Page 111 of The Worst Best Man

“Don’t even what?” he asked, sliding the key into the elevator control panel and pushing the P.

“Oh, come on! The penthouse? Really? Can’t you at least pretend to be a normal guy?”

He stared at her with amusement in those blue eyes. “You are the first person who has ever complained about the penthouse,” he observed.

“I’m not a fan of reminiscing about the horde of ladies you brought back here for naked times, Aide.”

“Exactly how many women do you think I’ve been with?” he asked with a laugh.

“Enough.”

One second he was standing in front of the button panel, and the next he had her pinned to the wall of the elevator.

“You know what I’ve never done?”

He planted his hands on either side of her head. He was a whisper away, as close to touching her from head to toe without actually making contact.

“What?” she whispered.

“I’ve never kissed anyone in this elevator.” He trailed his lips over her jaw line to her neck and back again.

“Aren’t they watching?” she asked, nodding toward the security camera.

“Does it matter?”

The soft of his lips, the rough of his beard—a contrast of sensations.

Frankie held on to the rail behind her. And when his lips closed over hers, she was glad to have the support. It wasn’t a wild, passionate kiss. It was something different, something that ran deeper and sang in her bones.

The kiss bloomed like a rose under the heat of the sun. Opening and reaching for more.

His tongue slid lazily against hers, stroking, exciting, and soothing all at once.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” He said it like a confession. A dark one.

“I’m glad to be here. I get to find a flaw in you tonight. Maybe you’re a hoarder. Maybe you have horrible taste in velvet paintings. Maybe you’ve got sixteen cats.” She brought her arms around his neck. “I’m going to find what makes you human, Kilbourn.”

The elevator doors slid open, and Aiden led her by the hand into a spacious foyer. White on white on white.

“Hmm, so far no cats,” she observed.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Maybe they’re all hiding inside with my yard sale collection of eighties cassette tapes.”

She slapped him on the shoulder. “See? There’s my normal guy.”

“Your version of normal is woefully odd.”

She stuck her tongue out and sauntered past him inside. His foyer was the size of her entire apartment with about an acre of glossy white marble with gray veining. There was a pedestal table in the middle of the space with a vase of flowers. She touched a petal. Fresh flowers.

There was no mail piled up, no magazines scattered about, no jumble of keys and coupons. The living room stretched out in front of her. One open space with a wall of windows. Ofcoursehe had a killer view.

They were part of the city skyline from here.

The furniture was dark, leather, and arranged just so. He had a bar stocked with every top shelf liquor known to man. A marble fireplace. Bookcases housed books and framed photos. Everything was neat, tidy, and just a little cold. There were no pillows or blankets on the couch. The white rug under the sitting area was thick as a cloud. The walls were dark—a contrast, she imagined to the white of the floor and the sunshine that would pour through that wall of windows.

He followed her as she wandered into the kitchen. It was a long galley style. Sleek, modern, and most likely never used. The island that divided the kitchen from the dining area stretched on forever. She could have climbed up on the granite and stretched her arms over her head and still not been able to touch both ends.

The dining table was just as long. Glass with metal legs. High-backed chairs ringed the table, ready and waiting for a party of twelve. There were more shelves in here. More photos. Some art, carefully colorful.