Page 27 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Chapter

Nineteen

CHRISTIAN

“The thing about focaccia is you can’t rush it.”

I was talking to my empty kitchen, with flour dusting my black t-shirt as I kneaded the dough. “It takes time to develop the right texture, the right?—”

I stopped mid-sentence, realizing how ridiculous I sounded having a conversation with bread dough. But my penthouse was too quiet tonight, and I needed something to fill the silence.

The dough was sticky under my hands, requiring attention that usually cleared my head after long days in court. Tonight it wasn’t working. My mind kept wandering to Naomi, fully flushed from the orgasm that had spilled from her as she sat on the shower floor.

I shaped the dough into a ball and placed it in an oiled bowl, covering it with a damp towel. Now came the waiting. Focaccia couldn’t be forced into rising faster than it wanted to.

My phone sat on the kitchen island, and I found myself staring at it. I could call her. But it wasn’t one of our scheduled days. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I picked up the phone, scrolled to her number, then set it back down.

The aroma of yeast and olive oil filled the kitchen as the dough began its slow rise. I opened a bottle of Barolo and poured myself a glass, then moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. The city lights twinkled in the darkness.

This penthouse used to feel like a sanctuary. Now the emptiness of it irritated me.

The timer chimed, it was time to shape the focaccia.

I punched down the risen dough, my hands working automatically while my mind continued to wander back to the sounds Naomi made when I was inside her, half moan and half prayer.

I pressed my fingers into the dough, creating the characteristic dimples, then drizzled it with olive oil and sprinkled it with rosemary from my balcony’s herb garden.

I’d started it after our first trip to Italy, hoping she’d help me tend it someday.

Now it just seemed pathetic to wish for that reality.

Into the oven it went for twenty-five minutes.

I refilled my wine glass and sat at the kitchen island, staring at my phone again. What would I even say? “Hey, I know we have rules, but I’m sitting here alone making bread and thinking about you.”

The wine was making me maudlin. I switched to water.

The focaccia came out golden brown, the crust crackling as it cooled. I cut a piece, still warm from the oven, and took a bite. The texture was immaculate, and the flavor delicious. My Aunt Bernice would approve.

But I was eating it alone in my kitchen, and that antagonized me to no end.

Naomi

In the kitchen, I made chamomile tea and sat at my small dining table with a book I’d been trying to finish for two months.

The words blurred together as my mind wandered to Christian’s hands on my skin and how he fucked me Saturday night with so much passion and vigor.

But what haunted me the most was his words:

“I can’t do this.”

It was apparent that our situationship had gone further than either of us expected and I could see it in his eyes and his reaction to me with Nathan Saturday night.

My phone buzzed and I glanced at the screen. It was a text from Journey: “How are you doing since our lunch conversation?”

I typed back: “Still processing.”

“That’s healthy. Take your time.”

Take your time. Everyone kept saying that, like time was going to magically fix the mess in my head. Like enough days would pass and I’d suddenly know what to do about falling in love with a man I was supposed to keep at arm’s length.

I abandoned the book and moved to my couch, pulling a throw blanket around my shoulders.

The condo was immaculate, as always. No clutter, no family photos, only professional head shots and photo shoots of myself.

Because that’s all I had was me. Sure my friends, my parents, and my girls at the business mattered, but when it came to making a house a home, this one was about as empty as an echo chamber.

My laptop sat open on the coffee table, and I took a moment to scroll through my calendar. Tomorrow was Tuesday—nothing scheduled until Thursday afternoon. Wednesday was one of our days.

The increase in my pulse let me know I was scared as hell about what I was about to do next. My phone was in my hands before I could talk myself out of it. His number was already pulled up, my thumb hovering over the call button.

What if he was busy? What if he were with someone else? What if…

I hit call.

He answered on the second ring. “This is Christian.”

I hesitated. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. Can you meet me?”

“Say when.”

“Now. At our place.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I was already at the house when Christian arrived, sitting on the couch in the living room with my hands folded in my lap like a nervous teenager. I heard his key in the lock and listened to his footsteps on the hardwood floor.

“Naomi?” His voice echoed through the house.

“In here.”

He appeared in the doorway, still in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and he looked good enough to eat.

“Sorry for interrupting your night,” I said, standing up. “I know this isn’t one of our days.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything important.” He moved close enough that I could smell his cologne. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

He watched me intently for a long moment, and when I didn’t say anything else, he spoke.

“About?”

“About us. About what this is.” I gestured between us. “I need to know what you think about me. About us. Together.”

Christian was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying my face. “You want the truth?”

“I want the truth.”

“I think about you every day. When I’m sitting in traffic, in the office, or lying in bed at night.

I hear your laugh and daydream about you scrunching your nose when I put too much lime on your food,” he chuckled.

“The memory of you lives in my mind. Even when I sleep, I dream of you.” He sighed.

“Is this the part where you tell me it’s too much for you and I’m out of line? ”

My heart was beating so fast I was sure he could see it through my shirt.

“I think about taking you back to Italy and teaching you to make pasta from scratch. I think about waking up next to you every morning instead of just on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I think about having the right to hold your hand in public and tell other men to back off when they flirt with you.”

My head was spinning.

“I think these rules we made are killing both of us, or at least they are killing me.”

The silence stretched between us as we stared at one another.

“Is that why you asked me to come here? To find out how I feel about us?”

“Partly.” I glanced around nervously.

“You don’t have to be anxious,” he said. “I’m on whatever you’re on, even if it kills me, obviously.”

He smirked, but my throat clogged as I was filled with emotion.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that I’m terrified of wanting something this much again.”

He stared at me. “You already have me.”

“Not really. I have parts of you, but I want more. I want us.”

His eyes closed, then reopened. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that from you. And you don’t have to be afraid.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It’s easier for me to show.”

“Christian…”

He moved closer, and I fell against his chest. His arms circled me, and he held me tight.

“I’m not your ex. I’m me. Let me make a believer out of you.”

I looked into his gaze, saw his sincerity, and folded like a brown paper bag.

“Okay.”

Relief was highlighted in his eyes. “Yeah?”

I smiled, feeling warm and cozy. “Yes.”

His lips fell into mine, and he kissed me deeply, his tongue surfing into my mouth to suck my tongue. Chills spread down my body, and my heart rate kicked up a notch.

He sighed, pulling back but still close enough that his mouth touched mine.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know me as a girlfriend.”

His deep laugh stirred me. “I’ve got a feeling you’re magnificent.”

I leaned my head side to side. “Maybe.”

He kissed me again and then swept me up in his arms.

“I’m taking you out.”

My eyes widened. “On a date?”

He laughed. “Don’t look so frightened. Yes, on a date.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“That’s too soon, I don’t have time to get ready. How about tomorrow night?”

He peered at me. “Okay. Tomorrow night.”