Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,41

the unpredictability that comes with it. Cruel words and passionate kisses. Outrageous paychecks and mercurial moods. Scowls and laughter. Silence and banter. Who knows what he’ll deliver next?

He’s well-versed in calloused expressions, but his indifference is skin deep. If Trace Savoy wasn’t affected by me, he wouldn’t be standing here now, offering me his hand.

I clasp his fingers and allow him to pull me out of the car, toward the exit, and inside the elevator. As we ascend, he tucks me against his body with my cheek on his chest. It feels good. So deeply, inviolably, wonderfully good.

“I’m sorry.” He cups the back of my head. “For your loss. And for the way I talk to you. I’m not a nice man.”

My throat tightens at the unexpected apology. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

“The former isn’t your fault,” I say, “and we can work on the latter.”

“You’re remarkably optimistic.” He props his chin on my head.

“Ever heard the saying, an optimist laughs to forget, and a pessimist forgets to laugh?”

“No, but it sounds like it was written by a realist.”

The elevator dings, and when the doors open, I expect to hear the beeping din of hundreds of slot machines. But it’s silent. As I lift my head, he leads me out and into a huge unfamiliar room.

“Where are we?” I glimpse an open kitchen to the left and a dining area to the right. Beyond the humongous sitting room straight ahead, a wall of glass brings the St. Louis skyline indoors. “This is your penthouse?”

“Correct.” He leaves me teetering in the entrance, tosses his jacket over a chair, and veers into the kitchen.

“I thought you were going to show me the restaurant.”

I shouldn’t be here. I mean, I want to be here. My interest in seeing his private space ranks right up there with my desire to see him naked. But my current frame of mind is on the fragile side of messy. I’m already imagining the countless women he’s paraded in and out of this bachelor pad.

And what a pad. It’s like something out of a Marvel Hero movie, with an industrial warehouse feel, exposed pipes, brick columns, and raw wood beams. Very rugged and masculine but also trendy in a way only money can buy.

“It’s been a long day.” He walks out of the open kitchen with two Bud Lights. “I’ll show you the restaurant another time.”

“This is…really nice.” I linger near the elevator, unsure why he brought me here.

“Thank you.” He lowers onto a buttery brown couch near the two-story windows and sets the beers on a large vintage trunk that serves as an ottoman. Then he reclines, spreads his legs the way a man does when he’s relaxed, and crooks a finger at me. “Come here.”

I move my feet, taking in every detail of the penthouse. Most surfaces have a cement or stainless steel finish. Copper fixtures hang from the loft ceilings, and little silver rivets run like stitching along the walls.

With all the metallic pipes, concrete, and structural joints shining through, the space should feel cold and uninviting. But it’s not. The furniture is dark and chunky and plush. Richly colored rugs cover the wide-plank ebony flooring. Thick drapes frame the multistory wall of windows in sections. Jesus, those curtains must be forty-feet long.

There’s a lot of brick—the walls, the fireplace, the base of the massive kitchen island. Overhead, skylights glow with sunlight between the splintery wood beams. And like his office, there are no photos or personal keepsakes. His parents are dead, yet there isn’t a sign of their life together displayed anywhere in this room. Maybe I’m the only one who needs a shrine of pictures to cope with grief?

“Do you have siblings?” I approach the couch, stopping a few feet in front of him, locked in eye contact.

“I’m an only child.”

Is that why he’s so rigid? He never learned how to share or play with others?

His black pants are starched to crispness, even after squeezing in and out of the Midget. Who irons his clothes? A butler? A maid? Whatever woman slept over the night before?

Stop it, Danni.

“Sit.” He pats the cushion beside him.

“If you talk to me like a dog, I might crawl onto your lap and lick your face.”

He holds his arms out, as if welcoming my threat.

Baffling, volatile man.

I’m reminded of our scorching kiss and how much I already miss the feel of his velvety lips. But the cold shoulder I received immediately after he stuck his tongue down