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I was supposed to meet Gavin in two hours at Carmines.
I shook my head. Going inside that penthouse with a shirtless Dean was a bad idea.
“I have to go. But the sofa is too much. Just … can you take it back? Get your money back? I know insurance didn’t cover that.”
Dean gave a slight shrug. “Guess I could. But then you wouldn’t have a sofa at all. Your other one fell apart at the base and was broken before they even got it on the truck. It is currently in several pieces at the dump.”
Crap.I bit down on my lip to keep from groaning. Of course it had fallen apart. It had been close to crumbling under the weight of anyone sitting on it. The thing belonged in a dump.
“Okay, then maybe you could get a less expensive sofa that insurance will cover? Or I can find one at a secondhand shop and bring you the receipt, and you can reimburse me?” Either of those ideas sat better with me than the fabulous sofa in my living room.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, then straightened from leaning against the doorframe. “But first, you need to come inside and get a drink and some pie. We will talk about it then. I think Maegan filled my wine rack yesterday. I forgot about that. I’ll even let you choose the bottle. We can have a glass.”
I should leave, but there was a part of me—thestupid, not thinking clearlypart of me—that wanted to go inside. He’d said I wasn’t his type. He could have meant that.
I glanced back at the elevator.
“Just twenty minutes, max,” he said.
Twenty minutes. I could do twenty minutes. Then, maybe he’d get me a less luxurious sofa, and I wouldn’t think about him every time I sat on it. That was probably unlikely either way, but I had hopes.
“Twenty minutes,” I agreed.
He grinned at me, and I wished it weren’t attractive. I wished he looked like an old guy. I wished he weren’t my landlord. I wished a lot of things, but none of them were coming true.
Dean stepped back and let me enter. It smelled good. Almost like the ideal beach scent. With fresh ocean air, coconut, it was very tropical. It hadn’t smelled like this the last time I was here.
“I’ll show you the wine rack,” he said and began walking in the opposite direction of the living area.
I followed him down a hall I hadn’t seen before that led to a large dining room. The table was big enough to sit sixteen guests with a giant black chandelier hanging over it.
There was a corner with a floor-to-ceiling built-in wooden rack, stocked full of wine bottles. He sauntered over to it with his jeans hanging on his hips. The muscles on his back moved as he walked. His wide shoulders were more noticeable when he was shirtless. His narrow waist was also on display. I tried not to admire the view, but it was hard. Especially with the Slacker Demon tattoo covering most of his back. It was well known that all the members of the band had the same tattoo. I had once seen all their tattoos in a photo on the cover of a magazine in the grocery checkout.
It was a reminder that he was famous. Not just in America, but also worldwide. He was legendary. He had been deemed the greatest drummer of the century byRolling Stonesmagazine. There was no younger band that had come close to their fame.
“I haven’t looked at the selections. Feel free to pull out as many bottles as you need to,” he said as he turned around to look at me.
My eyes snapped up from his bare chest to his face. I caught a knowing grin curving across his lips.
“Your tattoo,” I began, trying to explain myself. I didn’t want him to think I had been ogling him, although I had in fact been doing just that. “I’ve never seen a Slacker Demon tattoo in person.” That was a dumb comment. One I had grabbed at to cover my staring. My face felt hot.
“You want a closer look?” he asked, still grinning.
I shook my head, feeling even more embarrassed. “Uh, do you walk around without a shirt often?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation on him and possibly get him to put a shirt on.
“Yes. I was in my underwear before you texted. I pulled on the jeans for your benefit. Don’t you enjoy being comfortable in your home?”
I chuckled softly. “Yes, I do,” I admitted. “But my idea of comfortable is a pair of pajama pants and a big, baggy T-shirt.”
His eyes dropped to my chest. “But no bra,” he added.
I inhaled deeply, wishing I hadn’t because he was staring at my boobs still. “That’s not your business,” I said, hoping I had sounded more annoyed and less breathless.
He smirked at me. “Women hate bras. They’re confining. It was a statement, not a question.”
I wasn’t going to talk about bras with him. He was doing it to make me nervous and uncomfortable.
“Maybe I should go,” I said, thinking this had indeed been a very bad idea.
