Breathe (Colorado Mountain #4)(66)

“Good to know,” he muttered, his lips tipped up then, “Red or white?”

“Red.”

He moved to a bottle of wine sitting on his counter.

I moved to a stool, pulled it out and hefted my booty on it.

“Room to grow.”

This was Chace. I stared at his back at his weird comment that came out of nowhere as he shifted to the side to open a drawer and pull out a corkscrew.

“Pardon?”

He nabbed the bottle, turned to me and his eyes locked on mine in a way I forgot how to breathe.

“Room to grow,” he repeated then explained. “Another thing that sucked about life when my future included Misty. Didn’t think I’d have what I wanted and what I wanted was why I got this place. I bought this house to put a woman in it then plant a family in it. So it’s big because I want three kids. Room to grow.”

Holy.

Frak.

“Room to grow,” I whispered breathily, unable to tear my eyes from his.

“Yep,” he answered firmly then asked. “You want kids?”

“Uh… yeah.” I was still whispering and it was still breathily.

“How many?” he went on.

“Three.”

Yep, still whispering. Yep, still breathy. Also, incidentally, it was the truth.

Chace smiled.

I quit breathing.

I forced my eyes from his and took in the bottle of wine.

Then I asked, “Didn’t you get champagne?”

“Fuck,” he muttered and my gaze went back to him. “Forgot.”

I was disappointed and tried to hide it but I still enquired, “You forgot the champagne?”

“No,” he answered, putting the bottle of red back on the counter. “You leadin’ the night tellin’ me you had a clean pair of panties in your purse, I forgot that I bought champagne at all.”

I bit my lip even though I got a little happy niggle that I was able to make him forget anything.

He grinned and I had a feeling, the way he did it, that he read my mind.

I had no time to react to this because he walked down a back hall and disappeared.

He came back with two trumpet shaped champagne flutes that had cute teeny, tiny little horseshoes etched around the bottom just above the stem. I didn’t know how but they managed to be classy and cool rather than looking kitschy like some of that kind of thing could look. Perhaps it was the etchings which were precise, almost elegant and not cartoony. Perhaps it was the quality of the crystal that was so clean and fine it showed prisms in his overhead lights. Whatever it was, they were awesome.

Chace set them on the island by me, his manner like they were no better than plastic and headed back to the fridge as I offered, “Anything I can do to help?”

He turned with the bottle of champagne, the fridge closing behind him and had his mouth open to speak when we both heard a knock on the door.

His eyes went in the direction of the front door. They were narrowed under drawn brows and his jaw had gone hard. It was kind of a scary look. But my eyes dropped to his shirt, which was untucked, the three buttons I’d unbuttoned were still unbuttoned and I saw a sprinkling of reddish brown chest hair. Not a thick, matte of hair but a short, sexy sprinkling.

By sexy I actually meant unbelievably fraking sexy.

My mouth started watering.

Chace would undoubtedly not think chest hair was sexy, but I knew whatever he was thinking were very unsexy thoughts when he growled, “Fuckin’ shit,” put the bottle on the counter by the glasses and came to me.

He ran his fingers through the length of my hair at the side, bent and whispered, “Be right back.” Then he kissed my forehead, his fingers left my hair and I twisted on my stool to watch him prowl (oh jeez, he was prowling) to the door.

Even with him prowling and impatient, my eyes watched him move, his broad shoulders not even close to being hidden by his shirt, his long legs in his jeans, his arms loose at his sides and it was, as ever, a good show.

Over dinner at my place that week, he’d told me he was a swimmer and ran track in high school and kept it up since then. He swam at the YMCA in Chantelle twice a week, ran five miles twice a week, ten miles once a week and had weights at his house where he did weight training twice a week.

This effort paid off for him in a big way and since he maintained his body and pushed it on occasion, he knew what it could do and the way he walked, in total command of his frame, communicated that.

I had a feeling with that and what had happened in his bedroom, this boded well for what Chace referred to as “later”. A shiver ran up my spine the likes I’d never felt before but I liked it a whole lot.

I smiled to myself and my eyes drifted to the champagne. I needed a drink. I’d had a Chace’s hand down my pants orgasm. That definitely called for champagne. I wanted to open the bottle but from our very first date, if Chace was with me, I’d not poured myself a drink or bought myself one.

It was then it occurred to me that Chace was kind of old-fashioned. He had no trouble with me cooking for him and serving up the food. But he didn’t want me to pour my own drink. He helped with dishes if he was at my place but he was strictly a dry and put away man. Strictly as in, there were clearly boundaries. Men didn’t wash. They dried and put away. Men didn’t serve up food. They poured drinks.

It was definitely old-fashioned.