He stilled.
Completely.
Except his eyes.
They came right to me, working, shifting, going from blatant shock to melt to sweet warmth until he closed them from me and they were hidden.
“He’s not dead, Olivia,” he explained quietly but without inflection. “Mom got sick of that chair. Said it was an eyesore. Redecorated the whole fuckin’ family room with the sole purpose of getting shot of that chair. The minute we heard it was goin’, Knight and me started fightin’ over who would get it. Anya put her foot down that she would not inherit that ratty-ass chair. So, not havin’ a woman to bust my balls, for once in my life with Knight—and that is not an exaggeration—I won. Though, sayin’ that, that chair is worth negative five hundred dollars and it cost me a fuckin’ arm and leg to ship it from Hawaii, it’s butt-ugly, fucks with my aesthetic and on a wet day, it smells. So I’m not real certain how big a prize I got.”
“It appears you may have much the same relationship with your brother as I do with my sister.”
His arm around my neck tightened as he started moving, drawing me farther into his place.
“Somethin’ we have in common, outside we both like control, you in those shoes and you in those jeans. Though I ’spect the reason why I like you in those shoes and jeans is different than the reason you like ’em.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
He stopped us by the wine, released his hold on me, gave me an amused gleam out of his blue eyes and ordered, “You pour. Then you’re on salad duty. I got bread to sort and shit.”
After that, he sauntered comfortably around the bar in a pad that might be perfect, but to him it was home, to get to the bread, which was part of the foodstuffs arranged on the island.
I put my purse to the bar, shrugged off my jacket, poured wine and asked, “You want more?”
“Top up would be good,” he muttered, reaching a long arm out to nab a bread knife from a knife block at the back counter.
I moved around the bar and topped up his wine. Then I assessed the salad stuff. After that, I assumed salad duty, keeping an eye on Nick who was very much sorting the bread. In fact, with an ease obviously born of practice, he was making homemade garlic bread, including microwaving crushed garlic, butter and olive oil, brushing, sprinkling bits of cheese and broiling.
I looked to the bubbling sauce.
“Homemade bread, does that mean homemade sauce?” I asked.
“Didn’t have time,” he muttered surprisingly, a mutter that alluded to the fact that, if he did, he could also have made homemade red sauce. “And hope you like meat,” he went on. “Sauce has got ground sirloin and Italian sausage in it.”
“I like meat,” I assured him.
His attention came to me on that but fortunately he didn’t treat me to some coarse, schoolboy, low-intellect comment.
He just gave me a look telling me he had one on the tip of his tongue and he was saving me from it.
“Thank you,” I replied to his look.
Another mistake.
He again started laughing.
It didn’t start with a surprised bark leading to audible hilarity with his shaking body pressed to mine making me feel we could have something that was beyond normal straight to amazing at the same time it was heart-stoppingly real.
But it was nearly as pleasant.
I concentrated on the salad.
All the veggies were fresh and high quality. With the latter, as was the wine.
“Did you shop for this?” I asked the tomato I was cutting into wedges.
“Found out no salon openings, called you, then yeah, I went to the market,” he answered.
He just didn’t throw this together.