Page 30 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Where do you live?”

“WeHo, on North Sweetzer,” he replied.

I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my scruffy jaw. This probably wasn’t wise, but fuck it. “Do you like Pinot or Cab?”

“I—um, Pinot.”

“Cool. I just got out of the shower, but I can be there in twenty-ish minutes. Text me your address.”

Silence.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Was I? Yeah.

Maybe seeing him again would help me get him out of my head and put this episode behind me once and for all.

I nodded, though the gesture was lost in a phone connection. “Yeah.”

“Okay, well…great,” he stammered. “I made more than enough to share, and I have fresh bread and—wait. My neighbor is a gossipy queen, and my other neighbor is a gossipy accountant. You really shouldn’t come in a flashy car or with bodyguards or—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I hung up before he could renege and followed up with a text.See you soon.

Thirty minutes later,I parked my motorcycle on the curb in front of his building. I kept my helmet on as I navigated the stairs to the third floor, rechecked the apartment number he’d given me, and knocked on 3E.

Lorenzo opened the door an inch and squinted. “Is that you?”

I lifted my helmet and crossed my eyes. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Come in.”

He tugged at my wrist, pulling me over the threshold into his small but nicely decorated apartment. I noted the high ceilings, parquet flooring, white walls decorated with abstract prints, and the L-shaped sectional that took up the majority of space.

He motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen, thanked me when I pulled a bottle from my backpack, then pointed me toward the wineglasses and told me he could use a strong pour.

No problem.

I shrugged off my leather jacket and dealt withvinoservice. I handed him a glass and raised mine in a toast. “To meatball soup.”

Lorenzo’s lips curled in a shy half smile that went straight to my dick. He sipped his wine before turning to stir a large blue pot on the stove. My gaze wandered from his slim hips, lingering on his perfect ass. His white sweats clung in all the right places and—shit. Were they see-through? That definitely looked like the outline of a black thong.

I gulped and glanced around the small kitchen in an effort to get my mind out of the gutter. His place had more character than any apartment I’d lived in. Maybe even more than my current multi-million-dollar house.

Bright plates with decorative patterns hung on the wall near a table for two under a small window covered with red Roman blinds. A colorful runner and whimsical accent pieces made the space feel homey. I’d been here for five minutes, and I already felt more relaxed than I had all day.

The stiff set of his shoulders and ramrod-straight spine hinted that Lorenzo didn’t feel the same. He put the spoon on a dish and opened the fridge.

“So…you’re here. In my apartment.”

“I guess I am.”

“This is weird,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Do you want me to leave?”

He shook his head as he gathered some ingredients and set them on the counter. “Don’t be silly. I invited you.”

“Actually, I invited myself when you bragged about this soup.”