A Taste of You (2 page)

We said our good-byes, and as I collected my coat and shrugged into it, I glanced through the glass front door at the night sky. I hated how Chicago got so dark, so early, in the winter. It made the nights seem that much longer. The stretch of lonely nighttime hours used to fill me with dread, and I could still feel a small pit of sorrow in my belly. But slowly, ever so slowly, that dread and loneliness and sorrow was finally starting to fade.

“Want to grab dinner?” Beckett asked. “I know a great tapas place not far from here.”

I’d sampled a little bit of everything and was pretty stuffed, but leave it to Beckett to still be hungry. “Sure.” It was the least I could do, given that he’d dropped this choice gig in my lap.

Beckett took my elbow and steered me toward the door, then dropped it. “Shit. I forgot I wanted to ask Ben for a copy of the menu. I’ll be right back.” He turned around and headed toward the kitchen, and since I already had my hand on the door, I pushed it open and stepped outside. The pavement was uneven, and before I knew it, I caught the toe of my boot on a jagged edge and stumbled forward. The weight of my camera bag did the rest, and the ground rushed at me, but before my knees hit the sidewalk, I was caught under the arms by warm, strong hands. My fall was aborted, but my camera bag spilled open, scattering my expensive equipment all over the sidewalk.

The hands released me and righted me gently on my feet, and I looked up. And up. And up… into the face of the hottest guy I had ever seen. I actually blinked, certain it must have been a trick of the light. He was simply too stunning, too good-looking to be real. He gave me a slow smile and said something I didn’t hear because the blood was thrumming in my ears.

I knew men like this existed—with perfect lighting, makeup, and a little airbrushing—but this guy was the real deal. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, and I reeled, unable to catch my balance either. I stared up at him, vaguely aware he had been touching me a moment ago, and shocked because some part of me clearly wanted him to touch me again.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and from the tone, I knew he was repeating an earlier question. His voice was low and velvety, and I actually felt it rumble through me and slide seductively against my skin.

“I…” I tried to respond, but my whole body tingled with awareness and heat poured through me, making me suddenly too warm, even for January in Chicago. I couldn’t think. I could only feel.

“Let me help you,” he said, setting my bag back on my shoulder and bending so we were at eye level.
Oh, my
. That face—those eyes. He had dark brown hair, wavy and thick and tousled. It was sexy hair. The kind of hair a man sports after he’s been rolling around in bed. I wanted to run my hands through it and feel its texture between my fingers. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, giving him an aristocratic air, but his chiseled jaw and his sensuous lips spoke of a masculine earthiness that caused my belly to perform a slow roll.

And then there were his eyes. I was staring blatantly now, and I couldn’t quite get a fix on their color. I decided they were blue and then changed my mind and went with smoky grey. Whatever color they were, they reminded me of the skies above the beach just before a storm—wild, unpredictable, dangerous.

“Are you a photographer?” he asked.

That snapped me out of my trance. “Y-yes. Why?”

“An observation.” He gestured to my equipment , now scattered all over the sidewalk. “It looks expensive.”

“Oh shit!” I scrambled to my knees and shoved cameras, notebooks, and batteries back in my bag. “It
is
expensive. If anything is damaged, I am so screwed.”

He was crouching next to me, and he didn’t miss a beat. “I’d like to see that.”

What?
My mouth might have been hanging open at this point.
Did he just say what I think he said?
I took a camera case he held out and then a lamp. Our fingers brushed, just for a second, and I flinched as though burned. The tingle of electricity rushed up my arm and infused my body. I even glanced at the lamp to see if the heat that passed through me could have come from it. But no. It was dark and cold. That spark of charged current came from
him
.

He stood. “If anything is damaged, you should send me the bill. This was my fault entirely.”

I shook my head, still on my knees, and painfully aware I was level with his crotch. This wasn’t his fault. I had a hazy memory of an uneven sidewalk. “No. I couldn’t.” I peered in my bag, studying the contents. It was lacking my normal organization, but it appeared everything was inside. I wobbled to my feet, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I tripped. You were an innocent bystander.”

He grinned, looking almost boyish, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his wool overcoat. And then he did it again. “That’s the first time in a long while I’ve been called innocent.”

I was too stunned to respond. I felt my cheeks heat, but my schoolgirl blush was nothing compared to the heat coursing through the rest of me. My heart was beating so fast my stomach dipped again, and I actually felt a pull deep inside, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. How was this possible? I kept staring, silent, watching his blue-grey eyes crinkle. Then he gave me a knowing smile, as though he could read every one of my thoughts, even the secret, naughty ones I’d never reveal to anyone. But this man looked as though he not only saw them, but he
liked
what he saw.

“Sorry that took so long.” Beckett’s voice was like a weight, bringing me down to earth and reality. I turned, trying to think of an appropriate response. I had no idea how long I’d been in front of the restaurant with this tall, dark, and handsome stormy-eyed Adonis, but it felt like time had stopped. Beckett blinked. “Cat, what’s wrong? What are you doing?”

I faltered. “I… nothing.”

“Your face is all flushed.”

I put my hands to my cheeks. “It’s the cold. I’m not used to it.” I couldn’t resist glancing at Stormy Eyes to gauge whether he could tell I was lying, whether he knew the heat in my cheeks was caused by him and his sexy innuendo, but when I turned, he wasn’t standing there anymore. He was gone. Completely gone.

What the fuck? Where did he go? I craned my neck to see if I could spot him on the sidewalk striding away, but the block wasn’t lit, and he’d disappeared into the darkness. Despair lanced through me. I’d lost him. I shook my head. We’d met for all of three minutes. I was making too much of it. Still, I couldn’t believe he was gone so quickly. Beckett hadn’t seen him. Had I imagined the whole encounter? I peered into my bag, studying the haphazard way everything was shoved inside. If I imagined it, then who helped me pick up all my equipment, and why were my legs still weak, and my center so hot and tender? I shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other, feeling an unexpected warmth between them, which made my skinny jeans feel too skinny in certain places. Oh my God, I had been totally turned on by a random stranger. I lifted out the lamp he’d handed me, hoping I’d feel something of the connection in the object, but it was just a lamp. What the hell had just happened?

“Cat?” Beckett’s voice was high and concerned. “You’re scaring me, sweetie. What’s going on?”

I tried to collect myself and explain. “I dropped my bag,” I said, knowing I sounded a little too breathy to be totally convincing, “and this guy helped me pick everything up.” Except he wasn’t a
guy
, I screamed in my head. He was so much more than that. But how was I supposed to explain that to Beckett? And now that the mystery man had disappeared into the night, I was starting to feel the cold again. Beckett just stared. “You said something about dinner?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. My thoughts were too jumbled to make any sense right now.

“Sure. Let’s get some food in you. I think you’ll feel better.”

*****

An hour later my thoughts were less scattered, and I was more relaxed. I was sipping my second glass of a really delicious tempranillo and basking in the warmth of the cozy Spanish restaurant.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t ask his name,” Beckett chided me, topping off my glass with the last of the red wine. “He gave you the perfect opportunity.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” I said. “I was too…”

“Horny?”

I laughed. “Yes, there is that, but I was going to say overwhelmed.”

“I wish I’d be
overwhelmed
by a sexy stranger on the street. What are you calling him again?”

I felt the heat creep into my cheeks. “Stormy Eyes.” I had interacted with the guy for like ninety seconds and I had already given him a nickname.

“I like it. Makes him sound all sexy and mysterious.”

“I don’t even know why we’re still talking about him. I’m sure I’ll never see him again. It was just one of those weird things. Memorable, but meaningless, right?” I could hear the breathiness creeping into my voice as I did my best to sound convincing. Again. Beckett seemed to buy it, but I wasn’t sure I did. “Let’s talk about something else—like the shoot tomorrow. Tell me what you have in mind for the styling.”

Beckett launched into his ideas for arranging Ben’s dishes in a sexy, mouthwatering way, what sprays and colorings he would use, and I tried to pay attention. I really did. I needed to pay attention, but my thoughts kept wandering back to Stormy Eyes. What had he meant when he said no one had called him
innocent
in a long time? It was so obviously sexual, but I suppose he could have meant it any one of three or four different ways. Was he just a smart-ass, or was he thoroughly debauched? And why should the thought of a man with a dark, sexual side turn me on so much? I’d always preferred the clean-cut type, and I liked guys with open smiles and all-American values. Then why did I have to press my legs together to ease the tension building there? My mind wandered to the vibrator a friend bought me as a gag gift for my bachelorette party. I still had it. Jace and I played around with it once or twice, but I hadn’t ever used it on my own. But tonight, after Stormy Eyes and our sidewalk encounter, I needed to ease the ache between my thighs, and I knew my hand wasn’t going to cut it.

*****

Beckett and I took separate cabs, and mine dropped me at my condo in Lincoln Park. I paid the driver and looked at my black windows, wondering when this place would feel like home to me. After eight months with a Chicago zip code, I still felt like a visitor. Santa Cruz was home. In Chicago, I had to remind myself the water was east, not west, and driving anywhere took double the time I anticipated. Some days I woke up and still couldn’t believe I had packed up and moved halfway across the country. I’d never considered moving until Beckett called and suggested I come to Chicago.

I was a California girl at heart, but a move was exactly the escape plan I needed after my life in Santa Cruz had fallen apart. And Beckett had helped me through it all. He was the one who found my condo, and I couldn’t have asked for a better location. I was a few blocks from the lake, and the neighborhood was full of coffee shops and little boutiques. I could spend an entire Saturday browsing unique shops. My condo was fabulous as well. It was on the top floor of a converted nineteenth-century mansion and retained all the charm of that past era. I loved the stone foundation, the limestone exterior, and the floor-to-ceiling French windows. It was a remnant of the past nestled among the modern and new.

I usually enjoyed the exercise of taking the stairs to my floor, but tonight I was tired and drained. When I opened the door, Laird gave a low
woof
and bounded over to greet me. I dropped my bag, bent down, and gave him a huge hug. He was a big mutt with hints of Australian Cattle Dog. For an older dog he still had a lot of energy, but he didn’t shed much and was happy and easygoing. Laird was the one thing I’d brought from my life in Santa Cruz. He’d been Jace’s dog, and Jace had named him Laird after Laird Hamilton, a famous surfer and one of his idols. Laird licked my face and
woofed
again, letting me know he didn’t appreciate these late nights.

Later, after I’d walked the dog, changed into flannel pajamas, and laid in bed listening to Laird’s soft snores in his own bed on the floor at my feet, my thoughts turned to Stormy Eyes. I pictured his slow, sexy smile, the way his eyes darkened when they focused on me, the feel of his fingers as they brushed mine.

I pressed my hand between my legs. I felt swollen and tender there, and I thought again of that vibrator, wondering where I’d put it when I unpacked. But then I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

*****

I woke up thinking of Stormy Eyes. I’d dreamed of him, though the dreams were foggy in the morning light. It was what I was beginning to think of as a typical January day in Chicago—cold and sleeting. From my window, the sky looked dreary and ominous. It was a good day to stay inside, curl up with a copy of
Digital Photo Pro
or
B&W
, and eat soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. But I didn’t have that luxury today, so instead, I took Laird for a brisk walk along the lakefront. My breath puffed out in great gusts the faster we walked. Despite my thermal leggings, multiple layers, and North Face boots, I was freezing and in a hurry to get back. But Laird romped and played and generally had a great time. He obviously didn’t mind the cold temperatures.

The lake was iced over in places, and so calm and placid compared to the ever-churning waters of the Pacific. I told myself that was a good change for me. My life had been wild and churning the past few years, and I needed calm and placid. I did miss the vivid blue of the Pacific, though Lake Michigancould take on that color at times. But this morning it was grey, reminding me of Stormy Eyes. His eyes were such an unusual color. I would have liked to see them in another light to judge them better. I really had to stop fixating on this guy. Already his effect on me was the antithesis of the calm I wished for. It was a random encounter, I reminded myself. I whistled for Laird, and we headed back.

We were wet from the sleet, and I grabbed a towel from my car and dried him off before we went inside. As Laird and I stepped into the warmth of the common foyer, he gave a happy yelp and ran to lick a handsome, older woman trying to collect her mail. “Laird! No! Sorry, Mrs. Himmler.” I dragged Laird off. The Himmlers sometimes watched Laird when I had to be away overnight or on a long shoot, and he adored them. The feeling was mutual.