4. Rosie
4
ROSIE
I don’t want to be having fun with him but I am.
We’ve moved onto a pub now as it’s late afternoon, and I’m in no state to go back to work after the amount of champagne I’ve had. Once we got past whatever it was that happened between us, we ended up having a great afternoon chatting about art and interior design. It was nice talking to someone about it and not getting a glazed look over their faces as I talk passionately about a paint color or fabric.
“I’m having the best time, Rosie Hunt. You don’t know how much I needed this,” Daniel says his turquoise eyes now a little glassy as we settle into the booth at the pub. I didn’t realize how much I needed a night like this, too. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with a male.
“I’m having a great time, too, Daniel DuPont.” I giggle, using his full name like he did. We clink glasses, it sloshes over the edge, and my champagne drips down my fingers.
“Oops,” I say, shaking my hand, and the next thing I know, Daniel grabs my hand and slides a couple of my fingers into his mouth and sucks them. I still as I stare at his lips wrapped around my fingers, my body burning me alive as heat rushes through it. He slides his tongue along my fingers and it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever done. Suddenly, Daniel drops my hand and I swear there is a blush forming on his cheeks.
“Rosie. Shit, I wasn’t thinking,” he says, raking his hand through his hair.
“You’re fine,” I say, waving the hand that was just in his mouth at him.
The air between us crackles and sizzles as we stare at each other. My breath shudders as I try to calm my racing heart. He licks his lips as those turquoise pools fall on mine. I’ve had too much champagne, and it’s making me hope he fills the gap between us. I shouldn’t want those lips on mine.
“You probably don’t want to hear it, but fuck I want to kiss you, Rosie Hunt,” Daniel declares. I swallow hard because I want him to kiss me, too, but it’s a bad idea. “Say the word, Rosie, and my lips will be on you.”
“We can’t,” my words are barely a whisper.
Daniel slides closer to me in the booth, I can feel his warm breath against my skin, making it break out in goosebumps. “All I can think about is sliding my hand between your thighs and making you come in front of all these people.”
“Daniel.” His name comes out more like a moan than a warning.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about that night we met,” he whispers into my ear, his lips grazing against my neck as his hands slide over my thighs, teasing me.
“Me too,” I confess.
Fingers slide around the nape of my neck and grip me tightly. “Say the word, Rosie,” he declares. I turn my face, and our lips can almost touch, he is that close, every part of me is screaming … Do it … Do it. I want this man badly, but I know the alcohol has taken over, and I want to throw caution to the wind and say fuck it because I want that man’s lips, mouth, and hands on my body again. His face is what I see when I pull out my vibrator and service myself. You wouldn’t have to when he is offering you the real deal.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, pulling myself from his grasp. I can see the disappointment and hunger in his eyes, but he lets me go.
“Would you hurry up, I need to pee,” I yell at him. The stupid pub’s female toilets were out of order and the smell coming from the males had me gagging. Daniel assured me his home was around the corner from the pub and that I could use his bathroom. If I wasn’t desperate there would be no way in hell I’d be going home with him. We have both had way too much to drink as we stumble along the streets.
“Here it is,” he says as we stop out the front of a terraced house in Mayfair. I stare at the building and my jaw drops. This must be a ten-million-pound home. How rich is this guy? He inputs a code to his front door and walks in, I follow him. He throws his jacket onto the cloak hook in the entrance and then kicks off his shoes, leaving them to lay haphazardly to the side.
“There’s a bathroom around the corner,” he says, pointing down the corridor past the kitchen and living area. I follow his direction, turn, and find the bathroom. Stepping in, I marvel at the grey marble that encases the powder room as I do my business. I admire the gorgeous veins that run through it. I take in the brassware, the black concrete sink, the light fixtures, everything is perfect. After washing my hands, I head back out to where Daniel is in the kitchen.
“Love your powder room. Did Ivy do it?”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. I bought the home like this.”
“Well, they did a good job,” I add as I watch him pull out pots and pans. “What are you doing?”
“Making us croque monsieur’s,” he states as if that is normal.
“A what?”
He stills and looks at me. “Please tell me you have had one before?” I shake my head. He then mumbles something in French as he pulls out the ingredients he needs.
“Do you need any help?” I ask as I stand there awkwardly.
“I’d love a bottle of water. They are in the fridge. Grab one for yourself, too,” he says, pointing to the fridge. I open the fridge, find two bottles, and place one down in front of him, then take a seat on the other side of the counter and watch him make whatever it is he is making.
Silence falls between us and I hate it. I don’t know what to say or do after the way we left things in the pub. I mean, my bladder really saved the day as I was seconds from letting him kiss me and that would have been a disaster. But now you’re at his home, so did it really save the day?
“Do you have any siblings?” I blurt out, trying to kill the awkward silence.
“Yes, a half-brother, Louis, he lives in France, and I have my two cousins, Matthieu, who runs the Paris office, and Deveraux, who runs the New York office of DuPont,” he explains.
“You’re all in art?”
“My aunt and uncle are very much in that scene, my father was not. I chose to follow in their footsteps, not his,” he says through gritted teeth. “I only found out about my brother recently. Unfortunately, my mother hid the secret all my life, my father had an affair with his secretary, who is my brother’s mother. My own mother confessed the secret just before she passed because she knew she would be leaving me alone.” A frown mars his face as if remembering how happy he was to find a brother but then losing his mom. “Do you have any siblings?” he asks, changing the subject.
“An older brother. He’s a fisherman down south, married, and they had the family’s first grandbaby only a couple of months ago.”
“What did they have?”
“Little boy called George.” He gives me a smile.
“We’re all very excited. I’m close to my family even though I live in London. I’ve known my best friends my entire life. We all grew up in a small village, you know the place where you marry your high school sweetheart, pop out babies, and never leave the area.”
“And that’s not what Rosie Hunt wanted was it?” He grins as he continues to cook.
“None of us wanted that. We couldn’t get out of the village quickly enough. We worked our asses off to get into our colleges here in London so we could escape.”
“And did your friends make it?” he asks.
“Yeah, they all did. What about you, how do you know Ivy’s fiancé?”
“I met the boys around London. They all went to university together, so they knew each other from way back,” he explains.
“And what about your friends in France?” I ask.
“Yes, I have friends there, but some have moved to other parts of France or Europe. Most are married with families so having time to catch up is hard,” he explains.
“So, you’re the odd man out with your friends as the single guy?”
He nods as he continues to create this strange French sandwich. “Are all your friends single?”
“Yes.”
“All concentrating on your careers?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“We are all very passionate about what we do.”
“That’s admirable, not many people love their jobs.”
“You don’t love yours?” I ask.
He looks up and grins at me, those dimples popping as he does, and I want to melt just like the cheese is on the sandwich. “I love what I do. I’ve been accused of being a workaholic before.”
“Ah, now I understand. You don’t have time to devote to a relationship, so you don’t.”
“And you think that’s bad?” he questions me.
I shake my head. “The number of times exes of mine have complained because I’m at the office till later or on the phone with an overseas client at all times of the day. I drag them into design stores and look at furniture they weren’t interested. I’ve given up on dating because the hassle isn’t worth it.” Daniel is staring at me in surprise. “What?” I ask, wiping my face thinking there is something on it.
“Not many people feel the same way, and they think I’m the playboy,” he says as if accusing me of being like him. I don’t think so.
“You don’t date models?” I tease. Daniel rolls his eyes at me. “Ha, see, I knew it. You’re totally a playboy, dating models is on the playboy list.”
“It’s a job, Rosie, just like being a doctor or something like that.”
“Yes, very much like being a doctor.”
“You’re judgmental,” he says, pointing the wooden spatula at me.
“I am.”
“Glad you’re aware of your flaws,” he teases as he starts to plate up the sandwiches. I flip him off which makes him burst out laughing. “Voila,” he says proudly, sliding the plate across the counter to me.
“Oh, it’s a fancy ham and cheese toastie.”
Daniel glares at me. “It is not a toastie.” He clearly looks irritated which makes me smile. “Come, let’s see what’s on TV.” He heads into the living room, and we take a seat on his charcoal couch. I take a seat beside him, and he starts flipping through the channels while I bite into one of the most delicious sandwiches I’ve ever eaten.