantly fiddled with his collar as if it were choking him.

If only it had.

Still, he was Becky’s problem now, and I had a whole new set of challenges to deal with. Starting with the way my emotions ratcheted into overdrive whenever Blane came too close. Four feet between us, and I was already beginning to sweat.

“How was your day? Did you hear anything about Caria?”

“She’s not in Vegas. Zion is still trying to locate her.”

“But that’s only the beginning, isn’t it? Even if he finds her, how can we get her back?”

“I’ll go with Joseph.”

“Go and what? Knock on the door and politely ask Laurent to hand her over?”

“We’ll come up with a plan when we know where she is.”

“Did you miss the part where I said Laurent is a murderer?”

“No, I’m a good listener. Is something burning?”

Dammit. The chicken was beginning to blacken around the edges. My cooking was more “avoid starvation” than gourmet, but I’d found instructions on the internet, and as long as the chicken was cooked all the way through, we wouldn’t die. I tossed the vegetables into the wok, and— Oh hell… Maybe I’d been wrong about the dying part? Flames roared toward the ceiling, and I leapt back with a panicked scream and stepped on Blane’s foot.

“Shit! I’m sorry.”

Water. I needed water. There was no handy bucket, so I dumped the roses and peonies onto the floor and hefted the vase. In one smooth motion, I turned and threw the remaining contents at the wok, except what I actually did was soak Blane because the flames were gone and he was standing in the way.

Suddenly, dying didn’t seem like such a bad option after all.

“Please, just kill me now,” I said with a groan.

“Wouldn’t that be counterproductive? Aren’t you staying here because you want to remain alive? And for future reference, throwing water on a grease fire is a spectacularly bad idea. Next time, just put the lid on the pan.”

Next time? Boy, he really had a lot of confidence in me. And danger aside, the water had served a purpose. Blane’s shirt had gone translucent, plastered against taut abs and a hard chest, a happy trail of dark hair leading past his hips to a part of his anatomy I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Next time, I’m cooking goldfish crackers with a side of potato chips.”

“Goldfish crackers are a snack, not a meal. Tomorrow, I’ll pick up dinner on my way home.” He lifted the lid and peered into the wok. “This is salvageable. Good thing I like my bok choy chargrilled.”

He flipped the contents expertly and adjusted the heat, and I stared. “You can cook?”

“When the need arises. Why don’t you take the weight off your feet?”

“I…” I was a failure. Even the simplest thing ended up in disaster.

“You what?”

“I wanted to make dinner as a thank-you. For letting me sleep here, you know? And I can’t even manage not to ruin that.”

“The flames only lasted a moment.”

“And now you’re wearing a wet shirt.”

He stared at me for a beat, then shucked his jacket. When he began unbuttoning the shirt, I realised what he was planning.

“No, no, no.”

The shirt joined the jacket on a stool, and I was forced to look at my boss in all his semi-naked glory. Smooth, tanned skin. Muscles that would make a superhero weep. Two perfect grooves leading from his hips and disappearing under his leather belt.

“Problem solved,” he announced, picking up the spatula and prying the chicken from the bottom of the wok. “Any other complaints?”

Absolutely not.

I was forced to sit on a stool and watch the muscles rippling in Blane’s back as he finished making dinner. The man was an enigma. He could cook, and yet he chose not to. He was wealthy, but he still treated mere mortals like human beings. He had a business empire to run, yet he was spending the evening here with me. And perhaps most puzzling of all, he looked like a living god, but I’d seen no evidence of a woman here, unless you counted the two Myrtles, and I couldn’t imagine he was into incest or bestiality. Was sleeping with a fourth cousin incest? I mean, she looked about fourteen, and he wouldn’t, would he?

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurted, then closed my eyes in embarrassment when he slowly turned, one eyebrow raised.

“Why do you ask?”

“Uh…uh… I just don’t want to get in the way. Make anyone uncomfortable by being here, I mean.”

“No, Wren, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

My name on his lips sent a flash of heat through me, and this was all kinds of wrong. His smirk said he knew that, but he was going to keep standing there shirtless anyway.

“Shouldn’t you put more clothes on? What if the oil spits?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Oh, so freaking fine.

“I could get you a fresh shirt.”

“Feel free, if it makes you more comfortable.”

The smirk was still there. He was enjoying this, wasn’t he, this little game of verbal chicken? And he thought I’d blink first and get the shirt. Well, the joke was on him. I swallowed half the glass of wine, smiled, and shrugged.

“No, I think I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

While trying to hide the panic rising inside me. This was starting to feel dangerously like flirting. Dangerous because when this was over, I’d still need a job, or at the very least, a good reference. But I just couldn’t quit. That strange pull I’d experienced last night was back, tethering me to this spot. To this moment.

To this man.