Exposed by Fate (Serve #2)(10)

“What?” Eliza squashed the urge to fidget.

“I’m trying to decide how to greet you. Normally it would be a hug and a kiss on the cheek, but that was before. And this is now.”

She licked suddenly dry lips. “How do you want to greet me?”

“Can’t tell you, babe, or I’ll have to do it.”

“Well. You certainly set a tone,” she said, proud that her voice didn’t wobble. Her knees were another story. “Why don’t you start by letting me into the apartment?”

He turned sideways and nudged open the door a fraction more, barely giving her enough room to pass. She gave him an exasperated look and went to squeeze past him. Oh God, the second her curves dragged across all that muscle, she felt an electrical current shoot through her body.

Oliver brought his fingers to her chin, bringing her head up. Their bodies were flush, pressed together from chest to thigh. She could feel his arousal against her stomach and although she wanted to writhe against it, she knew she needed to get her bearings first.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi.” She held the bottle up. “I brought ouzo.”

“Why? Were they out of wine?”

“No. It’s a tradition in my family to begin every new business venture with a shot of this stuff.” Don’t look at his lips. Don’t look. “It’s supposed to be good luck. Although, my grandparents are dead broke, so maybe we should drink wine instead.”

His shook his head, trailing his fingers down the sensitive skin of her arm to take the bottle. “I like this better.”

Eliza’s brain threatened to short-circuit. “Me too.”

“Eliza?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re standing on my foot.”

“Oh! Sorry.” She shot past him into the apartment, grateful he stood behind her and couldn’t see her red face. At least he was chuckling and not asking to take a rain check that would never come. The women who normally graced these four walls probably had a repertoire of moves. All she had was a dopey expression that said…you want zee sex, yes?

She became momentarily distracted by his apartment. Or, loft, rather, since no walls separated any of the rooms. Kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom all flowed into one gigantic open plan. Above her, thick, wooden rafters moved along the expanse of the apartment. Windows lined the beautifully ornate brick wall opposite her, overlooking the East River. She could even see a hint of the lit-up Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. With her designer’s eye, she could see he’d taken care to make it homey and welcoming, without sacrificing style.

She’d expected leather and dude colors, as she referred to them in her head. Black, blue, gray. Instead, he’d positioned plush white couches facing the window, a low-hanging industrial light in perfect contrast to the traditional furniture. Bright red and gold area rugs. The walls were mostly bare, except for the odd family photo and shelves containing a scattering of hardback books.

With a gulp, she let her gaze move further down the apartment to land on the enormous four-poster bed tucked into the corner. Would they have sex in that bed? To her, you couldn’t get more personal than someone’s bed. It’s where they slept. Where they dreamed. They had already agreed this wouldn’t get personal. Perhaps he preferred the couch? Or a table. Her face heated once more at the thought.

Eliza turned to find Oliver watching her, leaning against the wooden island in his kitchen. His eyes appeared dark and thoughtful, before he brightened. “So, do I pass muster with New York City’s new hotshot designer?”

She scoffed. “I’m hardly that. But yes, this place is phenomenal.” A gasp escaped her throat when she saw the fireplace. She went toward it, running a reverent hand over the ancient, oak mantle. “Oh, pretty baby. You need some TLC, don’t you?”

“Are you talking to me or the fire place?” Eliza jumped when Oliver’s gruff voice invaded her ear, lips brushing against the lobe. Slowly, he turned her. “It better be me. The fireplace didn’t just spend an hour making sauce.”

This time, she couldn’t help it. Her gaze dropped to his sculpted mouth. She’d never noticed before how his upper lip flared at the top, almost stubbornly. Like it had been permanently molded that way from so much kissing. “Have you decided how you want to greet me yet?”

“Yeah.” A dimple appeared on his right cheek, eyebrows waggling. “Wanna make out?”

A laugh bubbled from her throat. “Really? That’s all I get from the famous Oliver Preston?” She gave a half-hearted shove against his muscled chest. “Do you think because we’ve known each other so long, you don’t have to try?”

He gave a dramatic groan. “Aw, bunny. Don’t make me try.”

Suspecting he just wanted to put her at ease, she couldn’t erase the stupid grin from her face. Funny enough, it had actually worked. “What about the sauce?”

His eyes darkened. “I’d rather make a f*cking meal out of you, Eliza.”

Okay, so not at ease anymore. Not at all. Slow, rippling heat invaded her belly, moving lower until her thighs squeezed of their own accord to alleviate the ache. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

His quick, precise answer sounded almost angry. A nervous tingle moving up the back of her neck as she searched his expression. “I-is that still what you want?”