Page 55 of Sweet Temptation

A hot man in my house, who kept getting hotter with every passing hour, but wasn’t amenable to my flirting? I didn’t even know what to do with such a situation.

The moment he saw me, he said, “I’ll order in dinner, around six o’clock. Do you like Greek?”

“I love Greek,” I said, caught off-guard. I was trying to be annoyed here.

“Great,” he said. Then he took off his shoes and stripped off his leather jacket in what felt like slow-motion… while my eyes bathed in the glorious sight of all his muscles flexing under his shirt, the buttons straining in front until I hoped they might rip right open.

No such luck.

He laid the jacket on top of his shoes and nodded curtly, like, Excuse me, then disappeared down the hallway in the direction of men’s voices. I heard him head down the stairs to the basement.

I frowned at his jacket on my floor. The whole thing felt very husband-comes-home-at-the-end-of-the-day… and wife picks up after him.

Granted, I hadn’t offered him a proper place to put his things. Very unhostesslike of me.

But that was just because of my deep-seated aversion to this whole bodyguard situation.

I picked up his jacket.

I’d never lived with a man before, other than my dad and my brother. I’d had plenty of men spend the night, or crash in my home for days on end, both friends and lovers. I’d never picked up after a one of them. My hostess duties did not extend to picking up men’s socks, putting toilet seats down, or hanging up discarded coats.

Strangely, I didn’t totally mind the feeling of picking up after this one. Maybe because the soft, buttery leather smelled of him, and yes, I took a deep inhale.

Fucking delicious.

The man exuded some serious alpha male pheromones.

I hung up his jacket in my coat closet… And now I felt like some mid-century housewife, relegated to coat check duty, as I wondered what he was talking to the other men about downstairs.

Should I put on an apron and offer them a drink?

I would offer them a drink. Absolutely. However, given that they were essentially here uninvited, the lot of them—fuck it. They could fix themselves their own damn drinks when they got home.

A weird thought, when I considered that this kind of was Ronan’s home, temporarily.

So maybe I’d offer him a drink later. When the other guys were gone. They could definitely get their own damn drinks.

I poured myself a gin and soda, spritzed it with fresh lime juice, and headed downstairs. I sauntered right past them, sipping my drink as I went. When Ronan caught my eye, I smiled and shut myself in my studio.

I had my phone if they really needed to talk to me, but otherwise, I was locked behind this soundproofed door until approximately six-ten, when I’d wander out of here in search of Greek food.

* * *

I made it until about five minutes after six before I gave up on working on the set list for my next couple of shows, and headed upstairs.

Unfortunately, I’d found it hard to concentrate. I kept wondering if the alarm guys were gone yet. And what Ronan was doing upstairs.

And why he hadn’t texted to ask me exactly what I’d like from the Greek place.

I could smell the food as I climbed the stairs and walked out to the kitchen. Ronan was taking it out of the bags, spreading it on the bar. The alarm guys seemed to have left, a fact that I verified when I peeked out the front window and saw that the van was gone from my driveway.

“Hey,” Ronan said, glancing up as I wandered over. “I was just gonna call you. Wasn’t sure if the entire studio was soundproofed.”

“It is. Though it’s not that hardcore. If you really pound on the door, I’ll hear it. Unless I’ve got the noise cancelling headphones on and the volume up. In that case, you’re screwed.”

“Good to know. I’ll try not to interrupt when you’re in the zone.”

“Hmm. Interesting word choice.” I crossed the kitchen behind him to get out dishes for us. “What do you know about being ‘in the zone’? I thought that was an artist thing. Are you telling me there’s a ‘zone’ for bodyguards?”

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