Chapter 8
Xander
Cora’s gaze scans me from head to toe, and a part of me would even suggest she likes what she sees.
She is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, the most simple and casual of all outfits, and fuck, I certainly do like what I see.
What did you forget? Who did she think I was?
“Were you expecting someone else?” I lean against the door frame, making sure she can’t close the door.
The simple fact that I’m here should concern me, but I keep banishing the thought. I rode my bike mindlessly to clear my head. Somehow, I ended up at her bistro.
She wasn’t there, so I decided to send her a cake. It’s her birthday, for fuck’s sake. To do that, I needed to bribe Roxy to get me her apartment number.
I don’t even want to know how she got it. Or what her “I’ll cash the favor later” means.
Instead of ordering the birthday cake, I reached out to my lawyer, who didn’t appreciate the late call, but I pay him enough to keep his grievances to himself.
Now I’m standing here with an envelope in my pocket, to celebrate a birthday with a woman who never invited me.
I don’t know whether I like the image.
But I know I don’t want to be anywhere else.
It took me almost thirty years to understand the thrill of the chase. That’s what I think this is, because the other explanation… Fuck, there is no other explanation. I’m not interested in exploring another angle.
“What are you doing here?” She ignores my question.
I go with the least cool answer: the truth. “I didn’t want you to be alone on your birthday.”
Her face softens, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth, but then she frowns. “How did you know it’s my birthday?” Her frown deepens. “And how do you know where I live?”
I give her a slow smile. “I told you, I have my sources.”
“Are you stalking me, Xander Stone?” Her words miss the bite, and she is grinning, so I take that as an invitation.
“You wish,” I deadpan, and push my way in.
I’m immediately in a living room. A jacket hangs on a hook on the inside of the front door. I guess that’s the extent of her entry hall.
A sofa, two armchairs, a coffee table, and a dresser with bookshelves above it are all that fit into this room.
An open door to my right leads to the kitchen, or I guess it’s just a countertop with a stove and a cupboard. Another open door leads to her bedroom.
Being in close proximity to her bed makes my cock twitch. Fuck, where is this desire coming from?
The two dates I forced myself into this week resulted in my making up some excuse so I could dash out before we even ordered the main course. I had put in the effort, but I just didn’t want to be there.
And here I am, uninvited into Cora’s apartment, and my cock perks up. Fuck. It must be the unresolved tension from the spa.
“Are you okay?” She eyes me suspiciously. “If you’re wondering, yes, this is my entire apartment. Your hotel room is probably bigger,” she says sarcastically.
I wasn’t wondering about that, but I’m not going to correct her. Fuck, she is right. My hotel suite’s entry hall is larger than this place.
“I like it.” I shrug.
I’m not even lying. It has character. It smells and feels like Cora. It is also full of mess and clutter. I cringe; maybe I’m lying a bit.
Cora snorts.
Fuck, now she thinks I’m a pompous prick. She’s probably been thinking that anyway.
“Did you get me another Danish?” She eyes the white box in my hands. “You need to stop sending—and now bringing—them over.”
“You like them.” I shrug, handing her the pastry.
I refocus on what looks like party leftovers on the coffee table: three bottles of wine, various wrappers, bowls with crumbs, chip bags.
“That looks like—”
She cuts me off. “Like your sources were wrong, and I wasn’t alone on my birthday? The question is, do I need to file a restraining order?”
“Depends.” I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets.
She cocks her head. “On?”
“Do you want to miss out on my company… on the fun I offer?” I enunciate fun in a suggestive way that leaves no room for interpretation.
She snorts. “Careful, pretty boy, my apartment isn’t big enough for your ego.”
“Let the record show she thinks—not for the first time—that I’m pretty.” I shrug, rolling on the balls of my feet back and forth, unsure if our current position by the door is a sign she will ask me to leave soon.
She laughs. “Okay, have a seat. Can I offer you anything? I have leftover chips or a half-eaten cupcake, and a glass or two of Zinfandel left.”
Her eyes gleam as she grins at me. She’s tipsy. Adorably so.
Why did I think she’d be alone? The need to know who was here with her is annoyingly persistent.
I take a seat on the sofa. My feet leave the ground as I sink in much deeper than expected. Fuck, this sofa is worn out. “Do you have Macallan?”
She laughs. “Of course. Do you want a twelve- or fifteen-year-old?”
Is she teasing me? I frown at her, trying to read the situation.
She huffs. “Jesus, you really are from a different planet. Sorry, but it’s Zinfandel or Zinfandel.”
She doesn’t wait, but gets a clean glass from her excuse for a kitchen and pours me what’s left in the bottle. One of the bottles anyway.
I take it from her, shaking off the awkwardness. I seem to have a perpetual cultural shock around this woman. It’s humbling, but also weirdly refreshing. So different from anything I know.
“Happy Birthday.” I raise my glass and take a generous gulp. When have I ever needed liquid reinforcement?
“Thank you.”
She sits across from me and crosses one leg over the other. It’s an automatic position, but she looks so effortlessly fluid, otherworldly. A queen.
A black headband holds her curls off her face, and I let my gaze roam over her freckles. How did I not notice she had so many?
It’s like here, in her domain, I see new layers of her.
I’m about to produce my gift, when a furry creature comes from somewhere and glares at me. Hair stands up on my neck, and I fight the need to recoil. The cat hisses a few times.
While my mouth goes dry, Cora seems immensely entertained. “That’s Clooney; you’re sitting in his favorite spot.”
The cat glares at me, and I glare back. Let’s see who wins, fucker. I blink a few times because another cat saunters in, joining Clooney, and fuck, I can see they are cats, but their glower turns them into pumas. No, lions.
I scoot to the other side of the sofa, and the two jump up, giving me a shrug, I swear.
Cora giggles, and the sound breaks my silent war with her felines.
“You have two cats,” I say, like a complete idiot.
“Maybe I have ten.” She shrugs.
My eyes dart around, and she laughs again. Fuck, but I’m still not sure if she’s teasing me.
“Ten?” I croak.
“Oh my God, the unflappable Xander Stone is freaked out by kittens.” She seems unreasonably pleased with the situation.
“They don’t look like kittens.” I eye the two beside me, and to my horror, one of them places its paw on my thigh.
I tense. It’s not that I hate cats. Or fear them. Okay, fuck it, I’m terrified of them. It’s completely irrational, rooted in an unfortunate incident with a feral, rabid cat that Lottie brought home once when I was seven or eight. I shudder at the memory, sweat erupting on my skin.
The cat stretches, protracts its claws, but then it deflates into a tight ball and starts purring. I try to push the discomfort aside. The purring isn’t all that bad. Ever so slowly, I lower my hand to its fur.
I caress its back cautiously, and the purring intensifies. “It’s like a helicopter.”
When I look up, my gaze collides with Cora’s, and my stomach flips. She’s never looked at me like that.
Like she likes what she sees, an enigmatic smile lingering on her lips. I’m captivated by it, and for a moment I forget I’m in the vicinity of a potential predator.
“That’s Pitt, and it looks like you bonded.” She stands up and comes to give both cats a scratch.
Her citrus scent immediately reminds me of her naked body in that robe in the spa. Not that I saw what was covered under the plush material, but my imagination offered enough to replay that moment more often than I care to admit.
She looks up, and life pauses. Bent over like that, I get a glimpse of her white bra. It’s just a suggestion of the lace, but I still fidget, adjusting for the pressure behind the zipper of my jeans.
But it’s not just the sexual calling of her scent and looks; it’s her face tonight that is somehow different.
Like she sees me in a different light. Like she shifted her perspective. Like she is open to possibilities.
Her heat warms my skin, and I itch to move my caress from Pitt to her. Our gazes locked, she licks her lips, and my eyes drop.
She is close enough for me to kiss her. Is that why she came over? Those luscious lips part slightly, the air between us crackling.
I’m about to lean forward and claim her mouth when she straightens. “Sorry, I need to pee.”
She scrunches her face in what I interpret as regret? Apology? Like she wanted to lean into the moment, but nature’s call was too strong.
“Be my guest,” I say, as if this were my place. Idiot.
She narrows her eyebrows, her latent grin still present, and disappears behind me. I glimpse the closing door I haven’t noticed before.
“Be good to Pitt and Clooney,” she calls from the bathroom.
As if on cue, the other cat gets closer and nudges my hand.
“Okay, beast,” I mumble and scratch his head. He doesn’t seem content with that, and lazily jumps down and saunters away.
I hear water flush, a faucet run, and then some buzzing noise. Is she shaving? Brushing her teeth? I smirk and stand up, because my body is filled with excess energy I need to shake.
Pitt groans and follows his brother.
Cora’s living room is small, but it doesn’t feel crammed. A pile of journals on a dresser reminds me of the sunflower one in my inner pocket.
I don’t think she would appreciate my reading it, or even knowing I opened it, so I decide to add it to the other ones.
“Don’t touch those.” Cora’s voice startles me.