Page 29 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

It was luxuriously sophisticated in a comfort setting. Unsurprisingly, it was what Christian represented in appearance and wrapped in the warmth of his soul.

He returned with two fluffy white towels, handing me one while he tossed the other across his shoulders.

“Whoever designed your space is in love with you.”

His guffaw stirred my insides. “I take it you like the place?”

“Like it? No, this is next level love. Your view is amazing,” I said, moving to the windows.

“It’s even better from the balcony, but probably not in this weather.”

I wrapped the towel around my shoulders, suddenly aware that my dress was clinging to me. When I turned back, Christian’s gaze was perusing me so slow it was like a soft caress.

“I should probably change out of these wet clothes,” I said.

“Right. I can get you something dry to wear.”

He disappeared down a hallway, returning with a soft gray t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would be huge on me.

“The guest bathroom is through there,” he said, pointing to a door off the main living area.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The guest bathroom was larger than my bedroom, featuring more Italian marble and fixtures that were surely imported. I peeled off my wet dress and slipped into Christian’s clothes, rolling up the sweatpants so I wouldn’t trip over them.

When I came out, Christian had changed into dry jeans and a black button-down shirt. It was open with a black tee underneath, and I appreciated his comfort yet sophisticated style. He’d started a fire in the fireplace, and the soft lighting made the whole space feel cozier.

His eyes combed over me, and his lips curved into a smile. “Oh, this is too good.”

“What?”

“You are finer in my clothes.”

I laughed and shook my head. “You think so?” I strolled to him, and he wrapped me in his arms.

“Absolutely.”

“So you’re saying you want me in baggy sweats and gray tees more often?”

“Only if they’re mine.”

He kissed my lips, and I warmed and tingled from end to end.

“I’ve got wine,” he murmured against my mouth, his eyes low and gaze captivating.

“Mmmm, I’d love to have some.”

He peppered kisses on my lips as if he couldn’t get enough and I was drowning in his favor. When Christian pulled away it was reluctantly, with a sigh. I watched him move to a bottle of wine and pour two glasses.

We settled on his sofa with the fire crackling in front of us, and our wet clothes hanging over chairs to dry.

“I could use a snack right about now,” I said, knowing I was mostly hungry for him then food.

“I have some leftover focaccia.”

“You made focaccia?”

“Yes. I bake when I need to relax.”

Christian returned from the kitchen with a plate of bread, olive oil for dipping, and some cheese he’d arranged artfully on a wooden board.

“A baker and a chef. You do it all, don’t you?”

“Not all, but as you know, Aunt Bernice would not have me half stepping in the kitchen.”

I nodded and laughed. “Aunt Bernice seems to be a big part of your childhood.”

“Oh definitely.”

“Tell me about when you were little,” I said, curling up against his side.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. What were you like as a kid?”

Christian settled back against the couch cushions, lifting his arm around me.

“I was stubborn, curious, and always getting into trouble with my brothers.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“My mother threatened to send us to military school.” He chuckled. “There was this one time, I was maybe eight, and I decided I was going to cook dinner for the family. I’d been watching my aunt in the kitchen, and I thought, how hard could it be?”

“Oh no.”

“I nearly burned down the kitchen. Smoke everywhere; the fire department showed up, and that’s that. My mom was furious, but my aunt just laughed and said it was time to teach me properly.”

“Is that when you learned to cook?”

“That’s when I learned to respect the kitchen. The actual cooking came later.”

I nestled deeper into his warmth, listening to the rain against the windows and the soft crackle of the fire. “What about you?” he asked. “What were you like as a little girl?”

“I was a serious little girl. My parents used to worry that I didn’t play enough.”

“Why were you so serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because my dad was away so much when he was deployed. I felt like I needed to be responsible and help my mom.”

“That’s a lot of pressure for a kid.”

“I didn’t mind it. I liked feeling useful, like I was contributing.”

“Is that why you wanted to be a teacher? To help people?”

“Maybe. I loved the idea of making a difference, of helping kids learn and grow.” I paused.

“That’s similar to why I wanted to be a chef.

Food brought people together. Every Sunday, my whole family would gather at my aunt’s house for dinner.

Cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors—it didn’t matter.

There was always enough food, and enough room at the table.

I wanted to carry on that tradition but for all households, not just my own. ”

“I feel that when you cook for me, warm and welcomed.”

Christian pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “That’s what I was going for.”

“Yeah… you might not have been a chef but at least you didn’t abandon your college experience for other pursuits.”

His brows rose. “You can’t just end with that and not elaborate.”

I smirked. “I was valedictorian of my high school class but turned down a full scholarship to Harvard because my father had just returned from his last deployment and needed surgery. My entire life could’ve been different, but I stepped into a more mature role, learning to change a tire, doing my own oil change, and fixing other mechanical issues under the hood. ”

“I helped my mom with her car by doing this. If I sound full of regret, that’s not what I’m trying to get across.

Again, I loved to help, but I still wonder what could’ve been.

Then I grew up, and my ex came along. That was a disaster.

My friends, Journey and Frankie, came over constantly, brought me food, and forced me to shower.

But I was so ashamed. I felt like such a failure. ”

“You weren’t a failure. You were grieving.”

“For a marriage that was never real in the first place.”

“That doesn’t make the grief any less valid.”

The understanding in his voice made tears sting my eyes.

“I don’t want to be that woman again,” I whispered.

“You won’t be. You’re not the same person you were then.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that woman wouldn’t have had the courage to tell me she was mine. She would still be hiding from moving forward. You’re not hiding anymore.”

He was right. Sitting here in his arms, in his clothes, in his space, I wasn’t hiding. For the first time in years, I was completely present, completely open, completely myself. But I could admit, there was a piece of me who wanted to retreat before this became another mess I’d have to clean up.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, wrapped in Christian’s arms by the dying fire, I was where I belonged.