Page 10 of Nothing Less Than Everything

“Uh, not really.” I offered a sheepish smile. “I’m not home often, so I want to relax when I am. I’m a private guy. And my cooking skills leave a lot to be desired.”

We paused while the waiter dropped off our matching dinners and topped off our water glasses.

“How about hobbies?” she asked, spearing a bite of sweet potato. “Gaming? Reading? Do you collect sports memorabilia?”

My posture stiffened. “No,” I clipped. Not a damn thing. No framed jerseys. No game-winning balls. No trophies. No rings. Not even a damn participation ribbon from peewee football.

To my surprise, she set her fork down and gently laid her hand on mine. Her touch was a balm, easing the sting and ache I buried under multimillion-dollar contracts and a one-percenter lifestyle.

“Mr.Bryant—”

“Tatum,” I gently corrected.

“Yes,” she said with a bashful blush. “Tatum, if it counts for anything, I’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement provided by Ms.Fuller. Even if she hadn’t furnished one, the firm I work for would have. It’s standard. Being inside someone’s home is a kind of trust that we don’t take lightly. It’s an intimate, private space. And it’s my job to make it the perfect place for you to rest and relax.”

Wren’s hand retracted as she picked up her fork. I tamped down the urge to grab it, twine our fingers together, and not let go.

Her voice was lighter when she said, “I’ve designed celebrity nurseries for pregnancies the tabloids never found out about. I designed a doomsday bunker for a rather eccentric billionaire.” She leaned in, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Last month, I redid a house on Martha’s Vineyard and put in a luxury BDSM dungeon. Discretion is my middle name.”

Fucking hell.I sputtered on my water and grabbed the folded linen napkin to wipe my mouth.

“My point, Tatum—” she paused for emphasis on my name “—is that nothing you tell me you want in your house will surprise me. I’ve seen it all, done it all, and maintained client confidentiality with everything.”

I didn’t want to get into the whole professional football player thing tonight. Maybe another day. The news hadn’t even broken to the public yet. Even if Wren knew how to keep a secret, we weren’t in private.

When I didn’t say anything, she asked, “What do you do for work? Is a home office something that you’d like?”

I scraped my plate clean and laid my fork across the edge. “Tell me something,” I began, changing the subject entirely.

She perked up, curious.

“If I were to tell you I wanted a BDSM dungeon, what would your next question be?”

Her well-groomed persona broke, and she snorted. It was friggin’ adorable. At least she could tell I was joking. But in that joke, I was testing her. Wren quickly steeled her expression. “I would ask if you preferred silk or satin sheets, then request a detailed list of what apparatuses, toys, and accessories you would like furnished in the room.”

I rested my elbows on the table, hunching forward to create a cone of silence. “And what if I asked for your recommendations?”

A lazy smile floated up the corner of Wren’s plump lips. Her eyelids lowered, shading those baby blues. Her voice turned raspy, and it had my cock thickening instantly. She leaned in closer, matching my posture. “That sounds more like a date question and not a client dinner question.” If either of us had touched the silverware, electric blue sparks would have exploded.

I looked at her empty plate. “Is this the point in the evening where I take you on the grand tour?” It wasn’t lost on me that the bistro was on the same block as my condo. Sam and Wren must have coordinated.

Wren tucked a curl behind her ear. “A man who knows what he wants. I like it. I don’t like it when people beat around the bush.” But she followed it up with a quick shake of her head. “I still have a few questions and some ideas I’d like to get your thoughts on.” She tapped a pale pink nail on her tablet.

“I think I have a few questions myself.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Certainly. If you have any thoughts on the design—”

“Who are you going home to tonight?” I asked and cut my eyes to her bare ring finger. What was the point in being coy? She’d said she didn’t like it when people played their cards close to the vest.

Wren pulled her hands from the table and folded them in her lap. “I’ll be going home to a stack of project binders that need attention, a bottle of wine, and a Whitney West novel.”

“No husband?”

She shook her head.

“Boyfriend?”

Another shake of her head.

---