Barrett smirks. “I’m in a far less compromising position than this morning, aren’t I?”
“Right,” I reply, while suppressing the urge to fan myself. I don’t want to talk about this morning. I’d prefer to bury that conversation with Jimmy Hoffa’s body.
I try to avert my eyes, but let’s be honest, why should I?
I already discovered Barrett has those Vs of muscle on his sides this morning in the shower. Somehow, they look even more lickable with a pair of pants on. And those pants? Lord have mercy.
They’re the gray sweatpants equivalent of Hamptons attire, hugging Barrett’s muscular thighs and perfectly highlighting the bulge between his legs without being indecent. I already know what he’s packing. I’ve seen it in action and yet I’m shocked to see it pressed up against the fabric of his pants.
You’d think after seeing him masturbate in the shower, a simple zipping of his pants wouldn’t feel so intimate. But those fingers pressing the button through the hole at the top of his pants is practically porn.
He reaches for the shirt on the bed, a button-down with a striped green and blue pattern that makes his eyes that much more intense. I busy myself with placing items in my clutch but out of the corner of my eye, I watch every single motion as he buttons his shirt.
I’m attempting to put on the delicate chain necklace my parents gave me but my shaky hands make the precision I need to hold the tiny clasp open impossible. Barrett moves in behind me, wordlessly taking the chain’s ends from my fumbling fingers and connecting it. He lays it gently against my skin, his fingertips grazing the base of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Thank you.” I smile at him in the mirror.
He nods, those intense hazel eyes boring into mine, telling me everything and nothing at once, before turning toward the door.
I’m not much of a wine drinker but it’s clear from the tension between Barrett and me, I’m going to start today.
CHAPTER17
Barrett
Chloe’s wearing tight white jeans and a flirty little tank top that opens in the back. It makes the silk camisole she wore to dinner last week look like a parka. It hugs her breasts in front, giving me an ample view of her cleavage and causing the crotch of my pants to tighten—again.
We’re seated at the winery with a tasting flight, but Chloe doesn’t appear to be tasting her wine as much as slinging it back.
The hostess brings us a charcuterie board and I’m happy to see Chloe inhaling that as well. At least she’s not drinking on an empty stomach.
“What do you think of the Chardonnay?”
“Which one was the Chardonnay?” she asks.
“The one in your glass.”
“Oh. It’s nice.” She bites her lip. “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
“Really? I think you’ve got it down.” I informed her that she doesn’t have to finish every tasting, that’s what the buckets are for, to pour out anything you don’t want to finish, but Chloe thought that was wasteful and has been drinking every drop that is put in front of her.
“I’m not much of a drinker at all. Didn’t party much in high school or college. I read a lot of books, though.”
“I’ve noticed. Tell me about Books 4 Kids,” I say, taking a sip of my wine.
“Is this an inquisition on where your donation is going? I thought we covered that when I picked up the check.”
“I can tell you’re passionate about it and I want to know more about it.”
“I volunteered in my hometown library when I was a teen, tutoring kids with reading disabilities and leading story times for the younger kids. I even learned to play the ukulele to do sing-alongs and make it fun.”
“The ukulele?”
“I wanted to play the guitar, but my hands were too small,” she waves them in front of her, “they still are. The chords were hard to reach on the guitar, so ukulele was a good instrument to learn. You’d have no problem with that, your hands are huge.”
“You’re going to give me a complex.”
“Because of your huge hands?” She laughs. “They’re huge compared to mine but they’re proportionate to your body.”
