Now here I am, sitting in his kitchen, eating lunch with him. In a suspiciously quiet working lunch meeting.

It feels horribly comfortable.

You know that sensation when you go somewhere you feel like you’ve been before or that you should be? That kind of comfort. It’s as if I’ve been here a thousand times or are destined to be here that many.

It’s unnerving. It doesn’t have a place in my world, yet I have an inexplicable need to set down my fork and explore every possible nook and cranny of this gorgeous house. I want to browse every bookshelf and open every cupboard and run my hand over every wall.

And I wish I could say it’s from the perspective of an interior designer—it isn’t.

It’s from the perspective of something I don’t want to think about.

Carter takes another sip from his glass and nods to my plate. “Something wrong with it?”

“Oh, no.” I glance up at him then back at my plate. “I just don’t feel particularly hungry.”

With the glass still in his hand, he fixes his gaze on me. I know because I can feel it—it’s as obvious as an icy blast of air at the height of summer. “You keep looking at the door.”

“The hallway,” I admit. “I kind of want to explore. Your house looks gorgeous.”

He reaches for a paper napkin from the stack and wipes the corner of his mouth. “You want a tour?”

“Oh—you don’t have to. I’m being rude.” I smile slightly and push a slice of chicken around my plate.

“Grab your glass.” He grins and gets up, his in hand. “Come on.”

I hesitate for a second too long, and he rounds the island. He grabs my hand and pulls me up, then releases me just to deposit my wine glass in my palm. “I guess I’ll come, then,” I say quietly, fighting my smile.

“Are you ready for the grand tour of Casa de Hughes?” he asks, walking backward out of the kitchen. His eyes fall to my feet and he holds out a hand to stop me. “Woah, woah. Those weapons have gotta come out of your feet. We have fifteen rooms to explore and there’s no way you can do that in those animals.”

“Those animals—”

“Cost more than a pedigree puppy, yeah, yeah. I know. Still. Off.” He stands in front of me until I sigh with resignation and bend down to pull them off my feet.

Safely off, I kick them to the side and meet his eyes. “There. Better?”

He grins and lifts his hand to the top of my head. “Wow. Those things are deceiving.”

“You realize I’m at the right height to do this, don’t you?” I lift one knee up.

He steps back. “Point made.” Our gaze hovers for a moment, both of us smiling, then he turns. “First stop on the Grand Tour of the Hughes House is the dining room that has been used approximately one point five times in the last two years.”

“One point five? How is that possible?”

“Once for Thanksgiving right after I moved in, then the following year when my mom designated me as the cook and I gave up after the turkey didn’t show up.”

“How does a turkey not show up?”

“I forgot to order it.” He grimaces. “That was the first year she told me I need a woman. I reminded her I have her and my sister, and that’s enough woman for anyone.”

I laugh quietly, looking around the room. “It’s dark in here.”

“Yeah. I keep meaning to do something with it, but like I said, it doesn’t get used.” He shrugs and closes the door.

My eye twitches. Oh boy, I want to take my camera and sketch pad in there.

“And the living room.” He opens the next door to a reasonably sized room about as well kitted out as can be expected for a man’s living room. Dark-colored sofas, a giant television, games consoles, you name it, it’s there. What I am surprised to see is an array of photos lining the exposed brick fireplace and even the windowsill. I really want to go forward and look, but I manage to stop myself. “And what my sister jokes is my bedroom, living room and dining room all in one, my office.” He opens a door across the hall and takes me into the biggest room I’ve been in.

It is literally massive. There’s a sectional sofa at one end complete with coffee table. A sprawling desk with comfortable leather chair. Shelves of reference books, including many cookery books, and stacks upon stacks of folders.

“You have recipe books,” I say slowly, reaching for one and pulling it from the shelf.

“I own restaurants.”

“But you forget to order Thanksgiving turkey?”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “I hate cooking, all right? I can make cereal and that’s it.”

“You don’t make cereal. You put it in a bowl and pour milk on top of it.”

“You’re starting to ruin my elusive manner here, Bee.”

“You? Elusive? Not on your life, Carter Hughes. You’re as elusive as wasp around a group of teenage girls.”

His eyebrows arches in the way I’m rapidly becoming familiar with. “Mysterious?”

“Not so mysterious either,” I lie. “You’re like an orange just waiting to be peeled open.”

“That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever been called,” he muses. “Come on. There’s upstairs yet. Unless you want to see the spare rooms.”

Upstairs? Wait. I didn’t consider upstairs did I? “What’s in the spare rooms?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he admits.

“Then I’m good.”

He grins, and there’s something suggestive about it. “Upstairs?”

“I think I’m good.” I lift my wine glass to my lips.

“Bee… I can fuck you anywhere. The desk. The sofa. The wall. Taking you upstairs really isn’t going to make a difference.”

I cough, swallowing my wine wrong. “No, no, I got that,” I croak out, patting my chest. “I was just… Well. I don’t need to see upstairs.”

Carter tilts his head to one side and studies me. His bright green gaze is unnerving, and I shudder under his gentler-than-usual scrutiny. “All right,” he says slowly. “No bedrooms. Another room. If I’ve got you figured out, Bee Donnelly, I sense you’ll appreciate it.”

“What is it? Like a spa or something?”

He laughs, holding out his hand. My eyes narrow, and I glance at his hand. He makes a ‘come here’ motion with his fingers, not moving any closer to me.

“How do I know you’re not going to drag me into your bedroom and have your way with me?”

“If I planned on that, your skirt would already be around your hips and my cock would be buried inside you,” he answers matter-of-factly. “And yes, I understand we have yet to get to your important business, but I’m curious.”

I swallow. “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Hughes.”

“Then I must be the cat, and you the curiosity, Ms. Donnelly,” he responds in a low voice, stepping toward me. My heart thuds. “Because I’m damn sure you’re gonna kill me.”

“All right,” I whisper. “Show me how well you think you know me.”

And then I place my hand in his.

Chapter Eleven

Carter’s fingers close around mine. He tugs me out of the room and toward the winding staircase. As we go up it, I realize it’s a gentle spiral, and both the little girl in my soul and the designer in my heart sing their way up to it. If I weren’t holding my wine glass, my fingers would be brushing the gorgeous wooden banister that follows the curve of the stairs. As it is, I settle for my eyes running along it.

At the top, we come to a spacious hallway, much barer than the rest of the house. Unlike downstairs, the doors are all open up here, and I can spy four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a room I can’t quite make out.

“The master bedroom with its private bath and walk-in closet are at the end of the hall,” Carter tells me, motioning toward it with his glass. “The others are all spares—I keep them for my family. Mom lives in California and comes to visit every couple of months,” he explains. “But that’s not what I want to show you.”

“I’m starting to think you really do have a sex chamber with whips and chains on the walls,” I say hesitantly, looking at the slightly ajar oak door behind him.