Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

smiling.
    “Not a girl in the bunch, love, I assure you.”
    “So who do you have in Paris?”
    “Arman and Jori. Arman is infinitely more fun, but he’s perpetually in and out of relationships.”
    “And when he’s ‘in,’ that makes him off-limits?”
    “Absolutely, love. His relationships never last, but I won’t be the one to break them up.”
    “And Jori?”
    “Jori is the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.” He stopped short and winked at me conspiratorially. “Present company excluded of course.”
    “Of course,” I said, laughing. I was fairly average. I had no misconceptions as to who was probably better looking.
    “But Jori’s mostly in the closet,” he went on. “He only divorced his wife a couple of years ago, and we can’t ever go out in public. It’s such a bore.”
    “Hawaii?”
    “There’s a club in Hilo, but I don’t have the energy for that kind of thing. I find it terribly dull. It’s mostly college students anyway, and suffice it to say, love, those boys get a little younger every year.”
    “It does seem that way.”
    “But there’s a bartender there named Rudy. He’s not exactly an Adonis, but he’s funny and good in bed.”
    “Vail?”
    He rolled his eyes. “Vail isn’t nearly as entertaining since Jared started seeing that big, pissed-off cop.”
    “The Hamptons?”
    “There are a few options there, but mostly I choose to spend time with my gardener, Raul.”
    “Your gardener ?”
    “Well, he’s not just my gardener. He works for several families in the neighborhood.”
    “That’s awfully cliché, isn’t it?”
    He grinned at me. “It may be, but honey, if you saw Raul, you’d understand.”
    I laughed. “Okay. So what about Phoenix?”
    “There are a couple of men I see occasionally. But the truth is,
    things in Phoenix had been dreadfully dull for the last year or two. You came along just in time.”
    “Glad I could be of use.”
    “Me too, love,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “As soon as we’re done with dinner, I’ll see what I can do to show you my appreciation.”

    THE next two evenings were the same. He cooked dinner both nights, and the food was always amazing. I fell into the habit of doing the dishes afterward. It seemed like the least I could do. But on the fourth night, there was no food on the table and no incredibly tantalizing aromas filling the condo when I got home. He came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but slim dark pants.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t cook tonight, sweets. I lost track of time.”
    “You don’t need to apologize,” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I’d offer to cook for you, but my repertoire is pretty limited.”
    He smiled. “How limited?” he asked, although I knew he was only asking so he could laugh at me.
    “Tacos, sloppy Joes, frozen pizzas, and spaghetti. Assuming I have a jar of Prego in there somewhere.” I grinned at him. “Any of those sound good?”
    He laughed. Like his voice, his laugh was slightly feminine but very quiet. “Not even remotely.”
    He walked closer to me, and the look in his eyes was slowly changing from mockery to something else—something I had learned to recognize very quickly. “Do you want to go out?” I asked, although that heat in his eyes was giving me other ideas. My pulse was speeding up and my voice came out a little husky.
    “I do, actually,” he said. He was right in front of me now, but he kept his head down so that all I could see was his hair. It was a little bit damp, and I could smell the shampoo he used. “There’s a restaurant over at Wynn that’s supposed to be amazing. I made us a reservation.”
    “That sounds great,” I said.
    “But first,” he pushed my jacket off of my shoulders, and I let it fall to the floor behind me, “let me help you take this suit off.”

    WE FINALLY got dressed again and headed for Wynn. My condo wasn’t far off-strip, and we decided to walk. Not counting our disastrous first date, all of our time together had been spent in private, either at my house or at my condo. In that time, I had all but forgotten my first impression of him—but I remembered now.
    He was flamboyant. There was no other word for it. It was the way he walked: too light somehow, with too much movement in his hips. It was the way he stood with one hip cocked out. It was the cadence of his speech and the gestures he made and the way he held his head so that he was looking at me through his hair.