Oh, Jeez. Why did I say that? He may go through my underwear drawer and see my big girl panties. Yikes!
“Brandon, I’m fine with what I’m wearing.”
He smirks at me. “You need a little more but not much.”
Brandon orders in lunch—comforting chicken soup for the soul—from Greenblatt’s, our nearby deli on Sunset. Making bowls for the two of us, he agrees to let me get out of bed and screen some rough cuts of the latest episodes of Kurt Kussler. Snuggling on his couch so close to him takes my mind off my recent ordeal. The show looks amazing, and the story’s on fire. The plot isn’t the only thing heating up; his body brushes against mine and incites me. A barrage of tiny bolts of lightning bombards me.
“What’s going to happen between Kurt and Mel?” I ask him. While subtle, things have been simmering between the tormented ex-CIA agent and his faithful assistant.
A coy smile lights up his gorgeous face. He shrugs. “Don’t know.”
Bullshit. I want to punch him. By that smug expression on his face, I so know he knows. He’s after all writing the season finale. As the end credits roll, the smartass clicks the TV off and reprimands me.
“Eat!”
I look down at my bowl. So wrapped up with the episode, I’ve hardly touched my soup. I shift, and as I do, my spoon tumbles out of the bowl and falls to the gleaming wood floor. Clink!
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath as I bend over to retrieve it. Except Brandon gets there at the same time. His face is in my face, just a breath away. My pulse speeds up as his long tapered fingers graze mine. Tingles course through me like bubbly champagne.
“I’ve got it,” I say, clasping the handle and straightening up as he does.
“I’ll get you a new one.”
“Don’t bother. My mama told me you can kiss away germs.”
“Mine did too.” With a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, he grasps my wrist and lifts my hand to his lips. My eyes never leave him as he kisses the back of the spoon. The way he does it is so damn sexy. With smoldering eyes and a sensuous pucker. Before my heart beats out of my chest, he releases his lips and my hand.
“You can never be too safe. On the other hand, no risk, no gain.”
“Right,” I reply, eyeing the little bit of saliva he’s left behind on the spoon tip.
On my next sip of soup, I can taste him. The warmth of the broth heats me up further. My temperature rises and I can feel his eyes on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me Pete was your father?”
I shrug and tell him the truth. “Honestly, I thought you knew.”
“Actually, I didn’t.” He pauses. “Well, at least as far back as I can remember.”
Damn his amnesia. I still haven’t decided if it’s better to remember or to forget. While my legs stay curled under me, my gorgeous boss stretches his long muscular limbs across the coffee table. My eyes travel down his perfectly ripped jeans to his bare feet. They’re so f*ck
ing perfect. Just the right length and width. Sizeable, manly, beautifully arched with just the slightest dusting of dark hair on the instep. The girls in my massage classes used to tell me you can tell a lot about a man, especially his cock, by his feet. They were so right. A fluttery sensation erupts between my thighs as I picture Brandon’s gorgeous organ. That thick, breathtaking tower of magnificence. A monument to mankind just like his feet. His virile voice cuts into my wicked ruminations.
“Why don’t you and Pete have the same last name?”
“While Pete and Auntie Jo adopted me and I’m officially their daughter, I wanted to keep my last name out of respect to my real mother and father. I call Uncle Pete Pops, but I could never call Auntie Jo anything close to Mama. I’m lucky though. I couldn’t ask for better parents. I’m super close to both of them and their son, who I grew up with and adore.”
Brandon blows on a tablespoon of the hot soup. “What was your real father like?”
“Mama told me he was handsome and brave.” I reach for my nearby bag and pull out my wallet. I flip through the pictures. “Here’s a photo of the two of them taken just before he died.”
Brandon studies the photo. “They were a great-looking couple. You’re the best of both of them.”
Brandon’s right. I have my father’s big brown eyes and wavy chestnut hair and my mother’s porcelain skin and her full Cupid’s bow lips. But unfortunately, not her fine-boned frame. Instead, I inherited Papa’s big-boned, sturdy build. Well, with the exception of his hands. I glance down at my slender, long-fingered hands that are exactly like Mama’s and thank Brandon for what I construe as a compliment.
“What was your mother like?” he asks.
A collage of images flashes through my head. Oh, my beautiful Mama with her wild red hair and delicate features! Where do I begin?