Page 20

She gets on the bike willingly enough, and I’m able to shift back to my two legged form, which makes it much easier to ride with her there. Olivia’s arms around my waist feel a little too good, but I ignore that and kick the bike into gear, cursing my bad luck at running into her again like this. At not being able to control my reactions to her. At allowing my impulses to take over once again.

I should be looking for an excuse to be rid of her. But when I stop the bike in the carport below my apartment and Olivia gets off, she looks at me in embarrassment. “I thought you meant at The Snapper!”

I shrug. “It’s closed on Monday. Today’s my day off.”

Her cheeks flush an even deeper red, making the freckles over her nose stand out. “Oh, please don’t worry. I’ll just go. I—”

I cut her off, unwilling to let her talk herself into leaving now. “Come on. You’re here now. Might as well let me make you something to eat. You won’t get anything at Bella Vista. Will you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Apparently not on Monday. Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” I tell her gruffly. Then I turn away so she won’t see me smile when she follows me up the stairs and waits while I unlock the door.

Another big mistake, no doubt.

I just can’t seem to help myself where Olivia Zeston is concerned.

NINE

Olivia

Noah’s place is small but immaculate. I can’t help looking around, mentally cataloging every detail as fast as I can. A small sofa, no TV. A big kitchen for the size of the apartment. Neat and clean and wiped down. Utensils and pans hang from hooks beneath the cabinets and on the ceiling. Herbs in little pots are fixed to the wall. A gas range and a large, fancy looking oven. Yeah. A chef’s place, even if he is a bachelor. There’s a corridor I assume leads to the bedroom and bathroom. A glass sliding doorlooks out over a balcony, and I can just make out an ocean view. The sounds of the waves rolling in the distance is a hum in the background.

I’m a little embarrassed at being in his home after everything that’s happened. I’m still blushing from my stupid meltdown in the supermarket for heaven’s sake.

“You want something to drink?” Noah shuts the door behind him and toes off his shoes, striding to the kitchen and taking a bottle of red wine from the pantry and setting out two glasses before I’ve even replied. “You look like you need a drink.” He pours a little into one glass and pushes it toward me, and I accept it gratefully.

“Let me just get changed out of this.” He gestures at his ruined jeans, and I blush all over again.

“I’m so sorry.”

He sighs. “Hazard of being a kraken,” he says ruefully. “I should have known better.”

Striding up the corridor, he disappears for a moment, and I hear wardrobe doors open and the swoosh of clothing being dropped and pulled on over long legs.

I try not to think about how bad I must look in my most unpresentable outfit, only suitable for long plane trips and airports. With my hair in a mess piled on top of my head and no makeup on.

I guess Noah’s not looking at me like that anyway, so no need to worry.

It doesn’t stop me wishing I was looking slightly more glamorous. Like Rechelle Oaks looking effortless in leisure wear.

A moment later he reappears, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him in gray sweatpants with a white tank top over them, relaxed and sculpted and absolutely stunning without even trying.

I can’t seem to stop myself tucking the loose strands of hair behind my ears and shifting on the stool at the kitchen counter every time his gaze fixes on me.

He pours himself a drink and takes a large mouthful before setting down his glass and opening the fridge. “You like pasta?”

“Hmm?” Not me getting distracted by the way the muscles in his back move under his shirt. He really is very attractive.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Cheer up, sad sack. I’ll have to put you to work to snap you out of it.”

“Oh I’m happy to help. What can I do?”

Noah fetches a wooden chopping board, a knife, and a handful of basil. “Chop this. Not too fine.”

While I go to work on the herbs, he takes a second board and deftly slices some onion and a chorizo sausage in the time it takes me to chop the basil.

I watch while he halves some cherry tomatoes and takes down a wide flat frying pan and sets it on the stove. He puts a pot of water on to boil and seasons it before turning back to me. “Wanna talk about it?”