Chapter Three

‘Sometimes I wish I knew your secret,' says Naomi, on speaker.

I'm dreading my workday. After yesterday I have no motivation whatsoever to work on the designs. Not today at least. I decided to accept that today is one of those useless but necessary days to keep my mind sane. So right now instead of drawing new designs in my office, I'm checking what's in my fridge and brainstorming—mainly alone—what I'm cooking for tonight. I hope he's not allergic to anything. I should have asked him what he likes.

‘Secret to what?'

‘To attracting cute guys even when you're making a fool of yourself,' she says laughing.

‘Thanks for the honesty,' I say.

‘Always a pleasure. But seriously. I can't believe that in less than twenty-four hours you managed to get the guy to hold your hair while you vomit, take off your clothes, put you to bed wasted and still get a date with him,' she says.

‘First off, when you put it that way it sounds really weird. Second, it's not a date. I just wanted to show how relieved I am that he didn't take advantage of me last night, more than for the fact that he held my hair while I vomited and put me to bed,' I say.

‘Okay, now you are sounding weird. But you've got a point. Just don't tell him your real reason, it might give him ideas …' she chuckles on the other side and I roll my eyes and let out a laugh on my side.

‘How do you manage to have a dirtier mind than mine?' I ask.

‘What do you mean? You learned it from me. I'm still your mentor, it's only natural my mind remains dirtier.'

She is indeed my mentor. After Josh and I broke up, she was the one to introduce me to the world of casual sex. At first, I wasn't sure about it. Would I be able to sleep with someone without getting attached and begin to expect more? I had my reservations. But once I realised it meant I didn't have to worry about fighting all the time and being kept from doing things I liked, or being myself for that matter, I got the hang of it. Not having strings attached worked pretty well for me.

‘Ha. I know what I'm cooking,' I say staring at my fridge, excited.

Naomi's typing something on her computer, then asks, ‘What's his name anyway?'

‘That is a good question. One I intend to ask tonight.'

‘Make it a priority. Does he know your name?'

‘Now that is something I'm intending to tell him tonight, at some point.'

‘I just can't believe you. Do you know how weird this all sounds?'

‘It sounds worse than it feels, I can tell you that much.'

‘Still weird. At least you know where to find him,' she smirks.

‘HAHA.'

‘Hey, are you getting some of the designs back? I might need new lingerie for the weekend.'

Sometimes I get to keep some of my designs, and the girls, of course, take full advantage of this. I don't mind; in fact I love it. We always have fun trying them on, and they have fun wearing them.

‘Hmm, who's the lucky guy?' I ask.

‘Mmmm … Lewis,' she says.

‘Whaaaat? Are you serious?'

‘Yep. I literally just asked him. What you said last night, it made sense. So instead of waiting, I decided to try. I already had a no for an answer anyway, so why not?'

‘How strange,' I say.

‘What? Why?'

‘You following my advice …'

‘Shut up,'

‘Seriously, normally I'm the one following your advice, not the other way around.'

She laughs.

‘Right. Speaking of … are you gonna consider my latest advice?'

‘I gotta go. I need to head to the store and get some ingredients.'

‘Olivia!' she hisses.

‘I'll let you know when you can come over to pick your lingerie,' I ignore her.

‘Right, thanks,' she says. ‘And … Olivia?'

‘Yeah, Naomi?'

‘I don't remember you ever cooking for any other guy before.'

‘Shut up!' I say, fighting back a laugh.

‘Whatever, I gotta go too. I have a meeting. Use condoms. Tell me everything. Bye,' she says, leaving me alone with my chuckles.#

He knocks on the door at 7:55 pm. I stop what I'm doing on the kitchen counter, the smell of black truffles in olive oil steaming through the air. I check my red lipstick on my very plump lips—thanks to my mum's genes—on the mirror. Then fix my bangs to one side and open the door without thinking too much.

I'm facing him right now, and what I see makes me swallow hard and lose control over where my eyes are staring. He's holding flowers for fuck's sake, their intense pink colour is stunning and they look insanely expensive. But that's not the main issue. He looks like a completely different person wearing beige Chino shorts, a navy-blue V-neck perfectly hugging his biceps, and white sneakers. It's the first time I see him without a cap on. His dark hair is wet, messy and glossy, long enough to have some strands hanging over his forehead. He smells like every man should smell, I can tell you that much.

‘Hi,' he says first because I still haven't managed to speak.

‘Hi,' my voice comes out sweeter and softer than I planned.

‘I thought about bringing you a bottle of rosé but considering your hangover I decided to bring you flowers rather than come empty handed,' he says all this with one hand holding the bouquet, the other pressing against the door's frame, right above my head.

‘Thank you, you didn't have to,' I say trying not to smile as widely as I know I'm smiling.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, then I realise I'm still holding the door half open and haven't invited him to come in.

‘Who's there?' I roll my eyes, because I know this voice well. It's my next-door neighbour.

Cute guy throws me a quizzical look.

‘It's Mrs. Thompson. She can't see well anymore, but boy can she hear. Problem is, every time someone's in the hall, she comes by the door to check who it is,' I explain all this almost whispering, so she doesn't hear it of course.

Cute guy chuckles and hands me the flowers. I might need to mention this to the girls: I didn't have to sleep with him before getting flowers.

Once inside, I pour water into a vase, and he's watching me with hands in his pockets, elbow propped on the kitchen island so that he's leaning sideways. For a moment I think it's best we skip dinner and go play on my bed. But I remember it's probably best I ask his name first.

Once the flowers are set on the black surface of the kitchen island, I offer him something to drink and he accepts water. I'm also drinking water tonight, there is no chance I will be drinking alcohol for the next month. Unless I really need it, which I hope I won't.

‘It smells amazing,' he says, approaching me at the kitchen counter as I grab the package of pasta.

‘I hope you like pasta,' I say.

‘It's only my favourite food,' he says, our eyes meet and so do our smiles. There's something easy about the way we stare into each other's eyes at this moment, it's as if we're both searching for something only the other has. It feels familiar, and safe, and normal.

‘Good. I hope you also like black truffles,' I say as I pour the pasta into the pan.

‘Oh yes.'

He gets closer so he can smell the freshly made black truffle sauce. The proximity reminds me of him touching my back.

‘I see you like cooking,' he says.

‘I do. I find it to be very therapeutic, and fun,' I say, taking a little sample of the sauce with a spoon for him to try.

‘This is amazing,' he says with his eyes closed, tasting the sauce.

I can't help but watch him attentively, noticing his thick long lashes.

‘I know, right?'

If there's something I'm always proud of, it's my cooking. When I cook. Lately, I haven't been doing much cooking.

‘Never tried this one at home before,' he says.

‘Do you cook?'

‘I do.'

Oh.

I'm facing the stove, he's right next to me with his firm gorgeous ass pressed against the countertop, arms and feet crossed in front of him. Again, we find ourselves staring at each other. No shame in it, even though my heart is already betraying me by beating faster than it should.

‘So … I was talking to a friend of mine today and she thinks I should know your name before I feed you,' I say it matter-of-factly, but it comes out a bit weird.

He lets out the same delicious laugh from the lift.

‘Do you want to know my name?'

Why does he look so amused? And what kind of question is that? Of course!

‘I wouldn't mind if you told me …' I say, letting the corner of my mouth muster a smile.

‘Funny, my brother also thinks I should ask yours, Miss Charlton …'

Now it's my turn to laugh. Of course he knows my last name, it's on my front door.

‘Smart brother you have,' I say.

‘It's Lucas,' he says it with a cute accent that now I'm sure is French. He has a funny grin on his face, like it's entertaining to say your own name to someone.

‘What?' I ask, still trying to figure out what's so amusing about this.

‘Nothing. You haven't told me yours yet,' he says.

‘Olivia, but everyone calls me Livvy,' I say.

‘Well, nice to meet you, Olivia Charlton. I like your name,' he says.

I swear to God, if he says my name like that again I'm definitely skipping dinner.

‘Nice to meet you, Lucas.'

‘You can call me Luc,' he says.

Luc it is then.

He helps me set the table, which is my kitchen island. We sit side by side on the high stools. He watches me intently as I serve him the steamy pasta and sprinkle some Grana Padano cheese over, then as I help myself.

‘This is really good,' he says after the first mouthful.

‘I'm glad you like it. Thank you again,' I say, referring to last night.

‘How many times are you still going to thank me?'

‘I don't know,' I say blushing, staring down at my food because I know his magnetic eyes are on me.

‘I didn't do anything,' he says, turning sideways and propping his foot on my stool. I like that. The proximity—again. Should I put some music on or would it be too suggestive?

‘We both know you did more than that. Let me remember, there was the part you might have held my hair, then the part you took my clothes off, and …'

‘Olivia. It was nothing. I just put you on your bed and left,' he says, his eyes serious fixed on mine, because I have found the courage to look at him again.

‘Exactly. That's the point …' I say, and watch him for his response, in the hopes he got what I mean.

He raises an eyebrow, in the way that says, really?

‘So you're thankful that I didn't do anything … to you?'

‘Hmm … I guess you can say that. I mean, you could have, I don't know …'

‘… What?'

The shock on his face. Priceless.

‘Taken advantage of the whole situation, you know …'

‘Ha. Lucky for you I'm not that kind of guy.'

‘Hmm. Lucky me.' Our eyes lock.

‘If I want to do anything to you, I'm gonna need you to be fully conscious so you won't forget how I made you feel.' He drags his eyes from mine down to my mouth.

Fuck. Damn. Who is this guy?

He says this in such a calm voice you'd think he just said he's taking the trash out. I shift myself on the stool and try to quickly reorganise my thoughts so I can give him a good answer, because he just caught me by surprise. But, my eyes dart to his mouth too.

‘And do you?' I ask, surprising even myself. Where is this going?

‘What do you think?' his expression is serious and daring. He looks like a sexy devil with his thick inky black eyebrows. He's still staring at my mouth when I lift my gaze back to his eyes.

‘I only just learned your name, not to read your thoughts …' I say it as a joke, but I know that he would, I'm not that naive. I'm back at staring at his mouth at this point, this time running the tip of my tongue on my lower lip.

A laugh brightens up his face and he says, ‘Fair enough.' He goes back to eating his pasta, leaving me staring at his soft profile.

We talk. A lot. I don't remember the last time I talked so much with a guy without having physical contact in between. He tells me he's from Reims, France, where they make champagne. His grandfather owns a family champagne house. He also tells me he grew up between the grape fields of Reims and the busy Paris life.

He mentions that he rented the penthouse on Airbnb. I figured. Mr. Sorensen, the penthouse owner, uses it for short term rent, so I've seen my fair share of people staying there. None of them looked like Luc, by the way.

I tell him about my day at work yesterday and explain how I ended up wasted.

‘What do you design, exactly?'

‘Right, I forgot to mention that detail,' I say as we both are cleaning the kitchen island once we're done eating. ‘Lingerie.'

‘Oh,' he says as if he weren't expecting it.

When I look at him his shiny blue eyes are checking me out, as if he was actually seeing me in my underwear—well, I guess he already did, last night. ‘That sounds fun.'

‘I like it,' I say, trying to ignore how charged the air has become. ‘I also like the fact that I work mostly from home.'

I lead him to my office, so he can get an idea of what I'm talking about.

‘Wow,' he says once I open the door.

‘Meet my creative space.' I'm glad I had time to tidy it up a bit, it's always messy otherwise.

I'm not sure what he thinks about the big wall completely covered with mood boards of hand designed sexy lingerie, with photos and fabrics pinned to it.

In the middle of the room there's a long table, which I use to draw and put fabrics next to each other, then a desk with my computer screen and laptop on the corner. I also have a cabinet where I keep my materials, books and magazines. And there's also the lingerie stand at the corner near the big window where I hang what I've been working on.

He checks out my designs pinned to the big wall first.

‘These are amazing,' he says.

His words steal a smile from me because I know he's saying it from a man's point of view.

‘Thanks,' I gnaw on my lower lip, pleased with myself.

‘Which company do you work for again?'

‘Secretive,' I say.

‘What? Are you serious?' he turns to face me, surprised, recognising the brand. It's hard not to.

‘Yes. Why? Familiar with my work, are you?' I tease.

‘I might have seen some of it before, yes,' he lets out an innocent shy smile.

I didn't expect him to be honest about it.

Secretive is a luxury brand, famous worldwide. Some pieces are so exclusive that only a few units are made. Well, I normally make those. And, you know, Gisele Bündchen, Keira Knightly and Cara Delavigne might have worn them before. Just saying. I'm the head of their Private Collection, and Caleb is my right hand. All the pieces I work on are unique and exclusive, some are even custom made.

He moves to the lingerie stand where there are some pieces of the previous private collection, and some ideas for the new one. He doesn't touch them, he's analysing them with curiosity, hands in his pockets. The air in the room suddenly becomes hot and heavy. I don't usually show my work to the guys I hang out with, unless I'm wearing it.

He keeps on looking around and I keep on watching his ass when I can. When he's not looking, of course. It's hard not to. His hands in his pockets make the fabric stretch perfectly tight around his ass—it's impossible not to stare.

‘Do you get to wear them too?' he asks to my surprise. I mean, not that I haven't been asked this question before. It's just that for some reason I can't explain why coming from him it's different. It makes me blush.

I watch him staring at me, playing with his wristbands, waiting for my response. A smile on the corner of his eyes.

‘Almost all the time,' I say.

He fixes his surreal blue eyes on mine as he sucks in a breath.

‘Lucky boyfriend,' he says to my despair.

Oh God.

‘Do you think you'd be here if I had a boyfriend?'

He smirks with my question.

‘I don't know. Do you have a boyfriend?'

‘I don't do boyfriends and serious relationships.'

‘Oh?' he raises an eyebrow inquisitively, as if I just challenged him on a bet.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?'

‘Do you think I'd be here if I had one?' He's serious, throwing my own question back at me.

‘Would you?'

‘I've been single for the past two years.'

‘And I for the past three.'

‘I thought you didn't do serious relationships,' he mocks.

How did this conversation become so intense?

‘Not anymore,' I say, and for a long minute we hold each other's gazes, until I can't take it anymore of the heat building up in my inner thighs and climbing all the way up my neck.