Page 14

ELLIETTE

Three hours later

I ’d expected Lukas to beg-off on tonight after what happened at the game, but even though I’d given him plenty of opportunity, he never bit.

So, there I stood, on his doorstep, one arm curled around my equipment and my free hand raised to knock.

Lukas opened the door before I made any contact.

I blinked. “How did?—”

“I heard you leave your apartment, then your footsteps in the hall.”

I met his ice-blue eyes and immediately diverted my gaze to the floor. How did I always forget how insanely beautiful he was? It was as if my brain gave itself amnesia just to maintain some semblance of sanity. It almost hurt to look at him directly.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay after what happened at the game?” I was still looking at my feet, not to mention, looking for an excuse not to step inside. “We could always do this some other time. ”

An aromatic bouquet of curry, garlic, and cumin wafted out into the hallway and nearly bowled me over.

“Like I told you after each of your three texts, I’m fine , Elliette.”

I lifted my head. “ Elli .”

He gave me an odd look, then joked, “No. My name’s Lukas.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t budge from the threshold.

Men were trouble, regardless of the species.

I’d learned that the hard way two times over now, and even though this was a purely professional meeting, this was Lukas’s apartment, and he was cooking for me, and we did have history, and damnit why did he have to look so good?

“What’s that?” He directed his gaze to my ring-light tripod.

“Oh. I thought I’d take some photos of you tonight. For the article.”

“All right,” he said. “So, does that mean you’re coming in?”

“I’m still thinking it’s a bad idea.” Whatever he was cooking did smell delicious, but the thought of being alone with him made me consider the dangers of spontaneous combustion.

“You’re already on my doorstep,” he reminded me. “With a ring light.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He picked up my tripod, set it inside his apartment, then picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.

I bucked my body, trying to get free of his hold. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lukas kicked the door closed behind us. “Helping you make a decision. ”

“By throwing me over your shoulder?”

“What can I say? I’m a berserker. And if a little uncivilized action gets us closer to eating dinner…” He carried me into his living room. “Then yeah.”

Lukas deposited me like a bag of laundry onto an oversized leather chair, then retreated into his kitchen where a steaming baking dish sat on the wide marble island.

I clenched my teeth and forced my eyes away from his fine, uncivilized berserker ass.

The layout of Lukas’s apartment was the mirror image of mine—or rather, Daniel’s : an open concept living room-kitchen-dining space with a hallway that led to what I assumed was the powder room, office/guest bedroom, and the primary suite with our infamously shared wall.

The main difference was that Lukas’s furnishings were even more luxurious than Daniel’s. And that was saying something. Daniel came from money, as did anyone else who could afford to live in the building.

Lukas’s chair and couch were a buttery-soft, caramel-colored leather. The dining table and chairs were a dark mahogany. The thick, tufted wool area rugs were red and gold with bits of black accents.

Finally, and I was no art expert, but I was pretty sure the abstract—almost dreamlike—paintings on Lukas’s walls weren’t mere reproductions, like in Daniel’s apartment.

The thick, textured layers of paint and the quality of the frames led me to this conclusion.

No one put a five-hundred-dollar frame on a fifty-dollar painting.

“How long have you lived here?” I asked, with no small bit of awe.

He gave me another weird look, deservedly so. “You know I just moved in.”

“What I mean is…you look so settled.” I pushed myself up and out of the chair, then tightened my ponytail. “I’d still be living out of boxes.”

“I work fast.”

I fought a smirk and muttered, “ So I’ve heard, ” while exploring deeper into his apartment. I’d never expected him to have so much style. Maybe he was a good cook, too. “What’s for dinner?”

“Butter Chicken.”

I whirled, both surprised and elated by the menu. “I love Indian food! Especially butter chicken.”

“I know.” His lips quirked. “I stalked you online and saw you posting about it.”

“You stalked me?”

He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment and basted the chicken with the thickening tomato and yogurt sauce.

“You could’ve just asked Evan what I liked.”

“I did,” he said without looking up from the dish. “He said he didn’t know, but he thought you might have stock in Kraft macaroni and cheese.”

I scoffed. “Not exactly.”

Lukas set down his spoon. “This is an apology dinner, Elliette. For what happened at lunch yesterday, not to mention for what I said seven years ago. And you can’t be too mad about me stalking you. I’m a wolf, right? It comes naturally. Besides, I’m sure you’ve been doing the same to me.”

“When I do it,” I said, pretending to be indignant, “it’s research for the job.”

He opened the oven. “And what have you learned so far?”

“That you got a Facebook account when you were in eighth grade but haven’t used it since your first year of college. You have an Instagram account with nine hundred thousand followers, despite having posted only five photos: two of skates; three of sunsets.”

“Some of my favorite things.” He slid the dish back into the oven and closed the door.

“But what do they say about you?” I asked, pressing my point.

“Hopefully, that I like skates and sunsets.” He took the lid off a second pot on the stove and gave its contents a stir.

“Is that all there is to Lukas Bakken?”

He set the spoon aside and leaned his forearms on the kitchen counter. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”

“If that’s all you’re willing to share, I’m not going to get you featured in Big Sport Magazine .”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I was featured in Creature Confidential just last month, and I didn’t have to share anything at all.”

I gritted my teeth. I’d seen the photos of him in an elevator with three beautiful, slightly startled looking women. “I’m striving for something a little classier.”

“Good luck,” he said. “I’m not a classy guy.”

“You have expensive furniture and original artwork.”

“Besides that,” he said.

He looked so gorgeous, leaning against his gleaming marble counter with his sleeves rolled up and the muscles in his forearms perfectly defined, that I raised my tablet and took a quick picture.

“You’re taking pictures of me in the kitchen?” he asked. “I would’ve thought?—”

“Women love to see men cooking.”

He frowned. “Whatever photos you take, I need to approve them before they’re posted.”

“Of course,” I said. “But you don’t have to worry. First, I wouldn’t post a photo that made you look anything less than perfect.” As if the alternative were even remotely possible . “And second, anyone who truly cares about you wouldn’t care how you look, so…”

“Exactly,” he said, and his frown deepened.

I didn’t know how to interpret that, but even though I gave him a second to explain, he didn’t elaborate, only held his position as if he expected the photo shoot to continue.

“How long until dinner’s ready?” I asked.

“About twenty minutes.”

“Do you have an apron?”

“No,” he said, “but the messy part’s already done.”

“That’s not what I mean. Wait here.” I set my tablet on his counter, then ran back to my apartment and grabbed the red and white gingham apron my grandmother gave me when she heard I was getting into baking. The baking experiment hadn’t lasted a month, but I still had the apron.

As soon as I returned to Lukas’s apartment, I held it out to him. “Put this on.”

He took it, but looked at it like it was some unidentifiable object. “Why?”

“Men in aprons are sexy.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard that sound.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

I jutted a hip. “It’s true.”

“If you say so, but I thought your assignment was to class me up.”

“It is, and I am. But your upscale kitchen does the heavy lifting there. I also have to keep you intriguing and desirable.”

Lukas tied the apron straps behind his neck and around his waist, then turned toward the cupboards and took out two wine glasses. He set the glasses on the counter and got a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

He was just about to pour when I said, “Wait. Hang on!”

I quickly attached my phone to the tripod, turned on the ring light, and set up my shot. “Okay. Go ahead. Pour.”

Lukas poured wine while I took some burst-mode photos.

“How was that?” he asked after finishing the second pour. “Get anything good?”

“I’m sure I did.” How could I not?

“Want me to take my shirt off for the next shots? I can keep the apron.”

Shirtless Lukas in an apron? Oh my god. No . “That won’t be necessary.”

“Do you make your boyfriend wear an apron when he cooks?”

“My boyfriend?” My stomach flipped and not in a good way. It actually made me feel a little off balance.

“Yeah,” he said, giving me a puzzled expression. “Your boyfriend. The one whose Deathmobile you’ve been driving.”

“What do you care if he wears an apron?” I hated the bitter resentment that crept into my voice.

“Jesus, Elliette. I don’t. It's called small talk.” He slid one of the wine glasses across the island to me.

I picked it up and took a big, not-so-ladylike gulp. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“What do you mean?”

“We broke up. A few nights ago.”

“You broke up with him?” Lukas asked. “Why?”

His assumption gave me pause. “Why do you think I broke up with him? ”

“Because why would anyone break up with you? ” he asked. Totally serious. “Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“Not exactly.” I was completely discombobulated by his incredulous questions.

“Okay,” he said.”So, there you go. Why did you break up with him?”

“Because he cheated on me.”