by Stasia Black
I’m going to have her.
If I can solidify the real estate group of investors that I’m trying to form. And come up with all fifty million dollars plus fifteen more to renovate. Plus, I have to get the cash together and make the offer before anyone else snaps it up.
Completely doable.
Right. As long as I deal with the Chinese, find at least two more investors that I trust, and manage not to fuck up everything else I’ve got going on in the meantime. I scrub my hands down my face again.
A soft knock at my door has me sitting up straighter in my chair.
Scarlet’s head peeks around my door. “Dinner is ready.” More and more wisps of white-blonde hair have escaped her braid and with the hallway light behind her, it looks like she has a fucking halo.
“Kennedy?”
“What?”
Her eyebrows furrow. “I asked if you’d like me to bring your meal in here so you can eat while you work.”
Okay, so I might have spaced out there for a second just taking her in. But she’s just so fucking beautiful. All the stress and worry I felt moments before she walked in completely evaporate as soon as I see her. She makes everything…better. How does she do that?
Then I blink and her words finally register. “No food in here,” I say sharply.
She takes a step back into the hallway. “I’ll get it set up in the dining room, then.”
“No, Christ, I’m sorry.” I run a hand harshly through my hair. “I didn’t mean to sound short with you,” I say. “I’ll eat in the dining room. It’s just been a long week. Also, I hoped you’d be joining me for dinner.”
Her face drops to look at the floor. “I’m tired and want to head to my room.” She looks like she’s about to leave but then pauses and turns back to me, face slightly flushed. Then she seems to set her jaw with what looks like determination. “Again, I want it clear. I’m performing a service in exchange for staying here.” Her eyes are guarded, her stance tense. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
I hold my hands up. “Hey, we’re cool. We already covered this at the thrift store. I got the message.” I’m referring both to our Ayn Rand conversation about our deal for her to be my cook and the other…issue. We made clear on both sides that neither of us thinks of her as a…woman for hire. Fuck, I can’t even think of her in relation to the women out on the sidewalks at night in Haight-Ashbury or in the Tenderloin District without my blood boiling.
“Good.” Her eyes go hard. “Because I plan on sleeping with the biggest kitchen knife I can find and I’ll chop your dick off if you suddenly show up in my room tonight. Got it?”
I choke a little but nod vigorously. “Totally. Yes. I never would have done that, but absolutely. I got ya.”
“Good.” She nods too and her posture relaxes a little.
I might be taking my life in my hands, but I still go for it. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, will you please dine with me? No expectations,” I hurry to add. “Just two people sharing a meal.” She has no idea what a big step this is for me. I hate eating in front of people, but I’ll take any excuse I can for more time with her.
My voice or demeanor must tip her off that something’s unusual because she pauses on the brink of saying something and just stands there, gaze locked on mine. It’s only maybe a few seconds, but it feels longer. Like she’s really looking at me. Into me. Searching for something.
I have no idea what for or if she finds it or not. She blinks and then steps back.
“Not tonight,” she says, looking away. “I’m going to turn in early. Besides, didn’t someone call you before we went in the grocery store? You could go to meet with them after all.”
I frown as she turns away. What’s going on in that beautiful head of hers? “It was nothing.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Just a nuisance at the club my manager can take care of.”
She shrugs. “Well, I’ll set your food on the dining room table. Come soon or it’ll get cold.” She pauses one last time. “What time would you like breakfast?” She’s keeping her eyes slightly averted like a servant might. She’s such an enigma, sending shifting open and closed signals one moment to the next.
“I don’t eat breakfast.” I look at her face—the soft, rounded cheeks, china-doll complexion, sloping nose, rosebud mouth. She’s a cross between a soft milkmaid and a flinty ice queen. She’s all paradox. “My businesses make me a night owl, so I sleep in.”
She nods, her eyes lifting briefly to meet my gaze. “Good night, Kennedy.”
It’s the barest whisper and then she’s gone before I can say anything in return.
I sit back heavily in my chair. Fucking Christ. Those pink, pink lips caressing the syllables of my name. Nothing has ever sounded sweeter.
Scarlet Brown is one knot I’m determined to unravel.
* * *
There’s not a peep out of Scarlet the rest of the night.
I don’t go to the club. The thought of leaving her all alone… It just doesn’t sit well with me. Even if she’s telling the truth about being tired and heading straight to bed. I don’t know if she’ll feel any comfort from my presence in the house or not. Maybe she wishes I would go. Maybe knowing I’m here puts her on edge. Huge knife at her bedside or not.
Then I think of the way her eyes softened just the tiniest bit when she said my name while bidding me good night. Or was that just my imagination? Then I roll my eyes at myself. Did her eyes soften when she looked at me? I mock to myself. Who the fuck am I?
If there’s anything to really be freaking out over, it’s the food.
Holy shit, the food. She made goat cheese and herb stuffed radicchio as an appetizer. It was amazing. Then for the main course, holy Christ. Grilled swordfish in a puttanesca sauce. It melted in my mouth.
I’ve eaten at all the best restaurants in San Francisco, including the Italian ones, and her puttanesca could rival any of theirs. Even put a few to shame.
When I walk into the kitchen at eleven the next morning, my one pasta drying rack is full of home-made pasta hanging from it. As a chef, it’s a crime not to have a fully equipped kitchen. Even if I never use it.
But my single paltry little rack apparently wasn’t enough for Scarlet. She’s rigged up all kinds of other DIY pasta racks. Lines of pasta are strung over plastic hangers that drape from every surface possible.
For as much pasta as there is, Scarlet must have been at it since the crack of dawn. If she ever went to sleep last night. Scarlet herself is nowhere to be seen.
I think about going to check on her in her bedroom. Then remember my last foray into her territory. Seeing her naked back. The shapely curve of that ass and my subsequent trip to the shower.
And that was before I’d even seen her come apart nearly in my arms. If I don’t want to have a hard-on all day long, much less make her question my sincerity about the whole I-have-no-intimate-expectations about our arrangement, then I should probably avoid the guest bedroom.
So I go to my office and attempt to get some work done. In reality I’m just checking the clock every fifteen minutes wondering if she’s up and about yet.
By the time one o’clock rolls around and there’s a knock at the door, I jump out of my chair and hurtle myself toward the door so fast I’d be embarrassed if there were anyone to see me. But there’s not and I’ve been waiting all day for this.
Scarlet looks startled when I open the door so quickly. Her hand is extended like she was reaching for the door handle.
“Oh.” She lets out a breathy little laugh. “I just wanted to let you know lunch was ready.”
“Cool.” Then I wince. Cool? Really? Is this a 90’s flashback or are you a grown man? “I mean, that sounds great.” I prop one hand against the doorframe, then wonder if that looks intimidating so I drop it. “What’s on the menu?”
She glances at my hand which I’ve now jammed in my pocket so I can’t do anything else stupid like fidget with the buttons on my shirt. Or reach out and grab her by the waist and yank her so close
that her lips—
“Insalata caprese to start with and fettuccine with yellow squash and parmesan lemon cream sauce for the main course. Pomegranate semifreddo for dessert.”
I groan out loud and only partially at the thought of what sounds like a mouthwatering meal. The way Scarlet’s voice goes all musical when she talks about food—fuck, I can hear that she is indeed Italian or at least was raised Italian. The only time her accent comes out is when she’s talking food. Then every syllable sounds like pure seduction coming off her red berry lips.
Damn it. The last thing I can let her see is my attraction. I force an easy smile. “Woman, I’m going to have to work out twice as long every day if you keep feeding me like this.”
I win a shy smile from her. “Well, I’ll be joining you since I’m eating it, too.”
That sparks an idea. “Why don’t you?”
Her eyebrows furrow. “What?” she asks, obviously confused.
“Join me. I go jogging every afternoon before dinner. Come with me.”
She looks down, her hands coming together and wringing before she drops them back to her sides.
Aha, so I’m not the only one trying to hide their nervous tics. Good. I get under her skin, too. It’s hard to tell with her, she’s so composed and aloof.
“Not today,” she says, finally looking back up at me.
I feel more disappointed than the rejection probably warrants, but then I key in on her specific wording. “Not today. So does that mean tomorrow?” I lift my eyebrows hopefully.
She laughs like I’m too much, but then, even though she’s shaking her head, says, “We’ll see.”
I’ll count that as a win.
* * *
She turns me down the next day when I invite her to go jogging. And the next. I also barely see her, which is driving me a bit nuts. I’m distracted constantly. Who the hell is this girl? Where did she come from? She had to have grown up in an Italian family. Maybe even spent some time in Italy? The food is that authentic, and that’s with ingredients she got from a Trader Joe’s on short notice.
I expect yet another rejection when I find her in the kitchen on Wednesday, already in my jogging gear and ready to go.
“Want to join me for a run today?”
She’s bending over the oven and Jesus fucking Christ almighty, she’s sticking out that plump ass of hers as she does. She’s wearing one of the dresses she bought and flashing me about an acre of thigh. The thin jogging shorts aren’t doing much to hide my rising interest, so I turn away, hoping she’ll get on with her excuse so I can hurry on my way and work out some of this fucking frustration when—
“Sure, just give me a minute to go get changed.”
She’s busy pulling her apron over her head so she doesn’t see my open-mouthed shock. We’ve barely exchanged maybe ten sentences over the past few days, but now she wants to go running with me? Well hell, fuckin’ A. I better get the situation in my shorts under control by the time she comes back down.
“Awesome,” I manage to get out, ducking behind the counter before she turns around and heads for the stairs.
By the time she’s back downstairs five minutes later, I’ve got myself mostly disciplined. Of course, seeing her in leggings, a sports bra, and a tiny little nothing spaghetti strap shirt threatens to get me going all over again.
“Come on.” I head out in front of her toward the door. If she notices my abrupt tone, she doesn’t say anything about it.
In the elevator, she bends over to stretch, touching the floor. At least her hair falls over her shoulder at the same moment. Else I would have had a perfect view down her shirt. I avert my eyes, but goddamn, that just makes it worse because the elevator has mirrors on all four walls and now I’m privy to a view of her spectacular ass as she bends over even further.
Fuck me, it’s official.
Leggings were invented to torture all of mankind.
“Does your jogging path take you by a park?” she asks.
“What?” Guiltily, I jerk my eyes away from the mirror and back to Scarlet’s face. She’s still bent over but has her face tilted up to look at me, innocent blue eyes blinking.
Scarlet bent over, head tilted up like that, right about crotch level?
Yeah, that should be illegal in all fifty states because all I can picture right now is her sweet puffy lips opening up and wrapping around my fat cock.
Christ. I turn away and bend over in a pretense of stretching too. I’m wearing fucking jogging shorts. In about three seconds she’s gonna see the giant tent I’m pitching and this is going to get awkward fast.
“Kennedy?” Scarlet’s asks.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out low and a little gravelly.
“The path you take? Does it go through any parks? I like to see as much nature as I can when I run. I get starved for it, living in the city.”
“Of course.” I clear my throat. “We can go through Golden Gate Park. How far do you like to run?” There. That sounded like a normal question. Totally back on my game. Now if my damn semi would fucking work with me.
Scarlet stands up and stretches her arms behind her head, plumping her breasts up and together.
Shit. Don’t look. Be a gentleman. Don’t look.
I keep my eyes steadily on her face and internally give myself five gold fucking stars.
“I’ll run whatever you normally do,” she says. “I don’t want to interrupt your usual routine.”
I manage to keep back my scoff. As if my life hasn’t been turned on its goddamned head since this woman walked into my life. I can’t concentrate and am barely keeping up with the usual workload I’m supposed to stay on top of at a time when I need to be working at my peak performance to make The Sutler deal goes off without a hitch. It’s the worst time in the world to let myself get so distracted, and yet…
I cough and clear my throat again. “Um, I like to run for about an hour, so that’s usually a little over a seven-mile route for me.”
“Sounds good.” Scarlet nods as she ties her hair back into a ponytail, but then she pauses and her eyes narrow. “And don’t you dare slow down for me because I’m a girl.”
This gets a genuine grin out of me and suddenly all the other shit I’m supposed to be focusing on seems unimportant. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
“Good.”
The elevator pings and Scarlet takes off as soon as the doors open, looking over her shoulder and laughing at what must be my look of surprise.
Little witch.
I run after her, internally getting a kick out of the stares of everyone in the apartment lobby as we streak past.
Scarlet obviously knows the city well because she doesn’t wait for me to tell her to go left. Even though the sun’s obscured by clouds, she heads west toward the park, still making the most out of her head start. I only catch up with her when a red light stops her progress.
Her eyes are bright and cheeks flushed as she jogs in place, grinning as I come up beside her. “Where ya been, slowpoke?”
Before I can answer the wise-ass, the walk sign flashes and we both start jogging again. Scarlet doesn’t sprint this time. She starts a nice, steady pace that tells me loud and clear she’s done this kind of workout before. And probably regularly if her toned arms and thighs are any sign. Her pace is only the slightest bit slower than the one I usually go at, and I easily fall into step beside her.
“If there was one perk to being homeless,” Scarlet says conversationally, “it was that I didn’t miss San Francisco traffic.” She nods at the cars stuck bumper to bumper, lined up and down the street. Even on the cross street that has the green light, traffic is still so congested that the line of cars is packed, unmoving through the intersection. As if to prove her point, several horns blare loudly.
I cringe, both at the noise and the way Scarlet speaks so casually of being homeless.
“How long were you…like that?” I ask. “Did you stay at shelters and stuff? Doesn’t San Francisco have a lot of
resources for the…you know. People on the streets.”
It’s what I’ve been dying to ask her all week but as soon as the questions have all tumbled out of my mouth, I get that I’ve stuck my foot in it big time.
The open, bright expression immediately dies on her face. It’s like watching the clouds roll in on what was a sunny day. That saying—the shutters dropped over her eyes—I get what they mean by that now.
Whereas she was open and inviting a moment ago, I feel completely shut out now. She stares straight ahead and continues jogging at the same pace, her cheeks sucking in and puffing out with studied bursts as her feet pound the pavement, but that’s it as far as animation on her face. It’s like no one’s home. I know that’s not the case.
But I’ve lost her to the space inside her head. What’s it like in there? What’s she thinking right at this moment? What an asshole the guy jogging beside her is? How, sure, I might be offering her a place to crash but as soon as she gets whatever it is she needs, she’s outta there?
And what is it that she needs? That she wants?
A couple hundred in spending money isn’t going to get her very far in this crazy expensive city.
Or maybe she’s just one of those people who doesn’t think that far ahead. Maybe she lives in the moment. She’s got everything she needs for today so that’s enough. It might have been the only way to stay sane in her situation. Christ, I can’t even imagine—
“I can feel you staring at me and thinking about me,” Scarlet says, still gazing straight ahead as we hurry to make it across another street as the don’t walk countdown clock flashes. “Judging me.”
“No,” I say with a loud explosion of air. “God no, I would never—”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me. “Look, it’s fine. People hear the word homeless and a certain picture comes to mind.”
“No, Scarlet, I swear, it’s not—”
Her head finally swings my way and her gaze is arctic. “Homeless. You couldn’t even say the word. I get that you want to feel like you’re different from everyone else. Hell, you went and volunteered in a soup kitchen. You want to help those poor people. Them. The others.”
