Page 42 of Not on the Same Page

15

TRINA

It’s been over a year since I’ve been to Casey’s condo in Old Town, but it’s easy enough to get there. After fiddling with my outfit for half an hour, reapplying my lipstick, and fluffing out my hair, I walk the few blocks to the Brown Line and hop on the train that takes me to his neighborhood. It’s hard to believe he’s only been about twenty minutes away from me this whole time, and I’ve only run into him that one time with Isabella at the coffee shop.

I step off the train in Old Town and am immediately reminded why I love this neighborhood almost as much as I love Lincoln Park. It’s still light out, and hot as hell. The long, summer days stretch languidly through the middle of July, even though the daylight hours are technically getting shorter. The bars and restaurants lining the street have their windows and doors open, and people spill out onto sidewalk patios, leaving only a narrow path between the buildings and outside tables. Music and the scent of beer and the clatter of silverware on dishes waft through the air as I stroll along the sidewalk.

I love this city.

By the time I make it to Casey’s condo, I’m in the type of good mood I haven’t felt in a long time—the kind where everything seems easier and relaxed, like I’m at the top of my game. I could take on anything anyone wanted to throw at me with ease and grace. And it’s only heightened by the smell of garlic and the sound of bacon sizzling in the pan that hits me as soon as he opens the door.

He holds the door open, leaning against the edge like some kind of bronzed god, the light from the late afternoon sun streaming in through his balcony doors behind him and casting him in a glow. He’s still wearing his work clothes from the video call, but there’s an extra button undone at the top of his crisp, white shirt, and his sleeves are rolled up. There’s a towel over his shoulder, and his feet are bare.

Dammit, bare feet are sexy as hell.

“Warn a girl next time you’re going to open the door looking like that,” I tease as I step past him and into the space.

“Looking like what?” He closes the door behind me.

I wave my hand up and down in his direction. “Like you walked out of a photo shoot for an editor-at-home spread in a magazine.”

Casey blinks a few times and wipes his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you Starlight sent photographers to do a publicity feature on me before the call with Imani today?”

Pausing as I slide my purse off my shoulder, I give him an incredulous look. “Really?”

He chuckles, low and deep, the sound radiating out of him. “No.”

I drop my purse and swat him in the shoulder. “Dammit, Casey.”

In a flash, he grabs my hand and pulls me into his chest. His other hand comes up to rest in the curve of my lower back, and his gaze dips to my lips. “I hope you’re hungry.”

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds against my ribcage. My body melts into his of its own volition, and I’m vaguely aware of the desire building in me to stay right here.

The hand that was holding mine comes up to brush lightly along my jaw. His thumb drags over my lips, gently pressing them open. I gasp and my eyelids flutter closed as he captures my mouth with his, his tongue teasing and exploring. Unlike the other day in his office, he’s taking his time, savoring me with his lips as his other hand drifts slowly up and down my back.

When he pulls away, I’m drunk on him. Woozy and lightheaded. Desperate and heated and ready for more.

He swallows hard, and I can tell he’s restraining himself. He used to do this sometimes—get me all riled up and then make me wait. The waiting was always just as delicious as the sex itself, so if he wants me to be patient, I will. I’m sure he’ll reward me for it.

“Wine?” he asks, voice husky and about an octave lower than it usually is.

“Please.”

With what seems like a great effort, he drags himself away from me. He steps into the small kitchen area and opens a cabinet, pulling down two glasses and filling them with white wine. Condensation immediately builds on the outside of the glasses in the heat of the kitchen, and I’m glad to see it’s not just me who is feeling overheated.

He hands me a glass, then clinks his to mine. We both take a sip, and the crisp flavors explode on my tongue.

“Mm,” I hum as I swallow. “This is really good.”

“Pinot grigio,” he says as he turns back to the stove. As he stirs, he dips his chin toward the bar-height chairs that face the U-shaped counter to indicate I should sit, which I do. “It pairs well with carbonara, or so I’m told.”

“A wine pairing with dinner? You’re really pulling out all the stops for a silly little bet. I didn’t even know you could cook.”

He shrugs, not looking up from his task. “I can cook one thing.”

I cackle loudly, the laugh ending in a little snort, which would be embarrassing as hell if it weren’t for the way Casey’s smile stretches across his face as he reserves some pasta water and drains the rest of it into the sink. He adds the reserved water and what looks like an egg mixture to the pot and stirs quickly, his exposed forearms flexing as he does. Which is almost enough to distract me from what he’s doing, but not quite.

“Wait, eggs?” I frown.