Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,42

my throat prompts me to choose the spot beside him.

“I didn’t take you for a Bud Light guy.” I reach for the beer.

“I’m not.” He sips from his bottle and makes a face. “But you like it.”

How did he—? Oh, right. I was drinking beer the first night he came to my house.

His attention to detail is uncanny. And creepy. And kind of endearing.

“You stocked your fridge,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair, “knowing I’d come here?”

“Yes.” A devious flicker dances in his eyes.

Before I can question him further, the elevator dings.

Three servers bustle out, dressed in suits and carrying trays of domed platters. I stand, and Trace joins me.

“People can come and go,” I whisper, “right into your penthouse?”

“I can lock the elevator with the push of a button.” He moves toward the kitchen. “I hope you like Moroccan cuisine.”

“I do.” Suspicion narrows my gaze. “When did you order food?”

“At the homeless shelter, when you sent me outside.”

The servers leave as quietly and quickly as they arrived, and I recognize one of them from Bissara.

When the elevator shuts, I turn to Trace. “This is the fine dining cuisine you’ll be serving in the new restaurant?”

“Yes. A few samples of the dishes.” He extends an arm toward the platters. “Dig in. You haven’t eaten all day.”

The rich scent of spices permeates the room, an infusion of lemon, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. My mouth waters as we pile our plates with zaalouk, couscous, beef, lamb, anchovy, and unleavened pan-fried bread.

I follow him back to the couch, balancing the heavy dish in my hands. “I think I need a bigger plate.”

“Or a bigger stomach.”

“Oh, no. I’ll eat all of this. Watch and learn.”

I moan and hum throughout the meal without a single decipherable word. Fuck me, it’s good. Better than good. The old Bissara wouldn’t have been able to compete with this.

When the last crumb is scraped from my plate, I lean back and attempt to untangle the knots in my hair. Nothing’s taming this shit without a brush.

“Did you hire a new chef?” I ask.

“I brought in a New York chef to design the cuisine and teach the existing chef how to prepare it.”

“Wow. That’s…really nice of you. I’m sure the Bissara chef was relieved to keep his job.”

“He kept his job because he works for next to nothing. I’m running a business, Danni, and I make decisions based on profit. Not emotion. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“Of course.” I grit my teeth. “I almost thought of you as human for a second. My bad.”

I move to collect the dirty plates, but he beats me to it, stacking them and carrying them to the kitchen. I stay on the couch as he makes a phone call, his timbre too low to make out what he’s saying.

He tilts the mouthpiece away from his chin and catches my gaze from across the room. “You left the prescription in the car. Do you need it brought up?”

“No, it’s not for me.”

Virginia won’t run out of her arthritis pills for a few days. Besides, I need to leave soon. Playing house with Trace Savoy is wreaking havoc on my already confused brain.

“That’ll be all,” he says into the phone, ends the call, and returns to the couch.

“Thanks for dinner.” I stand, tugging on the short hem of my cut-offs. “I’m gonna head out.”

“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me.

“Why?”

“Watch a movie with me.”

That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder.

“What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek.

I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around.

He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”

My pulse spikes. “Why did you suggest that one?”

“You have the movie poster framed in your bedroom.”

Oh. Duh. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”

His thumb moves over the remote, his attention on the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”

“No way.” I press a hand against my heart as excitement percolates through my blood. “How in the ever-loving world is that possible?”

“It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without the experience,” he says dryly.

“No shit.” I trip over his legs in my hurry to climb onto the couch beside him. “Prepare to be blown away.”

And just like that, I’m committed to spending the next hour and forty minutes with Trace Dirty-Dancing-Virgin Savoy.

As he rents the movie, the elevator chimes again. What