Chapter 10
TEN
Sadie
L ockhart stood in the open doorway of his house and watched me walk across the remainder of his driveway and up the three large front steps before I stopped in front of him. It wasn’t just a normal look he was giving me. It was a stare made of pure starvation that covered every inch of my body—from the toes of my knee-high boots to the hint of my chest that stuck out from the top of my coat.
But where he was taking me in, I was doing the same to him. At the scruff on his cheeks and the way his deep green shirt—the same color as his eyes—parted at the top, revealing a tease of his muscular chest. How his broadness, the way he was leaning against the side of the door with his arms crossed, took up almost the entire space.
There was absolutely nothing small about Lockhart.
Not his hands. Not his feet.
Not his body.
And not anything beneath his clothes .
“Hello.” I smiled.
“Hello.” His gaze took another dip, and he moaned, “ Mmm . This is the second jacket I’ve seen you in, and you’re even more stunning in it than the first one you wore—and that was a coat I’ll never forget because I got to watch you strip it off.”
“Yeah, well, this is a special one too.” I touched the collar, my hand then falling back to the glass dish in my arm. I was close enough that I could smell him, that warm, woodsy scent triggering memories with each inhale. “Beautiful house.”
It was quite the mansion, full of glass on the two-story exterior, and due to where we were, I knew the view out back had to be spectacular. You lived in the Hills if you had money, and it was clear from everything I was seeing that Lockhart had plenty.
“I’ll show it to you in a second.” He nodded toward my hands. “I told you, you didn’t have to bring anything.”
“This”—I glanced down at the plastic lid—“is nothing.” I laughed. “Just some pineapple cupcakes.”
“You really made them?”
I continued to smile. “They’re not straight-up pineapple. They’re pina colada. I found the recipe online, so we can both be daring tonight. I hope you like coconut.”
“I don’t.”
“Sounds like you’re going to love them, then.” I winked.
“My hatred for coconut won’t stop me from eating them.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
I closed the distance between us, and he took the dish from me, his other hand going to my face, tilting it up toward him.
“God, you smell good.”
“So do you.”
“With a little hint of scotch mixed in. I pregamed. ”
My eyelashes fluttered as I took in more of his breath. “I just so happen to love that smell too.”
“Kiss me.”
“I think you’re forgetting the promise we made to each other. No touching, not even kissing until we eat these cupcakes.”
He let out a deep exhale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smiled, the biggest one I’d had on all night. “Really? Have you gotten amnesia since we spoke? Which must mean you’ve also forgotten that we made a bet. We just didn’t wager anything, so I took it upon myself to up the unknown ante a little.”
His eyes narrowed. “How?”
I pulled at the tie that held the sides together, making sure it was tight. “The only things I’m wearing under this jacket are red lace panties and a matching bra.”
His head fell back, and he groaned, “Sadie … fuck me.”
“Oh, I’m going to. I’ve decided that will be your present if you can go the next couple of hours without touching me.”
“You’re telling me that you’re giving yourself to me?”
“I think I’ve already done that in the past, haven’t I?” I paused. “But what I’ve decided is that you can have me any way you want me.”
He licked across his lips, and when his tongue reached the end, it stayed out, pulsing against the corner. “You trust me that much?”
“I think I do.”
“Enough so that I can do absolutely anything to you?”
“There are things I haven’t done, but I’m willing to experiment, and I think you’re the perfect person to do that with.”
He chuckled. “And what happens if I do touch you in the meantime? ”
“That touch won’t lead to anything because then you won’t get me at all. Which is going to be quite painful since the moment your fingers graze me, I’m going to take off this jacket and torture you for the rest of the evening.”
He pulled at his hair. “You’re fucking mean.”
I smiled. “Do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know,” he growled.
“You’re telling me you can’t go a few hours without touching me?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. I’m fucking dying right now, Sadie. All I want to do is pull you against me and hold you in my arms and press my lips to yours.”
Deep within me, I was swooning, but I said, “You’ll get to,” and I tapped the air as though it were his chest. “Just not yet.” I waited. “Do we have a deal?”
It took several seconds, but he finally moved back a few inches. “Yes. Now, come in.”
I stepped into the foyer, and my stare immediately rose to the tall ceiling and heavy metal lighting and lowered to the artwork and the black floor beneath my feet. “Gosh, it’s even more beautiful on the inside.”
“You and my home have that in common.” Our eyes caught, and he grinned. “I’ll give you the quick tour.” He took my overnight bag off my arm, hung it on his, and pointed at the doorway we were approaching. “Home office is in there, where I try to spend the least amount of time, but the motherfucker sucks me in.”
I huffed. “I know that feeling.”
I took a quick peek at the black wooden desk and the accolades that were hanging—words too small for me to read—but what I did see was the large letter on the wall behind his chair. A giant W , made of what appeared to be metal and painted black. W for Wright. It made perfect sense. I could feel his gaze on me before I even glanced in his direction.
“Sexy office,” I told him.
He chuckled. “We will christen that desk—mark my words.”
“I have no doubt.”
I followed him into the living room and kitchen, spaces that were completely open, dripping in masculinity through texture and color and feel. Hues I wouldn’t have picked due to their hard edginess, but they were still designs and shades I was obsessed with.
“Did you build this house?”
He set the dish on the counter and placed my bag on one of the chairs and turned toward me. “I did. It was a hell of a process, too, knocking down the previous house that had been here and starting fresh.”
“You didn’t design all of this, did you?”
“I worked with an architect, a contractor, and an interior designer.” He moved closer, but not within reach. “I didn’t just tell them to do their thing. I have a strong opinion when it comes to the places I live. I don’t like frills. Fluff. And I don’t like a fucking mess of shit where there’s something on top of everything. I need my shit tight and clean and preferably very cold.”
“You’re the warmth in this space. You don’t need the structure or filler doing that for you.”
“An interesting way to look at it.”
I continued to study the room. “And the view—that’s full of heat as well.” I glanced back at him after consuming layers of the canyon and the homes that sat within it. “I’m assuming that’s the reason for all the glass?” It was everywhere; although this wasn’t a greenhouse in a sense, it gave that feeling—at least from in here .
“The view is what sold me on the lot. I wanted to be able to see it from anywhere inside this house. Walls are to block things out. Up here, I want to let it all in.”
I hugged my stomach. “I agree. Why waste something so breathtaking?”
He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “It’s funny, my sister said the same thing when I showed her the blueprints.”
“Knowing how women think, I would say every date you’ve ever brought up here said the same.”
He shook his head. “You’re the first to see it.”
“Because you just moved in?” My brows rose.
“Because I don’t bring women into my home. Ever.”
I let those words simmer.
They shouldn’t come as a shock. He was a one-night-stand kind of guy. Men like that didn’t bring women home; they didn’t want their address and whereabouts to be known, and inviting them in would be revealing far too much privacy.
But to hear that I was the first? That hit.
Not just my stomach, but my chest too.
“Another funny thing is,” I said, “we have that in common. I bought my condo three years ago, and a man has never stepped foot inside.”
“Why?”
“First, I don’t do one-night stands. Second, I haven’t dated a ton over the last handful of years. Work has pretty much owned me. I’ve gone out on dates, and things have progressed, but they’ve never turned serious enough for me to invite him over.”
There was another reason. One I just couldn’t get into yet.
And that was Dear Foodie.
Part of her appeal was her anonymity, and having someone in my condo—aside from Bryn and my family, who knew all about her—would reveal her identity since much of the interior was constantly set up for filming. The second bedroom had been fully converted into an office and studio, and my kitchen had stage lighting and multiple tripods. The living room was also where I filmed content and housed the overflow of PR packages. If things had lasted with those men, I would have brought them over. But a few weeks, even a couple of months, wasn’t enough time to ask them to sign an NDA and unveil that part of my life.
So, I never risked it.
“Is that a cherry you’re going to let me pop?” He smiled.
“You’re asking if I’m going to let you into my home?”
He nodded.
“Maybe.” I winked. “I’m not as forthcoming as you are. I appreciate that you let me in—don’t get me wrong, it just takes a little more for me to get there.”
“Like your mornings. Multiple sessions of caffeine until you’re feeling it.”
I nodded. “Yes, like that. With a focus on the multiple part.”
“I’m not worried. I’ll be inside your place in no time.” He walked to the bar that was on the far side of the living room. “What can I get you to drink?” When he reached the long strip of counter with the glass and mirrored shelves above it, he turned toward me. “I have everything. Name whatever you want.”
“You’re having scotch?”
“I was.”
“No old-fashioned?”
“I was feeling lazy. But if that’s what you want, I’ll make you one.”
My skin felt like it was on fire from his gaze, and I moved my hair off my shoulders. “How about a martini? ”
“What kind?”
“Vodka, not gin. The rest, surprise me. My only request, besides the alcohol, is that you shake it so well that there are ice chips floating on the top.”
“That’s how I like mine too.” He pulled a bottle of Tito’s off the shelf. “For the record, I skipped the rest of the tour for safety reasons.”
“Safety reasons?”
He poured some of the vodka into a shaker. “There are five bedrooms in this house, a gym, movie theater, man cave—all rooms that have nothing but surfaces to lay you on. The living room with the two couches and multiple chairs isn’t safe either, but it’s beside the kitchen, so there’s no way to avoid this area.” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Plus, it’s where the liquor is housed—if we’re not counting the man cave—and that’s the only reason we’re in here and not standing in the middle of the kitchen.”
I stepped back until I felt the counter and gripped the edge with both hands. “You’re being such a good boy, Lockhart. Although we’re only about ten minutes in. You have a very long way to go.”
Into the shaker went squirts from a few different bottles, followed by a scoop of ice. “I’ll stay that way until after dessert—mark my words.”
“You think you can make it?”
“And pass up the opportunity to do whatever I want? Only a fucking idiot would do that.” He began to shake the concoction, and the movement tightened his shirt around his biceps, showing off the power in his arms.
God, this man was jacked. I hadn’t forgotten the feeling from when I held his arm, when I felt it around me, when it hauled me up into the air.
When he finished, he poured it into a stemless martini glass and walked it over to me. “Do you see where my fingers are holding this?”
I looked from his eyes to the positioning of his hand. “Yes.”
“Do me a favor? Don’t touch them.”
“You’re taking this seriously. I like it.” I laughed. “I’ll do my best.” I avoided his fingers and took a sip. “Extra dirty, and, man, is that good.”
He eyed my mouth. “That’s not the only time you’re going to say that tonight. I promise.”