The Lion's Den(56)

He shifted the flowers into one arm and offered me the other. I had no choice but to take it, limping along on my broken heel. “Do you want to get on my back?” he asked.

“I’m heavier than I look.”

“I’m stronger than I look. You just have to hold the flowers, and I’ll hold you.”

“Everyone will see my ass,” I protested.

“Lucky them. Come on.”

I stuffed my shoes in my bag and grabbed the flowers, then hopped up on his back. He easily carried me through the flower market, pointing out different varieties of blooms like we were just on a normal stroll as we traversed the aisles to the door on the other side of the warehouse. The rain was still coming down hard outside. He sprinted through the alley with me on his back, both of us laughing, and came to an abrupt halt at a door in the back of the building. “My keys are in my left pocket. Can you get them?”

I reached into his pocket. The fabric inside was thin and wet. I could feel the warmth of his skin through it, and something else. Oh. He didn’t seem to be wearing underwear.

The keys, Belle. Get the keys.

I extracted the keys from his pocket and handed them to him. He opened the door, and we tumbled inside, dripping wet. I hopped down from his back. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He punched the call button of the elevator.

I cast a glance up and down the hall, orienting myself. “I didn’t realize your building was so close.”

“Downtown’s confusing.”

The elevator door slid open, and he gestured for me to step into the dim interior. I hesitated, and he smiled. “I remember. You’re claustrophobic.”

I nodded. “It’s an incredibly small elevator,” I pointed out.

“I’ll cover your eyes, like last time,” he offered.

Last time. Before I knew he belonged to Summer.

Seeing no other choice, I stepped onto the elevator. He followed, his arms full of roses. The door slid shut. “I don’t want to stick you with these thorns,” he said. “Turn this way.”

I turned toward him, our faces inches apart in the confined space, my heart pounding in my chest. The sweet scent of the flowers filled the elevator.

“Close your eyes and put your face on my chest.” He moved the roses out of the way.

It wasn’t necessary. I could’ve just closed my eyes and the walls wouldn’t have seemed so close. But like a fool, I rested my forehead on his chest. And there it was again, the smell of spice and detergent, the warmth of his skin through his wet shirt. He bent his head ever so slightly toward mine.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. We didn’t move for a fraction of a second. I ripped myself away from him and spilled into his loft, flushed.

It was just chemistry. A stupid attraction to an inappropriate man. Not the first, and I was sure not the last.

I reminded myself of all the reasons I didn’t actually want him as I looked around his light-filled loft. I’d seen his art gallery and the roof the night I met him, of course, but I’d never been in his personal living space. It felt oddly intimate to be in his home, surrounded by his things.

The loft was huge; it took up the entire floor of the building and was 180 degrees from what I was expecting from Summer’s description, which had it sounding like a dingy bachelor pad.

I could sense him watching me as I took it in.

He was Summer’s. I had no claims. He wasn’t what I wanted, and I wasn’t what he wanted. He was just a flirt, a playboy. And I wasn’t about to stab Summer in the back to become one of his conquests.

“This place is amazing,” I said.

“Thanks. I like it.”

Even on this gloomy day, light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows in every direction, reflecting off floors of brushed concrete. Brightly colored exotic rugs and midcentury modern furniture were clustered in different areas across the open floor plan—a living area featuring an impressive record and book collection, a dining area with a Sputnik chandelier dangling from the soaring ceiling, an art area, canvases in different stages of completion, and in the corner, a chef’s kitchen with Carrara marble countertops and an industrial oven. And plants. Everywhere, plants.

It was my dream home.

He was a womanizer. He was moody. He had a chip on his shoulder.

I found myself standing in his art studio, wandering among the paintings. They were all different styles—abstract, mixed media, dreamlike renderings stolen from some of his photographs—but something tied them together. Wild whimsy, controlled chaos, that same play of opposites that infused his photographs.

I heard the click of a camera and turned to see him with a film Nikon raised to his eye. He quickly fired again before I could cover my face. “Oh my God, what are you doing? I must look a mess,” I said, ducking.

“A beautiful mess,” he returned. “Angle your face toward the light.”

“No, Eric, seriously.”

“Please?”

Those sea-green eyes. I looked toward the light.

I allowed him only a few shots before I turned my back on him. “Okay. I’m freezing. How ’bout those sweats?”

He beckoned for me to follow him through a doorway into his room. It was fairly orderly for a bachelor not expecting guests, and dark with the blackout shades drawn, his platform bed unmade.