The Interview

I wake like I’ve been shaken violently, my body trembling under the sheets. I’m alone, and the room is silent. There are no children kicking a ball in the neighbor’s yard. No hum of the radio playing downstairs in the kitchen. Just the sound of my heart hammering in my ears. It’s disturbingly still, the air around me pitchblack.

Like a coffin.

I jerk upright with a sick sense of panic, pressing my hand over my tripping heart.

I can’t be dead, I think as I glance down, feeling a slight breeze of central air. Dead people aren’t naked. Well, maybe they are at some point, but not in heaven, surely. But then I realize heavenly bodies probably aren’t wrapped in sheets that reek of sex. They don’t smell of masculine shower products.

I rub my cheek against my shoulder and stretch like a cat. I smell like Whit. And rightly so. His bed. His bath. His bathing products he washed me with in middle of the night. I shiver as I recall the soapy slide of him. I can still feel the press of him between my legs.

I fumble for the bedside lamp, then pad across the vast bedroom floor toward the bathroom. Air brushes my skin, a sensation I wouldn’t ordinarily recognize. I feel wholly sensual as I stride across the floor, uninhibited by my nakedness. Am I changed? Has one night with Whit altered me so much? According to the mirror, not so much. I look a fright. My hair looks like a huge tumbleweed, my skin marked and reddened in places my own mouth couldn’t reach. But I am stupidly happy—I mean, who isn’t not to be dead—my smile so ridiculously goofy as I brush my fingers through my hair.

While I might not be dead, I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of heaven last night during orgasm number two. The first time I felt Whit move inside me. I reach out, gripping the cold stone vanity, screwing my eyes tight as my body undergoes a ripple of sensory memory. It was everything I ever imagined and a thousand times more. His shoulders over me, blocking out the light, made me feel so small. The way he’d moved inside me, he owned me in those moments. The taut length of his neck, his expression almost pained as he’d pressed himself to me, undulating as he’d reached his climax.

It wasn’t sex. It was a communion. A mind-bending, thigh-shaking, religious experience. And I will never feel the same about sex again. Except I will—I’ll feel like this over and over for what’s left of my not quite six-month hiatus from my real life. And if that thought doesn’t make me smile, I don’t know what’s responsible for this ridiculous happy dance!

Back in the bedroom, I exchange the towel I’d wrapped around myself for Whit’s shirt from last night. As I pull it from the chair, I note my dress and underwear, wavering from a moment in my decision. Should I get dressed properly? Or take a clean shirt from his closet. But then it wouldn’t smell of him, I decide as I slide it on, pressing my nose into the collar as I inhale. The scent of him makes my insides turn all gooey again.

“You seem deep in thought.”

I press my hand to my chest as I spin to the doorway. “Oh my gosh, you scared me!”

“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, judging by his expression and the way his eyes flit over my bare legs. He’s already dressed in dark jeans and a gray fine knit sweater that clings to the flat of his stomach and molds to his biceps. He slides his hands into his pockets, resting his shoulder against the doorframe.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“It’s too early for confession. Breakfast?” he adds, his expression turning purposely bland.

“What’s on offer?”

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be breakfast.” His lips curl, part seduction, part amused.

That is totally where my mind went, but is it any wonder when he looks so delicious? “Who says I’m looking at you like anything?” I answer instead.

“You think I have an overactive imagination?”

I affect a small shrug.

“Pity.” The way his eyes slide over me feels like the brush of silk against my skin.

“How’s your lip?” It looks better than last night. It’s just a little swollen, and there’s barely a hint of bruising.

His finger lifts as though to touch it. “Why don’t you come and take a look at it yourself?”

I can’t believe he went for that asshole, and I can’t believe I find physical violence such a turn-on. “Looks good from here.” I slide the sides of his shirt a little closer, feeling as though my naughty thoughts are exposed.

“Are you coming?” he asks with a tiny smirk, as tempting as the devil himself. “I have coffee.”

“The prospect is exciting, but…” I tamp down my ridiculousness even though he does chuckle. “Coffee would be lovely. Caffeine might help pull me from this sex haze.”

“That would be a shame.”

My cheeks start to burn. Why aren’t my brain and mouth friends?

“Coffee it is.” He straightens, pushing from the doorframe. “Breakfast has just arrived.”

“Just give me a minute to put on some clothes?”

Whit sort of pauses as though considering something, then says, “What you’re wearing looks good.”

I glance down at his shirt. The buttons aren’t yet fastened, but I’m not flashing anything. Nothing he hasn’t already seen, anyway. Touched. Kissed. “Yeah?” I say as I glance up.

“Yes, definitely. If it was up to me, I’d tell you to wear the shirt.” He gives his head a shake as though rousing himself from some thought. “Seeing you in it is all kinds of hot.”

My nerve endings begin to flicker and flash like a pinball machine. I’ve read about this. How men like to see women dressed in their clothes, that it gives them a kick. Some sense of ownership.

“The shirt and nothing else.” He laughs as he delivers his verdict.

“That’s a surprise. Not.”

“I’m just saying, underwear is optional.” He turns, his footsteps echoing along the hall.

You’re a hot little fuck in lingerie.

With an unsteady breath, I reach out and catch a hold of the back of the chair as the echo of his words come from nowhere. What the man can do to my body with one look is nobody’s business. But the things he says create an actual visceral reaction within me. And the things he does… well, I’m not sure words have been created to describe that.

My stomach decides at that moment to gurgle. It’s ready for breakfast, even if the rest of me is ready to be breakfast. I hurriedly braid my hair. The next few months are going to be such an experience. An experience of a lifetime, I think with an internal squee. Winding my hair tie around the ends, I practically hop, skip, and jump out into the living room.

“…think that’s the stupidest idea in the history of ideas, Prim.”

I hear Whit’s voice before I see him. His back is turned to me, his phone pressed to his ear, his bicep peeking out from under the short sleeve of his T-shirt thanks to the way he holds it.

“Well, because I said so.”

I pause. I can’t hear who’s on the other end of the phone and maybe I shouldn’t want to. Should excuse myself and let the man take his call in private? I don’t, mainly because the cadence of the other person’s voice seems female. It could be one of his sisters? I liked meeting Heather last night, not that I get the sense that this is who he’s talking to. I don’t think she’d stand for Whit taking that highhanded tone with her. She was way too cool.

“I don’t have to give you a reason,” he adds, the words spluttery with laughter. “I don’t!” The knot in my stomach eases, thanks to his demeanor. It could definitely be one of his sisters. “Because it’s fucking inconvenient, that’s why.”

Note to self: learn to swear in British. It sounds so much less offensive.

“Tell them what you like. It’s not a public pool. You can’t traipse in with all and sundry when you feel like it. Yes, I know your friend’s names aren’t all and sundry.” Pressing his phone between his shoulder and ear, he pulls a couple of cups from the top of a fancy-looking coffee machine. “Yeah, maybe. I said maybe next weekend.” He’s smiling as he turns, the wattage turning up as he spots me, moving his phone to his other ear. “No… and even if I did, it would have nothing to do with you. Yeah, well, maybe I have. So? Maybe I like them dirty.” He gives me a heavy-lidded glance, the kind that makes my insides thrum as a muffled parrot-like shriek sounds down the line. Whit grimaces, pulling the phone back from his ear. “If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have asked.”

I pull a tall stool out from under the island counter, muffling my own shriek as my bare thighs touch the cold leather seat.

“I’ve got to go, Primrose. Yes,” he adds in the vein of one being worn down. “I said I’d think about it. Okay, see you tomorrow.” He hangs up and places his phone on the countertop between us. “Sorry about that.”

“Martinis?” I suggest with an unrepentant grin.

“It’s a bit early for me.”

“Your phone call,” I add with a laugh as he very obviously misunderstands me. “I’m guessing you like them dirty.”

“James Bond can keep them. I’m not a fan. It wasn’t martinis Primrose was squawking about. According to her, I prefer dirty girls to her company.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter.

He begins to laugh, the sound deep and rich. “She didn’t say you were dirty. Not exactly. Her nose is out of joint because I wouldn’t let her and her friends hang out at the resident’s spa and pool. She accused me of preferring the company of dirty women to that of my baby sister.”

“And do you?”

“I prefer your company,” he says, leaning down his elbow on the marble. “And dirty, like underwear, is always optional.”

I’m not touching that. Not with a ten-foot pole. “She doesn’t know I’m here, does she?”

He pushes up again. “She was just guessing. As well as trying to wear me down. Probably because she doesn’t hear the word no often enough.”

“In general?”

“Probably just from me,” he adds with a shrug. “Habits are hard to kill.”

“So long as she doesn’t know I’m here. It’s just, I haven’t been here long, Whit. You’re the boss and—”

“You don’t want to be that cliché?”

I frown. “I’m not sure anyone does.”

“Can we just ignore that my sister called? Go back to how things were a few minutes ago.” He scoops up the coffee cups by the handles with one hand. “I’m assuming you like your coffee the same way as you like your men?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Hot, dark, and in your lap.” He gives a comically suggestive wiggle of his brows.

“That was so bad.” But I’m loving this side of him. “I get the sneaking suspicion that you’re a morning person.”

“That sounded like an insult,” he says over his shoulder.

“People who get out of bed with a smile on their face are to be treated with suspicion.”

Putting the cups down, he turns and presses his palm to the countertop behind, muscles and tendons standing to attention as he levels me with a look that’s nothing short of searing. “You’re not telling me you haven’t caught yourself smiling this morning, that your mind hasn’t wandered to last night?”

“That would be telling,” I demur, floving seeing this side to him. He’s thought about last night and it’s making him smile!

Turning his back to me, he shoves one cup under the coffee machine spout and the other to the top. Cuffing his wrist with his free fingers, he shoves the sleeves of his sweater up his forearm, highlighting toned and tan forearms. “Latte?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Please.” Sliding one of the cups under the spout thingy, he presses a button, and the grinder begins to whir. He heats up the cup, taps something, fits something into the right hole, and all the while, the fine knit of his sweater moves like a second skin, molding to the strong muscles in his back and shoulders. If he was my local barista, I know I’d develop an addiction. “Total coffee shop porn.”

“What was that?” He twists his head over his shoulder.

“Your fancy-looking machine.”

“I’m a bit of a coffee snob thanks to working as a barista when I came back from the States.”

“I bet the place you worked was like Abercrombie and Fitch, but for coffee.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I smile and shake my head as though he must’ve been hearing things. But as an idea, a business plan, it would totally work. “Was this before you got the job at the bank?”

“My first job was as an analyst at an investment bank. Then I moved into trading derivatives.” Face must reflect my lack of knowledge as he adds, “Derivatives are financial securities and as a trader you buy and sell them on behalf of financial institutions, hedge funds, and the like.”

“Like a stock broker?”

“Yeah.” His finger rasps against the stubble on his jaw. “I had a knack.” He shrugs. “And a lot of luck. I made a lot of money and a lot of connections, and it set me on the path to this.” He flicks out a hand, indicating the multi-million-dollar bachelor pad. “I hit the big time.”

Then he hit the big time. Or rather, worked very hard to get where he is today. Whit comes from a regular family, not from a monied background. Boy done good. Boy done really good.

“I suspect your success has a lot more to do with the person you are than a bunch of random luck.” Connor always said Whit was a math whizz and I already know he’s the kind of man who people gravitate to. Women especially.

“It keeps me out of trouble,” he says with the kind of gleam that makes my stomach flip.

“Can I do anything to help?” Before we end up having sex in your stylish kitchen?

“You could move some of the containers over to the table.” He gestures to the fancy boxes and bags from some French sounding patisserie.

That I can do.

“Is this a usual Saturday morning breakfast for you?” I ask as I loop a finger under the delicate ribbon of a couple of pink cake boxes and carry them over to the large dining table where two place settings have already been set. Plates, glasses, and silverware. There’s a half-filled pastry platter, a tropical fruit salad, and a carafe of juice, and that’s just the start of it.

“Is that your way of asking if I regularly have women overnight?” I pretend not to hear that over the noise of the coffee machine. “I’m usually in the office by now.”

That’s not really an answer to my or, rather, his question. His question and now my piqued curiosity.

“You work weekends?” I begin to pull out croissant and containers of berries, tiny cakes that look more like works of art.

“I work whenever I’m not sleeping.”

“You sure you’re not expecting more people?” I ask as I put the contents of the second box on a platter.

“You got me. Because I don’t do this very often, I thought I’d invite all the women I’ve slept with this year over for brunch.”

“Looks like we’re expecting a lot of women,” I say, my eyes sliding over all the goodies. “I hope they’re hungry.” Weird, but I’ve only just taken in that this is food and I’m not really hungry. How is that even possible? I guess my mind is on other things as I lean over the back of a chair to deposit a couple of linen napkins to a table mat. I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I don’t realize Whit’s behind me until his hand brushes curls around my hip as he sets both coffee cups down. My skin reacts like tinder to his touch, wildfire spreading across my skin.

“You’re the first woman I’ve had stay over in a long time.”

“That seems almost a shame.” My answer is barely a whisper, my fingers grasping the back of the chair as his lips brush against my hair. “Maybe gifts like yours ought to be shared.”

His laughter is dark and velvety, and his hand doesn’t move, almost as though he’s forgotten it’s there. “Like a public service?”

“For the good of womankind.”

“I didn’t say I was a saint.”

“I think I’ve already gathered that.” I don’t think he’s forgotten he’s holding me, not as his fingers tighten and his lips slide down my neck. “Leif Whittington, Patron saint of wayward women.”

“Are you wayward, Amelia?” His lips tighten in a sucking bite, my resulting sigh a taut, needy thing. I close my eyes and swallow as his hand slides from my hip to my stomach, pulling me against him. As he sucks at my skin, blood rushes to the surface as though in greeting.

“I wasn’t. I think I might be getting there.”

“You’re so lovely to rile.” His words are a hot breath against my neck as his other hand rises, wrapping around me in a nothing short of a full body hug as he says, “Let’s get some food inside you.”