47. What Are You Doing?

Chapter 47

What Are You Doing?

MEGAN

" Y ou look nice," Naomi says with a strange grin on her face.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, it's just that I've never seen you dress up for him before."

I look at myself in the long mirror affixed to the wall in my bedroom. It's framed by an intricately etched gold border, clearly, an expensive piece that Hunter's interior decorator probably purchased when he or she decorated this apartment.

Naomi's right, I never dress up, but I've also never dated a grown-ass man before. Hunter and I have been coexisting peacefully at The Blue Whiskey for almost a week since our "come to Jesus" moment in my office, and he's invited me out for an actual date tonight. I thought I should dress the part.

"Do you think it's too much?" I ask her, turning to look at my profile. I'm wearing a simple black halter dress with a single split on the side. It glides along my curves, showing off my back and my left thigh.

"It can never be too much." She hands me a liquid lipstick from her handbag. "Here, put this on."

The color is stiletto red.

"I never wear red," I tell her.

"But tonight, you should."

"You sure you don't want to go on this date instead of me?" I ask sarcastically.

"If I was sleeping with a hot, older man who gave me an apartment and a trip to Paris, I'd wear nothing but a trenchcoat and this damn red lipstick."

I laugh because I know she totally would.

"You're hysterical."

"I'm dead ass serious. You should be naked in that little office of yours at the club every night. I would certainly be if he was my boss."

I am many things.

A club manager.

An art student.

A cynic.

But I stare back at an image of not just the sum of those things but a woman in the mirror who is... dare I say... happy for once?

A knock at the door leads me to pick up my purse on the bed.

He's here.

"That dress," is all he says after I've opened the door.

"What about it?" I ask, trying extremely hard not to blush.

"Did I buy you that one?"

"Absolutely not. I took the clothes you had delivered here the other day back to the store."

That was probably the hardest thing I ever did because he had some personal shopper send over a few fabulous outfits. But I've taken enough from Hunter.

A job.

A home.

I can't allow him to give me too many things or I may possibly lose myself.

"Well, regardless of where you purchased it, it's a stunner on you."

"That's what I told her!" Naomi chimes in through the door of her bedroom.

Hunter emits a slight chuckle. I think he finds Naomi entertaining, although he only briefly interacts with her.

"Let's go," he announces. "We've got a dinner reservation."

"Good night, Naomi," I call from the living room.

"Good night, red," she says back, and I can hear the smugness of her response.

In Paris, Hunter and I visited small cafes and out-of-the-way restaurants because those are the places that are popular in the city. However, in Los Angeles, I can see that Hunter likes to do things in a totally different way. Dinner was incredible. We dined on a rooftop with spectacular views of the city. While we weren't the only people there, we clearly had the best seat in the house, which was somewhat isolated from the other diners.

"Have you been here before?" I ask the typical question a woman sleeping with a man will ask when she wants to know if she's special or just more of the same.

"No, I'm a complete workaholic. I don't usually make time for dinners out, but I heard this restaurant had a new chef cooking here who was talented. I thought you might like to try it."

From appetizers to dessert, everything was top-notch, and, of course, the view of the Hollywood sign at sunset was the icing on the cake. I was pissed that I missed a great opportunity and didn't think to bring my sketchbook so that I could capture the moment, so I did the next best thing and took a flick with my cell phone. I'll be sure to sketch it later.

After our meal, we stay a little longer and have another cocktail. I choose an apple martini, and Hunter orders a lowball of his favorite whiskey. Then he does something crazy and grabs my hand across the table as we sip on our respective drinks.

"What are you doing?" I ask, a bit shell-shocked.

"The same thing you're doing."

"I mean with my hand."

"I'm holding it."

I look around at the other tables. No one is holding hands.

"It's weird." I try pulling it back.

"Pull your hand away from me again, and you'll be sitting on my lap the rest of this evening."

"There you go with the threats again."

"I can't help it. You bring the worst out of me."

"Agreed."

"Agreed?"

"You bring the worst out of me, too."

"Then we're a perfect match."

I think about everything we've been through together since we met. Steve, Paris, the shooting at his apartment, and I am more convinced than ever that we're probably the total opposite of being a perfect match. We're bad luck for each other.

Yet here I am.

Holding hands with a man who makes the engine inside of my chest roar to life and makes me feel safer than I ever have in my entire life.

After he pays the bill, we head home. My plan is to peel off this dress, crawl into bed, and read another chapter of an angsty romance I've recently been into until I drift to sleep.

But Hunter has other plans for us.

He slides his key card into the elevator of our building and hits the PH button, never once asking me if I wanted to end our date in his home. Hell, the last time I was here, both he and I were almost shot by a sniper who is still out there for all I know.

"I didn't say I was going to your house."

"It was assumed."

"You assumed that I was going to put out simply because you bought me a lobster dinner?" I say incredulously.

"You've already put out." He smirks. "Repeatedly."

"Don't remind me."

"Oh, I'm definitely going to remind you."

"The elevator doors glide open directly to Hunter's penthouse, and I suck in a breath at what I see.

"What did you do?" I ask in awe.

There are candles.

Dozens and dozens of ivory-colored candles of varying heights, strategically placed throughout the apartment, all lit. All for me.

It's beautiful.

Like a fairytale.

He presses a button on the wall that I thought was a security panel but seems to control the entertainment system in his home. Soft music plays, like the kind you'd hear on an old 70s station. I think they call it yacht rock.

I'm speechless because this is a very calculated plan of seduction. Is Hunter trying to seduce me? This isn't like him. This is...different and maybe kind of nice.

"Have you ever danced to slow music?" He asks as he pulls me into his body in the middle of the living room.

"Well, not really. They didn't play a lot of slow songs at school dances. In fact, they didn't play any."

"You went to school dances?"

He's so damn perceptive. Of course, I didn't go to any dances. I'm only saying what I believe an ordinary woman my age would say.

"No."

"Why?"

He places my arms around his neck, and he wraps his around my waist.

"I didn't live with the kind of people who supported that. A dance means I would have needed a ticket, maybe even a dress. No one in my house was paying for that. Not for me."

"When will you tell me more details about your past?"

"I'm not giving those people any energy. Talking about the past would do that."

"And who are those people?"

Both he and I have complicated pasts. He has a few ghosts from his past, whom I think he's desperately eager to find, and I have several I'm determined to avoid. I wonder if he's already started fishing around in my past. He's got the resources to do it. I'm just not sure if he's that interested in me to go digging.

"I'd rather not get into any of that. They're nobody."

Hunter grunts in response but says nothing else. It's clear what I've told him has angered him, but there isn't any point in getting worked up about the demons of the past. I've learned that lesson many times.

"This is an interesting song," I say. A man with a soothing voice is singing about sailing.

"Interesting, how?"

"He sounds like he knows what that feels like, to sail on a boat."

"I think it's a metaphor for love, but yeah, I'm sure the singer has been on a few yachts in his lifetime. He was pretty successful in his heyday."

We continue swaying to the music. I think I'm doing all right. I've never danced to a slow record before, not like this.

"Nice," I say wistfully.

"Would you want to sail one day?"

"Me?" I say incredulously.

"Yes, you."

"I mean... if you're offering."

His lips bend toward my ear.

"I'm offering you whatever you'll accept from me, Megan."

I look up at his serious eyes and suddenly suspect just how much trouble I'm really in. I'm falling for my boss, my landlord, my protector, my own personal genie in a bottle.

And I'm falling hard.