Maybe he senses that our time together is drawing to a close. I mean, he didn’t even kiss me hello. He rarely takes my lips, but there’s usually a chaste kiss on the cheek in greeting.
Sighing, I head for the kitchen and pull out the closest barstool. I watch as he opens the wine fridge and glances down at the bottles. What is he doing? I observe in complete fascination as he pulls a few bottles from the top rack, glancing at the contents, before sliding them back into place. A small smile breaks out on my lips as he struggles. I should feel horrible at finding humor in his difficulties, but the fact that the Great Matthew Wilder isn’t perfect is all I can focus on.
Taking pity on the man who seems to always have it together, I stand up and move toward the glass-front cabinet beside the small refrigerator. I feel his eyes on me as I pull the door open and retrieve a bottle of my favorite wine.
“Oh. I must have misunderstood you,” he mumbles quietly, reaching for the bottle.
As his warm, rough fingers graze against mine, I jolt of electricity slides through my veins, landing squarely between my legs. A small gasp slips from my lips, but I quickly cover it with a cough. Glancing up, I find his dark, intense eyes focused solely on me, but he remains quiet. If he felt anything from our touch, he doesn’t say a word, which only makes me wonder if I possibly imagined it all along.
I retrieve the corkscrew and two glasses from the same cabinet and set them on the counter. Matthew makes quick work of opening the wine, though he does seem to fumble a touch when removing the cork. Maybe he’s had a long, trying day.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the glass he sets in front of me. The liquid is cool and tart, a rich woodsy scent filtering from the glass. I’ve always preferred the dry red over the sweeter whites, even as a younger woman. My friends always tease me about my preference, but it doesn’t bother me any.
“Food will be here soon,” he says, taking a sip of his own glass and grimacing. Another grin breaks out on my lips as I watch in complete fascination as he takes another tentative sip before setting the glass down and pushing it aside. Apparently, Matthew isn’t a fan of red anymore.
“How was your afternoon?” I ask, noticing for the first time his outfit.
“What?” he asks, following my eyes and glancing down.
“I’ve just never seen you so…casual before. And in jeans? I didn’t think you owned any,” I state, realizing how well those jeans fit him. They’re not too tight, but definitely accentuate his lean hips and tight thighs. Not to mention the…bulge in the front. It’s not so formfitting that I’d be concerned about the discomfort, but more highlights certain areas. Suddenly, all I want to do is check out the back view to see if that angle is as delicious as the front.
Shocked by my own thoughts, I look away quickly and take a hearty drink of wine. At this rate, I’m going to be half drunk before the food arrives.
“Oh, yeah, I guess I don’t usually wear them much, but I do own a few pairs,” he replies. Matthew heads to the refrigerator and pulls it open. For such a large unit, I notice it’s awfully bare. He does find a bottle of imported beer and pulls it out, twisting off the cap and chugging half the contents.
I’m about to ask him to elaborate on his day when the phone rings. He practically runs over to the receiver and answers it. “Hello?” He pauses for a few seconds before replying, “Please send it up. Thank you.” When he replaces the handheld receiver, he glances at me over his shoulder. “Food’s on its way up.”
I nod and watch him walk to the door.
Yep. The back view is definitely as firm and fit as the front.
Feeling a flush spread up my cheeks, I jump up and retrieve some utensils and plates for dinner. It takes me a few tries to find the correct cabinet, but by the time Matthew returns with our food, I have two place settings prepared. He sets several bags on top of the counter in front of me, the glorious scents of the contents tickling my nose and causing my stomach to growl.
“Hungry?” he asks, a crooked smile on his