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“Why wouldn’t I?”
I could go into detail, but that’s for another time. “Just trust me. Do you want to get dinner?”
“I’m heating up leftovers.”
“Enough for two?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Great. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“In three minutes? What—”
“I’m right outside your building.”
“How did you— Never mind. Christopher knows where I live.”
“He does, but I didn’t need him to find you. See you in a few.”
I exit the sedan and head up to Skye’s apartment. A minute later, I’m knocking on her door.
She opens it, looks me over, and sucks in a breath.
I try not to show how pleased I am at her reaction, but I fear she sees right through me. If I can tell what she’s feeling, can she tell what I’m feeling? I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that question.
I love that my appearance pleases her. I removed my tie in the car on the way here, and I unbuttoned the first few buttons of my white shirt. I’m still wearing my black suit jacket.
I stride in, making the room my own. I learned early on in business that you have to own every room you enter. People take you seriously when you make it clear you belong, even if you don’t feel as confident as you act. Confidence is an illusion—one I’ve perfected. My mother told me once that I had confidence and a knack for leadership. Apparently she was right.
Skye’s modest studio is a large closet compared to my place. Her queen bed is made, and a love seat sits adjacent to it. A small two-person table is arranged between the bed and the kitchenette.
The place suits Skye. Simple with a touch of elegance, as she sees herself. Except that Skye is anything but simple.
“Smells good,” I say.
“Beef stew. One of my specialties. My mom’s recipe, a staple from my childhood.”
My lips quirk. Funny. I’ve been thinking about my childhood all afternoon. And now…beef stew.
“I love beef stew.”
“Good. Though I’m sure Marilyn could prepare you a gourmet version that totally puts mine to shame.”
“Marilyn has never made beef stew.”
Because I’ve never asked her for it. Beef stew was a staple during my childhood, too—but only when we could get beef, and it was usually ground. Still, my mother could make a delicious meal out of a package of hamburger.
Skye meets my gaze, her lips parted in that sexy way. “So much for small talk. Why are you here, Braden?”
“To join you for dinner.”
“We just saw each other at lunch.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll go if you’d rather I not be here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I say nothing. I’ll go if she asks me to, but I’m betting she won’t. I’m hoping she won’t.
