Chapter forty-two
Rylee
Fragile bubble.
I step out of the dressing room—or more like the ballet shop. The room is lined with rows of soft tulle skirts, satin pointe shoes, and leotards in every size and color.
His eyes find mine the moment I appear, like he can sense me before I even make a sound. He’s leaning casually against the ballet barre, but the moment our gazes lock, he straightens, closing the distance between us.
“What do you want to eat?” he asks, his breath is warm in the small space between us. “I’m making you lunch.”
“Lunch?” I struggle to focus on anything but him. His scent, something clean, heady with a hint of cedar, wraps around me.
“Don’t you have people for that?” I tilt my head to look at him.
He leans in, his nose brushing mine, and the world tilts slightly beneath my feet. My pulse stumbles then races. I feel light, like I’m standing on clouds.
“Yeah.” His lips curving into a faint smile. “But I gave them the day off. I wanted it to be just me and you.”
When he says things like that, something inside me softens, breaking open just a little.
For however long we have here, I want to let myself fall into this. I don’t want to think about what happens after. I just want to stay here, wrapped in this fragile, perfect little bubble with him.
“Steak tacos,” I say finally with a smile I can’t hold back.
“Steak tacos?” His whole face lights up, his grin broad and boyish. It does something to my chest, like it’s caving in and soaring all at once. “I can do that.”
He takes my hand and leads me out of the studio. We pass through the living room, bright and airy. White couches, flat-screen TV, and more Christmas decorations. Then we stop at what is apparently a bar—because of course, the house has its own freaking bar.
“Wine or mimosa?” he asks as if this is something he does every day.
“Mimosa,” I say, settling onto one of the bar stools, watching him.
He moves around the bar, pouring champagne and orange juice into glasses. It’s like he’s done this a thousand times before. Is there anything Lucien Kingley isn’t good at? He dances ballet, for God’s sake.
“One mimosa for mi esposa,” he says, sliding the glass toward me. Then he grabs a pitcher and makes an entire batch of mimosas, carrying it with us as we head to the kitchen.
We walk into the kitchen, and I’m taken aback by how big it is. A long kitchen island stands in the center with white marble tops. To the right of it, a double sink sits against beautiful windows with a view of the backyard. The cabinets are warm wood, and the backsplash behind the double oven is made of vibrant mosaic of colorful ceramic tiles, adding to the Spanish vibes. They even have a built-in grill.
Then, of course, there’s the fridge. A huge double-door, walk-in fridge that looks more suited for a restaurant than a home kitchen.
Luc gathers everything he needs to make the steaks. Meanwhile, I work on the salad with avocado, cherry tomatoes, cucumber, and onions. It’s simple, but it’s the perfect complement to what he’s making.
I can’t believe we’ve lived together for almost a month and never cooked together. I’ve been trying so hard to avoid him that I’ve completely missed just how fun he can be. And sexy, too. It scares me how much I’m enjoying this and how easy it feels.
When I’m done, I set the bowl aside. I lean against the counter, watching him. His muscles flex and stretch beneath his shirt as he flips the tortillas. My gaze lingers too long, and a warmth builds low in my belly. I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the aches spreading through me.
He plates everything on a wooden board. Filling the tortillas with the steak, my salad, a sprinkle of fresh parsley and cilantro, and his special sauces drizzled on top. He even adds a bit of extra salad, arranging everything until it looks so pretty I almost don’t want to touch them.
I expect him to bring everything to the table, but instead, he transfers everything into a large container. Then, he grabs two new glasses, setting them on the counter next to the basket. He turns back around, opening the cabinets.
“What are you doing?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“I’m looking for a basket.” He pulls open another cabinet.
“A basket?”
“Yeah, to put the food in. I’m taking you somewhere,” he says as he finds the basket. He places the container with the food, the mimosa, and the glasses inside of it.
“Come on.” He holds one hand toward me while holding the basket with the other.
“You’re telling me we’re going to eat outside? In the cold?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“Where we’re going isn’t cold. I promise.”
I study him for a second, trying to decide if I should trust him, or if he’s just trying to trick me into going outside.
“Just trust me,” he says gentler now, his hand waiting for mine.
“Okay.” I slide my hand into his, letting him lead me outside. “You better not be dragging me somewhere to freeze me to death.”
“For someone who used to live in New York, you’re way too scared of a little cold,” he teases, his breath fogging in the cool air.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not a polar bear, and I don’t just adapt to the cold like one,” I shoot back, shivering slightly. “I survived it. That doesn’t mean I liked it.”
“It’s not even that cold. What, maybe fifty degrees?”
He’s right—it’s not nearly as cold as a New York winter. But still.
“I don’t care if it’s fifty degrees or ten. I hate the cold,” I grumble.
His laugh is warm, filling the chilly air around us. “The city didn’t toughen you up at all?”
“Oh, I’m tough, but there’s no toughening up to this. Cold is cold, and it doesn’t run in my DNA. My mom is Dominican, and my dad is Haitian. I’m built for warm beaches and tropical weather. Not freezing winds or snow.”
He chuckles as we hop in the golf cart. He drives us deeper into the forest behind the villa. The further away we go, the more I’m starting to regret my decision to trust him. He’s going to freeze me to death out here, isn’t he?
The cart comes to a stop in the middle of the forest. “We’re gonna have to walk the rest of the way,” he says, hopping out.
I stay seated, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re not about to kill me, are you?”
He throws his head back. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“You tell me. Middle of the woods. This has murder mystery written all over it.” I wave my hands around. “I can already imagine the headline. ‘The Billionaire and his new wife went on their honeymoon, but she disappeared in the middle of the night.’ I’m just hoping the story doesn’t end up on Tubi, no offense Tubi. Starz or BET would at least give me the production value I deserve.”
He snorts, holding out his hand to me. “You watch too many true crime shows. Come on, we’re almost there.”
I let him pull me out of the cart, muttering, “Just so you know, I’ve taken martial art classes.”
“You have?” He looks back at me, raising an eyebrow.
“I’ve lived on my own since I was seventeen. I had to learn to defend myself.”
His expression softens slightly. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
I’m about to respond when the sight in front of me stops me in my tracks. My breath catches as I take it all in.
“What is this place?” I glance between him and the view.
“ I found it a couple of years ago. It’s like a hidden—”
“Oasis,” I finish for him.
He looks at me, his grin softening into a smile. “Yeah, exactly. An Oasis.”
And he’s right, it’s warm here. How is that possible?