Page 53 of Wallflower
He tugs me in the direction of the sports car he chose for the drive from Silver Leaf and opens the passenger side door to usher me in.
I glance at the vacant seat. I so badly want to do as he says and get in, but I also want to see my dad. This was the moment in today’s itinerary I was supposed to slip away.
“Aren’t you going to that appointment at the warehouse?” I ask. “I thought I might—”
“Yes, and I’d like you to come with me.” He sets a soft hand on the small of my back and guides me closer to the car. The next thing I know, I’m buckling my seatbelt and watching Chord round the hood.
I’m not prepared for this. Chord has been cagey about his storage facility on the three occasions I was forced to mention it. My empty stomach is now a little queasy with a mix of anticipation and reluctance. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s already mid-afternoon, but I didn’t worry about lunch as I had plans to pick up a box of Dad’s favorite pastries on my way over to our apartment.
Chord slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.
“Are you sure you want me to go with you?” I ask. “I don’t want to intrude.”
My stomach growls, and I blush as Chord’s mouth quirks to one side.
“I’m sure,” he says. “And you’re not intruding. In fact, I need your help with something. But first, let’s get you something to eat.”
He checks his blind spot, pulls out into the street, and then reaches across the center console to find my hand again. He collects my fingers and settles them on his knee, and all I can do is stare at the way we fit so perfectly together.
“I’ve been distracted today,” Chord says as his thumb caresses the back of my hand. “I apologize for that, but if you can tolerate me for the rest of the afternoon, I want to explain.”
He pulls to a stop at the next set of lights, where he throws me a sideways look that makes me melt. Literally. I squeeze my thighs together, and his eyes fall to my lap like he knows why. Heat rises from my core to paint my chest and collarbone.
“Okay.” My breath sounds loud in my ears. “I can go with you.”
Chord stops at a local sandwich shop on the way, where he buys us both salads and green juices to go. While we stand at the counter and wait for our food, I watch a couple of young kids jostle each other in the corner, whispering and pointing at Chord.
He notices it, too, because as soon as he has our lunches in his hand, he walks toward them, sets the food on a table, and says hello. He’s surprisingly warm and friendly. A couple of selfies and signed t-shirts later, we’re back in the car and speeding toward our appointment.
“That was nice of you,” I say as I spoon the delicious cold chicken and couscous salad into my mouth.
“I like kids,” Chord says. “Nine times out of ten, they’re not assholes.”
I lift one brow. “Only nine times?”
Chord huffs out a dry chuckle. “There’s always one.”
He digs his fork into the open takeout box he’s wedged between his thick thighs. I wonder what it would feel like to be in that position—pinned between his hard, muscled legs, and mere inches away from the bulge behind his fly.
Hello, new low. I’m jealous of a cold chicken salad.
We reach the storage center, pull into a parking space and Chord collects the takeout containers to deposit in the nearest trash can. I watch with admiring amusement as he uses a paper napkin to trap the crumbs we drop. He’s a perfectionist, this man. In all areas of his life. And I like that.
He holds my hand again as we approach the entrance, pulling me against his body like we’re a couple. I shift my old satchel so it’s not hanging between us and shamelessly press myself against his warmth.
The heat from his arm seeps through the fabric of the oversized blazer I wore today—this trip to the city gave me an excuse to revisit my old wardrobe—and a quick glance up at the smug half-twist on his mouth tells me he knows what I’m doing.
It’s so unlike me to be this bold, and maybe I should put a little distance between us, but it’s like whatever fog he was under this morning has lifted and taken my reservations with it. Chord’s cocky but silent acknowledgment of my interest makes me feel safe in brand new ways.
It also turns me on.
Chord approaches the reception desk and introduces himself, and within minutes the facilities manager leads us through a maze of buildings to the warehouse leased under Chord’s name. He holds my hand the entire time, and when we arrive, the manager opens the door for us and steps back.
Chord leads me through, flicks on the light switch, and as the fluorescent bars buzz to life overhead, I look up and around and gasp.
“Chord.” I reach up and squeeze his bicep, so distracted by what I see that I don’t even know I’ve done it until I register the hard, glorious muscle under my fingers. I jerk my hand away. “There must be thousands of bottles of wine here. More. What is this? What are they for?”
Chord rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and turns to the warehouse manager. “Could you leave us, please? I’ll come by your office when we’re done to finalize the paperwork.”
