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“Modest to a fault.” I reach for my coffee cup and try not to allow my eyes to stray.
“Modesty is overrated,” he says, turning away again.
So is celibacy. I push away the ridiculous thought, unsure where it came from. Maybe I need a vacation, I think, as he tugs open the cabinet. The action creates such a visual effect, his shoulder blade shifting, muscle and sinew rippling under his tan skin. The body is a beautiful machine, some more beautiful than others, and while I never thought I had a favorite part of a man, it would seem I do.
Wowza. Good thing I’ve been able to fill my script, that I’m suitably medicated. Begone hyperfocus and issues with impulse control!
Troy pivots, a box of cereal in hand. I dust the toast crumbs from my fingers and try to move my thoughts back to that vacation. It might not be a plan for the rest of my life, but it could be the start. Something to look forward to when we’re done here. In three months.
A weight sinks into the pit of my stomach, but I push on. I could go somewhere tropical, play the happy divorcée getting her groove back. I might need the release after months of living here and staring at all that. I stifle a sigh as my eyes drop over him again. I wonder if the tattoo I saw peeking from under the waistband of his shorts is what I think it is.
As though reading my thoughts, Troy hooks his thumb into the elastic, flashing a little more of the V-shaped groove of his hip while simultaneously making his bicep flex.
Gulp.
Maybe I should bulk buy some gummy bears in the meantime. Or invest in a really quiet vibrator. And then I realize he realizes I’m staring.
“See something you like?” he asks with an exaggerated sleaziness.
“Your gears must be a little slow this morning.” The pique in my tone seems to ring across the marble.
“You do seem to appreciate the view.” He does that thing again where he trails his finger down his pec cleavage now, assuming pec cleavage is a thing.
“You’re so full of it.” I shrug the hair from my face, secretly checking for drool. “I zoned out, that’s all. Eyes unseeing, okay?” I swipe my hand back and forth in front of my face as though to prove it.
“I’m just messing with you, Clara.” He pushes off the fridge.
“My husband, the comedian.” That sounds so weird.
Troy pulls out a bowl from a drawer in the island, dumping in a small mountain of Cheerios before reaching for the milk. He rounds the island, and I give a reflexive inhale as he takes the seat next to me.
It’s annoying how good he smells. I have noticed that he wears the most exquisite cologne. It’s probably something bespoke from a perfume house, though what I can smell now is toothpaste and the man himself, I think. Maybe the cologne has seeped into the pores of his skin. No man smells this good on his own.
“Do you have a dress for Saturday?”
He means for the Stanley Foundation ball. Or Saturday’s baptism of fire, as I’ve begun to think of it in my head. Not only will it be our first official big outing, I’ll also be meeting his friends.
Eep!
“No, I don’t own anything suitable.” Not anymore. “Why?” I glance his way and cant my head. “Are you offering to take me shopping?”
“I’ll give you my credit card,” he says as he shovels cereal into his mouth.
“Just what I always wanted. A Pretty Woman moment in Bloomingdale’s.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I chuckle at his expression. “I take it you’re not a fan of shopping.” I’m secretly tickled it looks like I could’ve persuaded him.
“Unlike you.”
“Turns out, I’m not so much anymore.” I thought I’d be excited—that my debit card would be burning a hole in my hand. But that was the old Clara. “Which is why I ordered something online. Several somethings.” Because a girl likes to have a choice even if she doesn’t want to do the legwork. “They should arrive this morning.”
“Cool.” Troy plows through his breakfast like he’s not even tasting it. Might be a little method in that madness, come to think of it. “I thought you’d call an old stylist in or something,” he says between mouthfuls.
“How’d you know I had one?”
“I’ve dated other rich girls.”
