Her cheeks were rosy, but not from her true feelings this time. It was an enhancement. The makeup she wore so effortlessly was to blame.
On her body was the prettiest camel-colored skirt and top to match. Because she was seated, I couldn’t detail her skirt, but the top she wore was looped and zig zagged and squeezing her upper half perfectly. My dick hardened at the thought of enjoying the fruit that lined the table from between her breasts as we enjoyed a day by the pool.
“Have a seat,” she demanded, extending her arm to show me the seat she was referring to as if I didn’t know.
It’s my home. I wanted to tell her that, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t listen. She’d been here more often than I had. I was sure she knew more about it than I did.
As I had a seat at the far end of the table, I watched her raise the wide-mouth wine glass to her lips, wishing it was me.
Chill. I couldn’t help myself. Kit had my head, both of them, in overdrive. She did nothing at all, yet so much to me.
I finally noticed the already prepared plate before me once I’d finally sat. She placed the wine glass on the table and cleared her throat. When I realized her head was bowing, I followed suit and bowed mine, too. With one eye open, I watched as she began to pray,silently. Feeling like a fool, I closed both eyes and began a short one of my own.
Lord, bless this food and bless me with the woman that prepared it. Please. Amen.
I rushed out. We opened our eyes simultaneously and began to consume the meal that she’d prepared.
“All you eat is fruit?” I couldn’t help but ask, noticing her plate was stacked with them, again.
“And veggies,” she added, forking the zucchini.
“Right,” I agreed with a nod.
“I’m not into meat or anything remotely close that was derived from the cruelty or killing of animals. Not everything is off limits, but 95% of it is,” she clarified. “How’s the chicken?”
I’d never felt the immense amount of guilt that I did after looking down at my plate and noticing the baked chicken on it. I ate much of it for protein and to keep me feeling full long after I’d consumed my meal. And, for other reasons my nutritionist could reveal, but it stopped there for me.
“I haven’t tried it yet, but your guilt trip won’t stop me from enjoying it. Nice try.” I chuckled slightly. “I’m sure it’s amazing. I know the chef personally.”
“Professionally,” she added, reducing my claim to nearly nothing.
Slowly, I nodded. “Understood.”
Her eyes softened after noticing the defeat in mine. I tucked away the rest of my words and picked up the knife in front of me. Silently, I cut into the chicken and began to prepare myself mentally for the quiet dinner ahead of us.
SIX
I know the chef personally.
Professionally.
The words replayed in my head a hundred times causing me to squeeze my eyelids tightly.
My God, Kit.
Quietly, I chastised myself. Just as quickly, I remembered the tens of magazine covers and headlines detailing the heartbreak of the last woman Fohr had been involved with. The waste he left behind weekly revisited my thoughts as well, justifying my actions.
Ugh.
I tossed, kicking my left foot from underneath the cover. It didn’t matter the position, discomfort was at the forefront of my feelings. There was only one reason for the lack of sleep and it had little to do with the bedding, mattress, or room temperature.
Fohr.
Fohr McClarren.
He was the source of my deprivation. Even with the evidence piled against the man sleeping peacefully in his home, I remained restless. His silence was condemning. His deflated chest and the tilt of his head as he forged a smirk at the correction of his claim had shifted the atmosphere.
Suddenly, the air was stale. Dinner was less intriguing. My heartbeat slowed to a creep. Each breath became harder to obtain. The time dragged.
