door, then pause. I wonder what else he has in this big-ass place? Should I explore? Shouldn't I leave instead? I pause... But the cookies. Okay, I'll stay until the cookies have cooled.
I set the alarm on my phone, pocket it, then creep out of the kitchen. I head for the living room; he's not there. Turn and walk into the next room. It's a playroom, filled with toys. Bet Phe spends a lot of time in here.
I walk into the next room—a study filled with books where an eleven-year-old pre-teen would love to spend time. Yep, this is Skye's. I guess his family comes over to visit often. Does he babysit his nieces? Of course, he does.
I head into the adjacent room. The scent of cigar smoke and something else—his scent, those heavy testosterone notes tease my nostrils. This is his space, a study, more of a man-cave, complete with volumes of medical journals on the shelves.
I peruse the titles, glance down. Huh? He has an entire shelf filled with the Harry Potter books. So, he liked to read them for pleasure? Aww. A warmth trickles through my chest. I stiffen. No, you cannot allow yourself to soften. Damn it, maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.
I'd hoped to find something that would incriminate him, allow me to nurture my need to have a low opinion of him. Instead, all signs confirm that this is a and this one?
man who loves his family, who has the kind of quirks I enjoy. And yeah, he is a surgeon, and he does save lives. I hunch my shoulders. The man is bloody complex and too attractive, and I don't stand a chance. This had been a bad idea. Speaking of, where the hell is the Doc? Had he been so confident that I would stay, that he'd left? Had he done it to give me some down time? To cool off maybe, and come to my senses? Typical male manipulation. I huff. He knew if he left me alone in his space, I'd investigate it. I reach the doors to his bedroom, hesitate. Go on, do it. A quick peek, that's all it is.
I shove open the doors, enter a room which I swear is as big as my apartment. My feet sink into the carpet that stretches out toward a massive king-sized bed in the center. To one side, sliding doors open onto a terrace, beyond which is the inevitable spectacular view of Tower Bridge. And at the far end? That has to be a walk-in closet. I march toward it, push open the doors and peek it. It's filled with an array of his pants, shirts, ties, suits, scrubs, his designer shoes. No watches, of course. I know, now, why he doesn't keep those accessories. Also, one entire side of the closet is cleared out. For what? Did someone else just move out? Or had he been so sure that I'd move in with him? Presumptuous, much?
As I near the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked cookies teases my nostrils. My mouth waters and my belly grumbles. I hasten my pace, head for the oven. Ha, life's so much better when you have cookies in your hand. And really, I should have left, but procrastibaking is my specialty. You know, when you have a million things to do, but you put it on the back burner and prefer to bake? I snort, then brush my hand over the apron that I'd pulled on. It's a designer piece, that much I can tell. Who makes designer aprons? More to the point, who buys them? Weston fucking Kincaid does, that's who.
I lean over the cookies, inhale the heady perfume. OMG, almost as good as fucking... Well, that's what I used to think. Then I'd met Weston and okay...baking is my second favorite past-time now, the first being, riding his monster dick, licking the frosting off of his penis... Stop, stop. Enough already. Change of topic, focus on something else. I reach for a cookie and bring it to my mouth.
"Is that for me?"
His voice sounds so close, I squeak. The cookie slips from my fingers. He swoops down catches it.
"Good save," I mutter as he straightens and turns to me.
He glances at the piece of cookie in between his fingers, then raises it and holds it to my lips.
"Open." His gaze is fixed on my face. He peruses my features, searching... searching for... What? My compliance? That I'll throw myself