Page 65 of His Turn

“Yes,” I say, walking up to the island and taking a seat on the stool. “I do, actually. But your body is much nicer than that cartoon on the front.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “But it makes you appreciate me more, right?”

Elias Bricman. Officially an enigma.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask.

“Breakfast. I had breakfast in mind when I planned last night and I’m kinda set in my ways, so we’re having bacon, eggs, and pancakes.”

I think about that for a moment. Last night, specifically.

“Did you have fun?” he asks.

I admit nothing. Still thinking.

“We did. I talked to Jordan. He left early to get some work done on that big case. But he said to tell you he’ll be around this week when he has a chance.”

“OK,” I say.

Bric grabs plates from the cupboard and starts piling food on them. His kitchen is very nice. Gourmet chef kinda nice, with one of those elaborate range hoods made out of glass and stainless steel instead of a microwave that doubles as a vent. His counters are almost black, with thin white veins running through them. Soapstone, I figure. The cabinets are all black too, but the sink is white and deep and the appliances are industrial high-end stainless steel.

“Here,” he says, sliding a plate in front of me. “I’ll have the toast in a second.”

On cue, it pops up in the toaster. I watch the muscles move in Bric’s back as he butters the pieces, cuts them diagonally into triangles, and then turns and drops two on my plate. “Eat up,” he says. “You can’t leave until you eat.”

I pick up a piece of toast and dip the corner into my sunny-side-up egg. I cannot remember the last time I had eggs and toast and that first bite is heaven. “So we’re still playing?” I ask, needing clarification.

“The date’s not over until I take you home, Nadia.”

“Just asking,” I say.

“Unless you don’t want to go home,” he adds, grabbing a plate and setting it on the counter. He doesn’t sit, just leans his body into the island and starts cutting his pancake with a fork.

He brings the food to his mouth and I watch him eat. He has nice lips, I decide. And then I picture his face between my legs. His unshaven jaw of stubble. His tongue doing its thing.

“Do you want to go home, Nadia?” he asks.

“I… think I have to. I live there, after all.”

“You could just stay here.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” I say.

“We’re getting a place anyway, right?”

“Are we?” I ask. “Seems to me that we were supposed to do that last weekend and you bailed.”

“I forgot.” He shrugs. “New Year’s weekend. My real-estate guy wasn’t working. But we can look this week.”

“Well, if we find a place I’ll move into it, I guess. But I don’t want to live at your club.”

“Why not? You’re wearing my club shirt.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

“I don’t have any clothes. You let people rip them off me last night.”

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” He grins like a boy who is very proud of himself.

“I’m not sure I’d call it… fun.”