Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

been in the restaurant, and I realized it had a hint of red in it. It reminded me of cinnamon. I found myself wondering if he smelled like cinnamon too. “You’re not one of those deluded souls who thinks that Merlot goes with everything, are you sugar?” he asked me dryly.
    “Well,” I stammered, feeling myself blush, “I usually buy Chianti.”
    He smiled knowingly at me. “Trust me. The Viognier will be so much better.”
    I wasn’t sure about the wine, but his comment about being an excellent cook turned out to be no idle boast. The dinner was amazing.
    “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked him when we were finished.
    He had a habit of sometimes keeping his head down when he talked, so that his gaze on me was shadowed beneath long lashes and the fall of his hair. “I have a lot of free time.”
    “Really?” I hesitated for a second, not wanting to rock the boat, but I finally gave in to my curiosity and asked, “What do you do?”
    He rolled his eyes at me. “That again , sugar? Don’t you get tired of asking?”
    “I might, if you ever actually answered.”
    He shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting with his flatware. “The truth is I don’t really do much of anything.”
    “You must be employed.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “You obviously have money—”
    “I do.”
    “—so how do you make it?”
    “I don’t.”
    I waited for him to elaborate, but after a few seconds, it became clear he wasn’t intending to. “So,” I said with slow, deliberate cynicism, “are you saying you’re independently wealthy?”

    He tipped his head back, let his hair fall to the side so he was looking directly at me. The affect was somehow coy and earnest at the same time. “I am, actually.”
    I wasn’t sure what answer I had been expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it. “Oh,” I said stupidly, because I didn’t know what else to say.
    “I don’t like to tell people too early, sugar. I learned at a very young age how many of them would choose to be with me simply because I might foot the bill.”
    I could certainly imagine that might be true. “Did you win the lottery or something?”
    “No,” he said. “I inherited it. It’s all terribly predictable, I’m afraid. My father had an obscene amount of money. Some of it was family money, and some he made himself. He had several marriages but no children. About the time he turned fifty-five, he started to contemplate his own mortality, I suppose. He decided he needed an heir, so he found himself a wife. She was twenty-two and beautiful and not incredibly bright.”
    “A trophy wife?” I asked, and he smiled.
    “Exactly. He made her sign a prenup, of course, but once she produced an heir, he cut her loose with a generous stipend. She lives in Manhattan now, actually.”
    “So you’re the heir?”
    “Of course, sugar.” He stood up, and I thought he was leaving the table. I pushed my chair back and stood up too, but then he just stood there looking at me, so I sat back down. “My father died when I was fifteen. The money was all left in trust. I had to meet a few requirements.”
    “Like what?”
    He started walking around to my side of the table. “I had to graduate from a major university with at least a three-point-oh GPA. I had to agree to continue supporting my loving mother.” And I knew just by the way he said it that she was anything but.

    “Exactly how much money do you have?” I asked as he reached my chair. I knew it was a rude question, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind.
    “I don’t know exactly. Chester takes care of it all. Although he keeps threatening to retire, and I have no idea what I’ll do then.”
    “You don’t know how much money you have?”
    “Not exactly. I know it’s enough that I can continue living the way I do and still have plenty left over for the heir I’ll most certainly never have.” He straddled my knees and sat down in my lap, facing me.
    He unbuttoned my shirt, then trailed his slender fingers through the hair on my chest. The conversation suddenly seemed incredibly unimportant. He had beautiful, full lips, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. “So tell me, sugar: would you like to discuss my trust fund all night?” He let his hair fall away from his eyes and gave me a wicked, lascivious grin that went straight to my groin. “Or are you ready for dessert?”
    I discovered quickly that he didn’t really like being kissed on the lips. It didn’t matter to me.