Page 33 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

S torm, we can’t see each other romantically. We need to just focus on finishing the year and keep things platonic.

I’ve said the words probably a thousand times since waking up.

They’re the words I should say when he opens his apartment door any minute now, but I know just like I know my name, I won’t state the vow when I see his face.

The fact is, I’m tired.

Working at mPOWER has been especially stressful as well. We’re still trying to raise funds because DeAndria’s efforts have somehow fallen short this quarter.

I think it’s because she’s checked out, already mentally at her new job.

It feels like I’m trying to mop up the ocean some days.

So why won’t I stick to my convictions and end this? It’s because I’m really damn tired, and I simply don’t want to.

I just want to be. Is that too much to ask for?

Storm swings the door open, and I mentally slap myself to keep from choking out loud.

His simple outfit, dark jeans and a thick, deep blue crewneck sweater, make him seem broad all over, as if he were solid muscle.

At the collar, a peek of his white T-shirt, paired with a plain gold chain, becomes the most erotic outfit I think I’ve ever seen on a man.

I really need to get a grip.

“Come in,” Storm says, his voice activating my senses like an exposed nerve.

He steps aside and I enter the foyer, ditching my hat and gloves and peeling off the multiple layers I wear to protect myself from the coming Chicago winter.

Thanksgiving will be here in a little over a week, and Greg Dutra has already promised one of the coldest winters on record.

Thank god he sent a car for me.

Storm’s condo looks exactly how I’d pictured it would. It’s all sleek lines, minimalist chrome and glass, and the supple furniture looks like it’d stain at the slightest assault.

Storm closes the door, and the action makes the open concept space feel like a tomb, closed off from the outside world. And even though based on everything my brain knows, I should want to run, but my body—all taken up by Storm’s intoxicating scent and presence—has me wanting to do no such thing.

“Thanks for coming here, Shae,” Storm says, his voice subdued. I look over my shoulder at him and tilt my chin down in acknowledgment. Heading further into his space, I make a beeline for the kitchen island.

Why am I running? It’s because the look in Storm’s eyes holds so much danger—hell, something darker—that I have to give us physical space.

I distract myself by pulling out the report draft, journal article I’d printed earlier, and my spiral notebook.

“Thank you for getting the report together. I’ve added some notes to the shared file as comments, but I wanted to run this article past you as a potential edit to the?—”

“Have you eaten yet, Shae?”

Storm’s voice is closer than I expect, so I jump, spinning around and bracing my hands on the cool white countertops behind me.

“What?” I say dumbly.

Storm stands about three feet away from me, his hands in his jeans pockets. When he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, he pulls the denim down a few inches, exposing the top band of his Calvin Klein boxers and a lickable strip of toned flesh. My pussy clenches so hard it aches.

Fuck. This is not good.

“Maybe we should?—”

“Have. You. Eaten?” Storm asks, taking a slow, leisurely step toward me, into my space. Up close, I can almost count the flecks of gold streaking through his irises, and….

“Did you know you have freckles?” I blurt out.

Storm’s eyebrows lift before settling back into an amused expression. He lifts a hand from his pocket, straightening his back and—fucking unfortunately—causing his clothes to return to their normal positions.

He runs his fingers across the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. My brother had them too,” he replies.

I catch the key word.

“Had?” I ask delicately.

Storm shrugs, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that movement isn’t at all casual. “Yeah. He died about ten years ago. Car accident.”

He shrugs again, but this time, he looks away, behind me. After a moment, he shifts again, moving past me to pull the refrigerator open.

“I’m not much of a cook,” he says, “especially nowhere near your mom. But my dad’s chef meal preps for me and brings stuff to heat up so I don’t go to McDonald’s every day and develop coronary artery disease.” He straightens with two large dishes in his hands.

Placing them on the table, he says, “I’m gonna go with the assumption you haven’t eaten.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl in his near-silent apartment. His lips twist into a grin.

“I’ll take that as my hypothesis being proven.”

I flush hot.

“So, what’ll it be? chicken marsala or penne a la vodka with Italian sausage?” He lifts his hands as if presenting the two dish options, and I blink at him as my thoughts spin before looking down at my presentation materials.

“Storm—”

“Shae, can you please just let me take care of you?” His words are hard, exasperated, but when I look up at him, his gaze is soft. Another heartbeat passes between us before he adds, “Please.”

And there it is…the moment when I lose the thread tying me to the logic of us not being together. Because fuck, him wanting to take care of me has me wanting to dive head-long into Storm Sandoval’s universe.

So I let myself live in this terrifying thought: What’s the harm?

“Chicken marsala, please,” I say, my voice much softer and raspier than I expect.

He tilts his chin down, a pleased look crossing his face before he pivots to put the pasta dish back in the refrigerator and taps a few buttons on his oven.

When that’s done, he reaches to the left of the stove and opens the cabinet. Sparkling glasses line the shelves.

“Water, pop, or wine?” he asks, one hand still on the open cabinet pull.

“Water,” I reply quickly, licking my lips. “Unless you have a white wine? A chardonnay, maybe?”

Storm’s addictive sideways grin makes his dimples pop, and goddamn if I don’t want to lick them. Against the soft fabric of my pull-over sweater, my neglected nipples begin to pearl, driving a lightning bolt directly to my clit.

Down. Down, girl.

Filing away my horniness, I breathe deeply and watch as Storm pours purified water—something that looks too expensive because it’s fucking water —in two tall glasses before reaching beneath the counter to what I quickly learn is the wine cooler.

“This bottle is brand new,” he says, presenting it to me. At first, I think he’s trying to stunt on the wine label, probably to try to impress me at what’s likely a rare or particularly expensive wine, but then he says, “I just wanted you to see that it’s sealed. I want you to feel safe.”

And just like that, ice washes over me like a frigid shower, and I look down at the swirls in the marble.

“Shit,” he says, but my eyes don’t stray away from the countertop as a weird sensation comes over me.

I wasn’t lying to Ezra when I said I’m all right when it comes to what happened. Shaken, of course, because who wouldn’t be? But in general, I am okay.

I’m okay because of… I look up at Storm’s troubled face.

I’m okay because Storm was there to save me. And the pure luck he was in the right place at the right time feels like…well, it feels like more than luck. It feels like divine intervention.

“I’m okay, Storm,” I say, trying to find a smile. “It’s really sweet you’d even thought to reassure me.”

Storm’s face doesn’t change, so I put my hand on his tense forearm. The second my palm hits his flesh, it’s like his heat pulses into my body, our connection undeniable.

So why am I trying to deny this?

“I’d love some of the chardonnay,” I say, pulling my hand back. His eyes slide closed in a long blink, but when he opens them, he goes back to the cabinet to grab two wine glasses.

“Leave your notes and the journal article. I’ll give it a read, add my revisions to the report, and send it over to you for a final readthrough.” He pours the wine and hands me mine before filling his glass halfway.

The chardonnay has a smooth, buttery mouthfeel with pleasant notes of something citrusy. I’m not a wine aficionado by any means, but I can tell the difference between good wine and, let’s say, the boxed wine I used to guzzle at dorm parties freshman year.

“That sounds fine,” I say, taking another sip of the wine before lowering the glass to the counter, where it lands with a delicate tink.

“Great,” he says, and the oven beeps. Compared to a regular range, it warms up at what feels like warp speed. After removing the top of the dish, he efficiently slides the meal into the oven and sets the timer on the microwave.

“So now that that’s out of the way,” he says, grinning, “pack up your stuff so we can turn this into a real date.”

I swallow, my eyes going wide. Sure, he’s making dinner—or, I guess, warming it—and things are a little cozy with the sun going down, casting a golden glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

But this is a….

“A date?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow and shifting my weight to one hip. “Sir, you did not ask me on a date.”

Storm takes a sip of his wine, a long one, before placing his glass back on the counter and looking at me with an expression I find hard to decode.

“I didn’t plan on it being a date when I invited you here, but inspiration struck me,” he says, and I tilt my chin down, giving him an incredulous look.

“Right,” I drawl, and Storm looks a little sheepish.

“Shae I-Don’t-Know-Your-Middle-Name Rivers, will you do me the immense honor of joining me for dinner in my home this evening?” He straightens when he says this, putting one hand over his heart as if swearing an oath.

I giggle, which causes me to frown, because I never giggle.

“Olivya,” I say.

“Olivya,” he says, stretching the word out as if feeling it on his tongue.

I shiver and think how silly it is I’m getting turned on by a man saying my name.

“So what will it be, Sweetness?” he asks again, and I reach for my wine, bringing it close to my chest.