Page 58 of Surrender
I shoot her a half-smile. “If you call boiling linguini and heating up premade Bolognese sauce cooking, then yes, I’m a grade-A chef.”
She giggles and strides around the island to peer over the stove. She’s only wearing her jeans and bra, so I have a nice view as she lifts the lid off the saucepan. “Who makes your sauce?”
“Dorinda’s son, Robert,” I reply, staring down at her cleavage as she dips her pinkie in to sample. “He’s saving up for culinary school, so I hired him to help me maintain my diet for extra cash.”
She smiles a pleased sort of smile and turns to face me, her finger still in her mouth, her golden eyes fixating on mine with heated warning. I immediately imagine her lips wrapped around something else. As if she reads my mind, she smirks and her finger plops out of her mouth. “It’s good.”
“Well, there’s plenty, so I hope you’re hungry.” I reach out and place my hand on her hip to pull her in close to me.
She looks down at my embrace with accusatory eyes. I quickly lift my hand away, holding it back in silent apology.That’s right, Sloan’s in charge. She says when, where, and how.With a naughty grin, I grab the linguini off the counter and drop them into the boiling water.
“How was your week?” she asks, hoisting herself up onto the counter next to the stove.
Her question is refreshing. She has no clue I played a game this weekend, let alone won or lost. The entire town of Manchester knows the score, so I’m congratulated everywhere I go. But Sloan somehow manages to continue living under a rock.
Choosing to ignore the horrid conversation I had with my dad, I reply, “It was good. How was yours?”
She sighs. “Pretty shitty.”
“Is that the cause of the early arrival and assault?” I waggle my brows at her. Her cheeks flame red, so I add, “Trust me, I’m not complaining.”
She issues a small smile, my comment soothing her anxiety. “I just had a bad phone call earlier.”
I frown. “Some rich prat you style giving you a hard time?”
She lets out a polite laugh and shakes her head with a curious expression. “Didn’t you say your dad is a famous soccer legend?”
“You mean a famous football legend?” I correct and narrow my eyes at her. She gives an eye-roll and I answer her question with a curt, “Yes.”
“So, aren’t you used to this kind of life?” She gestures around like my house is a direct reflection of how I grew up. “Didn’t you come from money?”
“I didn’t grow up like this,” I reply, tensing at the mention of my upbringing. My jaw tightens as I think back to the home in Chigwell where we lived when Mum died and how vastly different it was to the small Manchester flat. The truth is, that’s why it’s difficult for me to imagine leaving Manchester. This is where my only positive childhood memories live on. “We lived in a big house east of London, but it wasn’t a home. It was nothing like this.”
Sloan glances around the kitchen casually, her bare feet swinging side-to-side. “You told me before that you hired a decorator because you wanted it to be different from where you grew up. What did you mean by that?”
Anxiety begins simmering inside of me as I shove the rest of the pasta down into the water. It’s impressive that Sloan was really listening back then. I find the majority of people who meet me only listen when I say something they want to hear, which is why I am so reserved with most outsiders.
But I remember when I said that to Sloan in the early days of her styling me. It was because it bothered me that she looked at me like a typical footballer. I didn’t want to be lumped into the same category as everyone else, spending loads of money on styling just because I could. I wanted her to see me differently.
I’m regretting that moment of weakness because it opened doors between us that are better left closed. “I thought we weren’t supposed to get this personal,” I deflect, my tone flat because I don’t want to explore my past with her. Especially when my memories are currently extra raw.
“Touchy much?” she asks, her brows lifting into her hairline. “It just seems like you’re a guy who’s used to getting everything he wants. I’m guessing your dad spoiled you growing up, didn’t he? Fancy cars, best sports camps, best clothes.”
She eyes me brazenly, and my blood pressure spikes from the mere mention of him again. “I didn’t get a thing from my father. And, believe me, there are a lot of things I want and don’t get.”
“Like what?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” I drop the spoon on the counter, my hand fisting in frustration.
“Hardly!” she retorts. “I’m simply trying to get to know the man who has all of this but submits to a woman so easily.”
“I don’t hear you complaining,” I snap.
“I’m just trying to get a read on you.” She leans forward, not the least bit intimidated by me, which happens to be one of the things that turns me on most about her. But that’s beside the point.
“This is just fucking,” I growl, pressing my fisted hand against the counter. My anger surprises me. I know it has more to do with my dad than Sloan, but I can’t seem to stop it now. “This isn’t personal, Sloan. This is fucking, so stop trying to get into my head.”
I glance up to see her body has gone completely rigid. Her eyes narrow as she replies, “Excuse me for thinking we’re friends.”
