Chapter 23 Neve #2
My heart flutters inside my chest. He seems genuinely amused, and amusing Faust Darling feels like a triumph.
“Tell me who gave you these.” I have to look away from him, because he’s so damn hot and collected and tall, and… Stop it, Neve.
“They give me bottles as gag gifts. Everyone in my world knows I don’t drink.” He adds the last sentence quietly.
“But isn’t that expensive? For your gift givers?”
He huffs a low laugh. “Yeah. One bottle of whiskey up there is worth half a grand.”
“What a waste.”
“I use it for cooking, or…” He trails off.
I can’t help it. I glance at him again. “Or what? Plying women with liquor before you fuck them?”
His gaze narrows. “No, Neve. Never that.” Then he stalks past me into the kitchen, as if I’ve actually offended him.
I follow along as he flips on lights, then starts getting out silver bowls, flour and sugar and chocolate chips and more from the walk-in pantry, along with milk and eggs and butter from the enormous stainless steel fridge.
It has a water and ice dispenser on the outside that makes me envious.
The inside of this place must have been renovated at some point.
As an American ice lover, that is my dream fridge.
The thought reminds me of my own less-than-ideal refrigerator at the apartment, which makes me think of Cyn.
Shit.
I plop down on one of the stools at the long, marble island, and pull my phone from my trouser pocket, where I put it when I was taking off my boots.
I’ll give you your time together ;)
I send the text, then set my phone face down on the island, noting how clean and streak-free it is.
Directly ahead of me are a wall of windows, a door in between them, overlooking a wooded backyard, past a covered, in-ground pool. It’s dark out, but the outdoor floodlights are on, and I see a hot tub on the expansive deck, and a grill, too.
To my right is the kitchen space, lots of counters, a gas stove, a little area with a coffee and espresso machine. Deep sinks, many cabinets, the fridge door clutter-free except for a plain calendar magnetized on it.
And Faust, his back to me as he cracks eggs into a bowl.
There’s an enormous glass beer mug with what I think is something in German etched onto it, whisks and wooden spoons and such inside.
Above the stove is a large glass window, looking into the forest.
It’s cozy here, despite the fact it’s so pristine.
To my left is a living room, couches and chairs and a coffee table clustered before a fireplace, more art on the walls, candles along the fireplace mantel.
And beyond that, another exit that looks onto a patch of grass, but there’s so much glass that seems to allow the outdoor space inside, it feels freeing, in a way. Not just another house in the Toronto suburbs.
“Do you mind if we listen to music?” Faust asks without looking at me. He’s pulling a stainless steel pan from a large drawer beneath the coffee station.
“This is your castle,” I say back with a smile in my words.
He glances at me over one shoulder, sweater tightening around his muscles. “Yeah, but you’re my guest.”
I smile despite myself. “Aren’t we here to talk murder mysteries?”
“We’ll get there.”
And a few minutes later, as he’s letting the first pancake cook in the pan, jazz filters through some unseen speakers, the sound low but high-quality.
“Do you need me to do anything?” I ask, my Southern manners kicking in now that I’ve come to terms with the fact I’m in this man’s house. Alone.
“Do you want to set the table?” Something about the way he asks so casually, without looking at me, it makes it feel like we’ve done this dozens of times before.
“Of course.” I slide down from my perch on the stool and he points to where the plates are, which is in the cabinet directly next to him.
I sidle by, but his arm grazes my shoulder as he flips a pancake. I try to ignore the electric touch, then reach in for plates, setting a larger, white one down in front of him so he can place the pancakes on it.
I take two more in hand, then walk around him to the coffee station, opening up the top drawer.
I guessed right.
Cutlery.
I grab forks and a couple of butter knives just in case, shut the drawer with my hip, and ask where he wants to eat. I noticed a dining room on the opposite side of the liquor cabinet, but there’s also the enormous island.
“You choose,” he says.
I pick the island so I’m not wandering around his house being nosy, thinking about how many other women he’s had over and cooked for.
Berating myself silently for caring at all. I mean, I don’t, of course, but I’m curious.
And when we’ve sat down beside one another and he’s put two plain pancakes on my plate—mirroring Cynthia’s work from over the weekend—and he has a stack of five chocolate chip ones on his, both of us with orange juice in short glasses in front of us, I know it’s time to talk.
Of all things to start with, I say, as he cuts into his pancakes, “I’ll do the dishes when we’re done.”
I’m mortified by those words because it makes me sound like I’m trying to be his fake wife or something, and I immediately shove a forkful of syrupy, buttery pancake into my mouth as he looks up at me, surprised.
Fuck.
I didn’t want to eat, and definitely not this because it’ll bloat me, but I have no choice now that it’s in my mouth and damn, it is fucking delicious. No offense to Cyn, but these are perfect.
I think he may have added extra vanilla or something, the way it almost tastes like a sugar cookie, but in soft, fluffy pancake form.
Not good for calorie intake, but I can afford to eat today since this is my first meal.
He swallows while I’m still letting all the flavors burst in my mouth and pretending I didn’t just say something weird, and he replies when I can’t.
“We’ll do them together.”
I freeze, nearly choking, dough close to clogging my throat.
Don’t die here, Neve, because he will absolutely be arrested and he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in prison and it’ll be all your fault.
But I force myself to play it cool, nodding once, and finally, finally swallowing.
A sigh escapes my lips before I can reign it in and he smiles.
“Good, huh?” he asks, before he takes another forkful that would absolutely destroy me, and pops it into his mouth all at once.
“Honestly, yes.”
After he swallows, he says, “You say that like you didn’t trust me, about knowing how to cook.”
I set down my fork and clasp my hands in my lap as I swivel on the stool to face him. “I don’t trust you on much,” I say very seriously. “But this, you weren’t lying about.”
And that’s his cue, too.
He puts down his fork and knife, mirrors my posture, and faces me, our knees brushing, his crowding into my space. I glance down, and I like how thick his thighs are, and yeah, I’ve probably checked out his ass too, which is bigger than mine, but fucking glorious.
I force all of that away, because I can’t be blushing when we have this discussion, else I’ll look weak.
“You wanted to talk about Sylvan.” I say it as a reminder, although I’m sure we both remember it’s how he lured me here.
He holds my gaze, lips pushed together, his nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither will I, now that I’ve called him on either his bluff or the truth.
A second passes. Another.
And I can’t help myself.
I add, “Because you definitely don’t want to fuck me.” It’s meant as a joke but it comes out breathy and low, like I’m offended by it, or hurt, which is absurd.
And maybe true.
“No,” he echoes, but his tone matches mine. Low. Dangerous. “I don’t want to fuck you, Neve Devine.”
But I can tell, the smoothness of his words, he doesn’t mean it.
He glances at our knees touching, his eyes roaming over my thighs, then up, to where my white, sheer silk shirt is tucked into my Citizens of Humanity jeans. Both gifts from Nolan. Who won’t send me any more money if I don’t actually reply to his texts.
But I don’t have time for thoughts of my brother right now.
Faust’s gaze lingers around my navel, and he swallows. Hard.
“You wear these shirts a lot.”
I don’t say anything. It’s true. I have five of them, in different colors. Bought from Nolan’s allowance to me. 100% silk.
“They’re distracting.”
I inhale sharp. “Are they?” I volley back.
His gaze goes higher, until he’s staring at the red lace of my bra beneath my shirt. The bra itself is slightly sheer. Enough to see my pink nipples if you’re staring hard, and he is.
My core is tight, and I arch my back, just subtly, and not on purpose.
Maybe on purpose.
His eyes narrow slightly and I hear his breath catch.
My boobs are small, but they’re perky, and honestly, I like them. A lot.
It seems like Faust Darling does, too.
“You’re distracting,” he says, barely a breath.
“Do you want to touch me? Where you’re looking?” What are you doing, Neve? My inner monologue is panicked, but my body is horny.
He snaps his gaze up to mine. “I would tear you apart.”
Fuck.
I think I might beg to suck his dick right now, but I squeeze my thighs together instead, keep my composure, and reply back with, “Either start talking Sylvan, or start pinching my nipples, Faust.”
He bites his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut, alongside his fist.
Then he takes a breath, opens his eyes, drops his hand, and says, “Had you ever met Sylvan Connor before last Wednesday?”
All the foreplay we were doing so well goes out the window, and although my blood still feels hot under my skin, I try to focus on what he’s asking me. Maybe more importantly, I try to analyze why.
I think I know, but the truth is where we have to start.
“No.”
“Did he really threaten Will? Like he said at the bar? After he hurt him?” Faust wants to believe Sylvan was posturing over the weekend.
But the threat clangs loud in my head. You can consider Will Barbour gone, Neve. He’ll never bother you or cross your path again.