Page 52 of The Arrogant One
But to hear that I was the first? That hit.
Not just my stomach, but my chest too.
“Another funny thing is,” I said, “we have that in common. I bought my condo three years ago, and a man has never stepped foot inside.”
“Why?”
“First, I don’t do one-night stands. Second, I haven’t dated a ton over the last handful of years. Work has pretty much owned me. I’ve gone out on dates, and things have progressed, but they’ve never turned serious enough for me to invite him over.”
There was another reason. One I just couldn’t get into yet.
And that was Dear Foodie.
Part of her appeal was her anonymity, and having someone in my condo—aside from Bryn and my family, who knew all about her—would reveal her identity since much of the interiorwas constantly set up for filming. The second bedroom had been fully converted into an office and studio, and my kitchen had stage lighting and multiple tripods. The living room was also where I filmed content and housed the overflow of PR packages. If things had lasted with those men, I would have brought them over. But a few weeks, even a couple of months, wasn’t enough time to ask them to sign an NDA and unveil that part of my life.
So, I never risked it.
“Is that a cherry you’re going to let me pop?” He smiled.
“You’re asking if I’m going to let you into my home?”
He nodded.
“Maybe.” I winked. “I’m not as forthcoming as you are. I appreciate that you let me in—don’t get me wrong, it just takes a little more for me to get there.”
“Like your mornings. Multiple sessions of caffeine until you’re feeling it.”
I nodded. “Yes, like that. With a focus on the multiple part.”
“I’m not worried. I’ll be inside your place in no time.” He walked to the bar that was on the far side of the living room. “What can I get you to drink?” When he reached the long strip of counter with the glass and mirrored shelves above it, he turned toward me. “I have everything. Name whatever you want.”
“You’re having scotch?”
“I was.”
“No old-fashioned?”
“I was feeling lazy. But if that’s what you want, I’ll make you one.”
My skin felt like it was on fire from his gaze, and I moved my hair off my shoulders. “How about a martini?”
“What kind?”
“Vodka, not gin. The rest, surprise me. My only request, besides the alcohol, is that you shake it so well that there are ice chips floating on the top.”
“That’s how I like mine too.” He pulled a bottle of Tito’s off the shelf. “For the record, I skipped the rest of the tour for safety reasons.”
“Safety reasons?”
He poured some of the vodka into a shaker. “There are five bedrooms in this house, a gym, movie theater, man cave—all rooms that have nothing but surfaces to lay you on. The living room with the two couches and multiple chairs isn’t safe either, but it’s beside the kitchen, so there’s no way to avoid this area.” He looked at me over his shoulder. “Plus, it’s where the liquor is housed—if we’re not counting the man cave—and that’s the only reason we’re in here and not standing in the middle of the kitchen.”
I stepped back until I felt the counter and gripped the edge with both hands. “You’re being such a good boy, Lockhart. Although we’re only about ten minutes in. You have a very long way to go.”
Into the shaker went squirts from a few different bottles, followed by a scoop of ice. “I’ll stay that way until after dessert—mark my words.”
“You think you can make it?”
“And pass up the opportunity to do whatever I want? Only a fucking idiot would do that.” He began to shake the concoction, and the movement tightened his shirt around his biceps, showing off the power in his arms.
