Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

before, and of course I had been involved in casual hook-ups. But this strange area in-between was completely foreign to me. In my experience, when you kept seeing somebody, it was with the understanding that you were moving toward something more serious. I had always believed that relationships had to move forward or end. But Cole made it quite clear that becoming more intimate was of no interest to him. We had sex, yes. Often. But once we were out of bed, any attempts I made to touch him or kiss him were countered by him pushing me away, playful, but absolutely firm. It was a strange relationship—not lovers, not quite friends even—and I didn’t always know how to handle it.
    It was September fifteenth, and I had just finished a four-day stint in LA. I landed back in Phoenix at ten o’clock in the evening. I called Cole when I got home.
    “This better be an emergency,” he said sleepily, without even saying hello.
    “It’s me.”
    “I know, love. I have caller ID. I take it you’re home now?”
    “I am. Why? Did you miss me?”
    “Not a bit,” he said.
    “Good. I didn’t miss you either.”
    “I’m glad you woke me up to tell me that,” he said. And then the line went dead. I couldn’t help but laugh. I was getting used to his temperament by now, and I knew better than to be offended.
    I wasn’t surprised when my phone rang the next morning as I was driving to the office. I smiled when I saw Cole’s name on the display.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey sugar. I’ve decided to forgive you for waking me up last night.”
    “I knew you would.”
    “How’s your weekend looking?” I knew what he was asking: would I be free, or would my clients be calling nonstop?
    “Everything’s wrapped up at the moment,” I told him. “I’m all yours, if you want me.”
    He was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke again, I could hear the smile in his voice. “I think maybe I do. Why don’t you come spend the weekend with me?”
    “Where?”
    “At my house.”
    He had never invited me over before, and I was curious about how he lived. “Where do you live?”
    “Paradise Valley.” Of course. I should have known. Paradise Valley was the most affluent area of Phoenix. “I know it’s not as convenient for you during the week,” he said, “but it’s so much easier to cook in my own kitchen.”
    “That sounds great,” I told him. “Do you have a pool?”
    “Of course I do. And a hot tub too. But whatever you do, sugar,” he said, his tone turning flirtatious, “ don’t bring a swimsuit.”
    By the time I left work, drove home to pack a bag for the weekend, and made it to his place, it was close to seven. He lived in a gated community, although his house was one of the smaller ones in the neighborhood. It was a Spanish-style home: white with a red roof, all on one level.
    “Hey sugar,” he said when he opened the door. “Take your shoes off.” He didn’t wait for me, but turned and disappeared deeper into the house.
    I knew he would be cooking, so I took the opportunity to put my bag in his room and wander around. The house had big, open rooms and high ceilings. Most of the decor seemed to be shades of white and cream. There were a few paintings on the wall, but otherwise the house felt half-bare. There were only three bedrooms: one that was obviously his, one that was filled with bookshelves and a desk, and a third that was outfitted for a guest, although it felt like a tomb. The living room was incredibly formal and obviously not often used. There was a family room that was more lived-in, with a large cushy couch and several luxurious throws. I remembered how he had curled up in a blanket to read in my condo in Vegas and imagined that was how he spent many of his evenings at home.
    I wasn’t surprised to find that the kitchen was the most comfortable room in the house. It was huge, and although I was no expert on the subject, I suspected a great deal of money had been put into it. The countertops were dark marble. There were two sinks, a giant refrigerator, and a stove that would have put some restaurants to shame.
    He was at the stove, of course, stirring something. His feet were bare. His hair had grown out longer than he usually allowed it to get, and it covered half of the butterfly mark on the back of his neck. I found myself wanting more than anything to touch him and to put my lips on that tiny spot, but I knew it would be a breach of protocol.
    “Nice house,” I said.
    “Thank