Tess
Istood at the threshold between Scott’s living room and his balcony and gaped. “This is one hell of a fuck pad.”
I’d thought his apartment had been high-end.
Turned out I hadn’t even seen the best part.
The balcony extended the entire length of his apartment with a door coming from the main area and another from the bedroom, and with the size and furnishings, it basically added another functional living space.
A round dining table set was positioned in front of a long rectangular electric fireplace, which had been turned on, thankfully, since the night had gotten chilly.
Several oversize patio chairs filled the space, most with accompanying ottomans, but the real focus piece was the couch that was big enough to be a bed.
Considering that the balcony was completely walled off from the neighbors on both sides, I had no doubt the couch had been used as such. It was how I’d use it if it had been mine, anyway.
“I can’t tell if you’re praising or judging,” Scott said, coming up beside me.
I wouldn’t tell him there was a third option that involved complicated feelings of jealousy and unworth. “Neither. I’m trying to figure out if this is a booty call or a date.”
“Is there a difference?”
“That tells me all I need to know.” It was what I needed to remember too—Scott Sebastian did not do dates. He did sex. Lots and lots of sex, and he did it pretty damn well, probably because he was so practiced.
I wished the reminder didn’t make me feel so gutted.
I wrapped the lace shawl I’d borrowed from Kendra’s closet tighter around the rose floral print satin maxi (also borrowed) and crossed over to the fireplace, hoping it looked like I was trying to get warm rather than get away from him.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be away from him per se. It was that I wanted to be away from my increasingly complex feelings about him, and of course there was nowhere to get away from those. Wherever I went, there I was and all that.
And wherever he went, there he was, gorgeous and sexy and unattainable. I didn’t have to look at him to remember just how much of each of those qualities he was.
“I suppose this is when I should deliver my spiel.”
I turned to look at him and raised both brows in question. I’d sadly never been able to do just one the way Tey did.
“The spiel where I explain that I don’t do commitment, don’t get attached, this is all fun for fun’s sake, no hard feelings, it’s who I am.”
It was insane how he could make the after-work look so appealing without even trying. His hair was mussed, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hands stuck in his pockets all casual-like.
And yes, right, he’s in the middle of telling me not to fall for him. I should pay attention.
“But…” he continued, then trailed off.
“But you realized I already know all of that because of the circumstances under which we met?”
“There is that. I was going to say but I realized I don’t...want to.”
I had to force myself to breathe. There were so many ways I could insert meaning into those words. It could also be a well-practiced line.
More likely it was the latter. “That’s terribly smooth of you.”
“This time I’m sure it’s not a compliment.”
I glanced away, unable to take the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what it is. A warning to myself for self-preservation.”
“I can’t blame you. But I wish you didn’t feel that way.”
He sure knew how to draw my eyes back to him. I studied him this time, looking for any signs of insincerity. I needed proof to show my heart. See, look, you fool, you. He’s rehearsed this. It doesn’t mean anything.
When I didn’t find anything that confirmed what I needed it to, I decided it was time to get off shaky ground. “I think I’m maybe not ready for conversations that discuss feelings. Is that wine I spy?”
“There is wine, yes.” He moved to pour it into the glasses already set out on the table that was decked out as though we were at a five-star restaurant instead of his luxury apartment balcony.
A long cream cloth covered it. Candles were lit, the wine chilled in a bucket with ice.
Stainless-steel covered plates adorned the side buffet.
Several plates, actually. Was he expecting more guests?
He anticipated the question. “I didn’t ask about your food preferences, so I had my chef make a few different things.
” He handed me my wine glass so his was free to lift up the lids on the various dishes.
“Eggplant parmigiana. Lasagna bolognese. Garden salad—seeds instead of croutons in case you don’t do gluten. Grilled shrimp. Caprese.”
“Will you think bad thoughts about me if I have a little bit of each?”
“I’ll think bad thoughts about you either way.”
“I hope so.” My smile broke through without warning. It felt like it was revealing too much, for some reason, so I let it fade. “Italian is a favorite of mine. You chose well.”
I was probably imagining it, but his cheeks seemed to pink, and I suddenly had the impression that he didn’t normally do this for a woman. That he didn’t consider her tastes. That he ordered for himself and/or to show off.
At least, that had been my experience with the players I’d dated in the past. No one had ever put this much thought into serving me, not after they’d gotten into my panties, anyway.
It was a dangerous thought, one I shouldn’t think about too long, so I concentrated on my wine and directed Scott with what to load on my plate instead.
The food was to die for, every bite better than the last, which was surprising considering how simple the menu was. I probably spent an entire ten minutes complimenting each item—in orgasmic fashion, as Scott pointed out—leaving little need to worry about trivial small talk.
But then my enthusiasm for the food waned as my belly filled, and silence crept in. Not the awkward kind, just the kind that invited conversation.
“Tell me about yourself, Tessa,” he said when the quiet had begun to linger too long.
I blinked at him in horror. “I’m having sudden flashbacks to every awful date I’ve ever been on. Why would you ask such a banal thing?”
“I was attempting to differentiate between a date and a booty call. Though, you must clarify—is there still booty involved in your version of a date?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve generic conversation starters like tell me about yourself.”
His laugh turned my insides to jelly. “I guess it’s obvious now that I’m more skilled at getting to know women in the biblical way.”
“Oh, it was obvious before.”
There was potential to turn the talk dirty from there, and I wouldn’t have minded in the slightest.
Instead, Scott became somber. “I really do want to know you, though, Tessa. I’ll try better to make it as painless as possible.” He thought for a second. “What’s Tess short for? Theresa?”
Ah, fuck. We were really doing this. It occurred to me that the whole reason I was into the love ‘em and leave ‘em types was specifically so I wouldn’t ever be forced to talk about myself.
This question wasn’t hard, though. “Terese.”
“Terese Turani.” He said it like he was savoring the taste, the same way I’d savored the eggplant parmigiana. “Is there a middle name?”
“Nope.” I almost left it there. Then I kicked myself. If he was going to make the effort, I could as well. “My father was Iranian, and middle names aren’t a normal part of the culture, and I don’t think my mother cared enough to argue it.”
I saw the moment it clicked, the oh-so familiar realization of yes, that’s why I get an ethnic vibe about her. I’d gotten it all my life.
“Iranian,” he said as the dots connected. “Shoma Farsi sohbat mekunid?”
Now that was new. Usually, only other brownish people tried to engage in the language. Never one of the white guys. “I have no idea what you just said, but I’m guessing it was Farsi, and whoa, that was extremely hot.”
“I asked if you speak Farsi, which is about the only phrase in Persian that I know. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Do you know other languages?”
“Spanish. German. Some French.”
“Then still extremely hot.”
His foot wrapped around my ankle under the table, as though claiming it as his. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’m extremely hot as well.”
“You don’t need to tell me.” His eyes drifted to my bosom. I imagined the dress was more revealing on me than Kendra since she wasn’t quite as busty as I was. I’d chosen it for exactly that reason.
The heat behind his gaze said Scott approved.
“But I meant languages.” Apparently he didn’t approve enough to abandon the “getting to know you” dialogue.
I decided it was time to change the setting.
Setting my cloth napkin on top of my dish, I stood with my wine glass and headed toward the couch/bed. “I speak English, obviously, and I’m not the worst at Spanish, but I’m nowhere near able to converse in it.”
As I’d hoped, he followed. “We could practice.”
“Not if you want to get laid.”
“No Spanish then.”
I smiled triumphantly, then sat down and arranged myself into what I hoped was an inviting pose. Seduction hadn’t been necessary so far with Scott. It felt a little strange to have to try.
I needn’t have worried. He stretched out in the spot I wanted him, right next to me, propping himself up on his side, his entire body angled toward me.
I would have thought the new seating arrangement would have ended all serious talk. I was wrong.
“So your father was Iranian, but you don’t speak any Farsi—not a good relationship with Dad?”
I took a sip of the cabernet to buy me time to decide how to respond. I didn’t have to answer. I could distract him instead.