Page 94 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
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.”
