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Tying my damp hair back with the tie Charlie gave me, I head downstairs to the kitchen.
“Evening, Blaire,” he says from the cooking space, wearing only a pair of gray joggers, his ink black hair curling loosely around that gorgeous face.
I stop on the threshold, startled that he's here, then I carry on toward the table, ignoring my intentions for the fridge—I'll fix myself something to eat when he's gone.
“Hi, Charlie,” my voice comes out softer than I was trying for. It's because I'm looking at him from the corner of my eye, at his tanned, powerful body, sprinkles of black hair across his chest and under his navel. He's one of the most exquisite men I've ever seen—I can't deny it.
“You must be starving,” he says, and grabbing a plate out of the oven with a kitchen towel, he proffers it to me.
He's cooked dinner?
I nod, slipping behind the dining table, my cheeks a little hot. There's a jug of water in the middle of the table and two glasses. I fill a glass, glad the water is at room temperature. It's easy to guzzle down and quench my thirst.
“You all right?” Charlie says.
He rounds the kitchen and puts the plate down in front of me: chicken and potatoes with green vegetables, exactly what I said I eat at home.
“You look a little flushed.”
“I've just had a shower,” I say softly, putting down the glass of water.
“Hm,” he hums, his eyes following my tongue as I lick my lips dry. “Do you mind if I eat with you?”
I raise my eyebrows, and it seems to pull his attention from my lips to my eyes.
“Or do youwant toeat alone?”
Extending a hand, I urge him to sit across from me. I don't mind having dinner with him, I suppose. There isn't anyone else to talk to. At home, if I got lonely, I'd give James a call. Here, there’s only Charlie to speak to because I don't have my phone.
He smiles down at me before sauntering back across the kitchen. I feel warmed from that smile.
He grabs another plate from the oven and comes back to the table. He's not wearing any shoes, and I can't help noticing that even his feet are masculine.
“Do you realize you've been meditating all day?” he says, passing me some cutlery over the table.
“How do you know that?”
“I was watching you.” He gestures with the cutlery.
I take the knife and fork from him in a state of dismay, barely registering the way he runs his thumb over my fingers.
Is he constantly watching me?
“You need to be careful you don't burn yourself out,” he sits opposite, in my line of vision, “especially if you don't eat properly.”
“There's nothing else to do here but train.”
Resting his elbows on the table, he cups his square chin. “Well, what would you normally do to fill your days? Bar serving Maksim,” he adds with bitterness.
My stomach is in knots. It's the way he's looking at me, utterly focused on my face, curiosity and zeal glittering in his eyes.
“I guess I'd train in my gym at home.” I cut off a piece of chicken. It's tender and juicy. I think he's cooked it in some kind of butter.
“Yeah, I saw that you've got a gym in your apartment. You train with Wing Chun, don't you?”
“You've been in my apartment?” I almost spit out my food, so I cover my mouth with an open palm. That's a personal thing for him to do, mooch through my home.
“Yeah,” he says candidly. “I got your things for you, remember? I brought some of your books too so you could read when in your room here.”
