Unfinished Heroes: Sebring Part 22

This was because I did not trust my sat nav because I did not expect him to be living in the location at which it was pointing.

It was across the tracks LoDo, to the northeast along South Platte River, beyond Confluence Park and amongst a bunch of dead end streets, train tracks, supply warehouses and large self-storage units.

Even in this urban no man's land, his building was well-kept, exceptionally so, if nondescript considering it had been a warehouse prior to its resurgence to what it was now.

It was a new renovation. I knew this because it looked it, there were very few cars in the parking lot (two, exactly) and there was a sign out front that said units were for sale.

The building was painted light gray with darker gray and black detailing, this detailing being mostly brickwork and some signage but also a variety of iron stairwells on the outside of the building (there were four, one on each side).

The huge windows were multipaned, likely how they'd always been, but it was obvious they'd been switched out for new.

The parking lot had to have been redone completely, considering the fact it now had green s.p.a.ce with fledgling trees that would one day be beautiful and throw a great deal of shade.

And the lighting around the building did not invite the unwanted there for nefarious ends, as could be found in this neighborhood where there wasn't much population and not much happened after close of the scattered businesses.

I followed the signs to the unit Nick's text gave me and slid my Evoque into a spot outside it that was next to one of the two cars in the lot, a red Jaguar F-TYPE coupe.

The car was gorgeous. It was also totally Nick-handsome, hot, fast and sleek.

I wanted to ride in that car with Nick.

I was never going to ride in that car with Nick.

This knowledge weighed heavily on me as I looked to the top of the iron stairway and saw a large, square, warehouse door to the side of which were big, modern, black metal letters that said Unit 8.

"What are you doing, Livvie?" I whispered.

But even doing so, without delay, I pushed open my door and swung my carnation pink patent leather Jimmy Choo, spike-heeled pump out.

I got out of my car. I beeped the locks. I walked up the iron steps. And I stood in the recess, knocking on the big, square door.

I dropped my hand and my head, staring at the pointed toes of my fabulous pumps peeking out from the bootleg hems of my expertly faded (because I bought them that way), low-rise jeans.

"I should not be here," I whispered to my toes.

You are not hard to look at.

I squeezed my eyes tight.

You're sharp and smart and funny.

I swallowed.

And straight up, I'd rather sit around eatin' spaghetti talkin' to you while lookin' at you before I f.u.c.k you than sit in my place by myself waitin' for you to show and climb on my d.i.c.k.

Maybe I could do this.

Because he could do this.

He didn't want any attachments.

He knew the boundaries.

He wanted nothing to do with my family (smart man) and he wanted my family to have nothing to do with him (again, smart).

He knew. He knew he existed in our world the way he did, which was providing integral services to people who could afford them.

And he knew I existed in our world as part of my family's business which was just plain toxic in our world and any other (thus he wanted nothing to do with it).

He'd keep me on the straight and narrow.

I heard a loud noise that sounded like sc.r.a.ping steel and then another one that sounded like heavy steel rolling on steel. I lifted my head and watched the door slide to the side.

Like last night when he'd shown for the first time wearing jeans, a Henley and a leather jacket rather than opening the door in a dress s.h.i.+rt and nice trousers, Nick Sebring was at home in comfort.

Thus casual.

Tonight, not a nice Henley and faded jeans.

Faded jeans and what appeared to be a cobalt blue V-neck cashmere sweater.

At the sight of him my c.l.i.t started tingling.

"Yeah," he whispered and the tone of that word made my gaze go from his wide chest to his face.

My stomach turned over.

His eyes stopped traveling the length of me and cut back to my face.

"Rather look at you while I'm eatin' spaghetti than do it alone," he finished.

That felt nice.

No, I should not be there.

"Uh...hey," I pushed out.

His mouth quirked, he took one step toward me, grabbed my hand and pulled me in.

I heard the sound of sc.r.a.ping metal again as the door was being rolled back as well as the bolt being turned.

But I was looking around the s.p.a.ce.

Deeply distressed, thus deeply attractive gleaming wide plank floors.

To the right, a couple of steps up through a wide exposed brick arch, a room that held a king-size bed. This s.p.a.ce was large and illuminated only slightly by a modern lamp on the nightstand that gave off a reddish-pink glow as well as the outside lights coming in the huge arched, multipaned window that was at the front of the unit.

His bedroom area held masculine, st.u.r.dy, wood furniture, all with minimal design but what design it had held a bent toward a modern that would turn cla.s.sic, not go out of style.

To the left, a seating/TV area with another enormous window and beyond that, colossal open s.p.a.ce. This s.p.a.ce included a kitchen with stainless steel countertops and appliances, black cabinets and an enormous butcher-block topped island. It also included a modern dining room table with high backed chairs that seated six, as well as an area beyond that was set up with a desk facing the room, a desk that, from the scatterings on its top, was used.

The back wall was also exposed brick.

Inward and to the right was another wide brick arch with step up that led, from my vantage point, to s.p.a.ce that held workout equipment.

I took it all in, noting the only incongruous piece in the entirety of the place, including incidental furniture, rugs and wall art, was a beat-up old La-Z-Boy recliner in the seating area.

Even the mouthwatering smell of garlic and spices that was wafting from gleaming and steaming pots in the kitchen, the enormous-bowled, fine-stemmed, tall red winegla.s.s and breathing bottle of wine sitting on the bar and the plethora of salad paraphernalia, foodstuffs and half-drunk gla.s.s of wine on the butcher-block island were utter perfection.

It was like a professionally dressed movie set for the interesting hot guy with trustworthy eyes and a fantastic body who the heroine was sure was too good for her. Until, of course, he convinces her she's worth the time he's going to spend getting her in his king-size bed in his fantastic bedroom s.p.a.ce and making beautiful love to her.

A movie where, at the end, he'd have no problem leaving that fabulous unit to buy a four bedroom house in a trendy country setting (that's more like a suburb) whereupon they'd immediately adopt a Labrador puppy and start making a family.

When in real life the man who owned and decorated (or oversaw the decoration) of a place such as this would have zero tolerance for a clueless heroine he had to train. Instead, he'd only have eyes for a woman confident in every aspect of her life. He would also never end up in a trendy country setting that was actually a suburb. He might eventually end up in a mini-mansion much like mine or a country house that had already been completely refurbished so he could start raising horses without delay, but never a trendy country setting.

And if he adopted a dog, he'd pick whatever breed struck his fancy, as long as it wasn't too happy-crazy-bouncy and the dog was fine with either going with him everywhere he went like a hot guy canine sidekick or being chill hanging out and waiting for Dad to come home.

These thoughts inanely running through my head, I glanced around noting they'd used the raw materials of the warehouse beautifully. Nick's s.p.a.ce being a bachelor pad for a man with money and taste. But a woman could easily make the s.p.a.ce feminine and marvelous.

Too bad he lived in that building. I would be in the market for something (hopefully soon, though no offer from the second viewing and actually no additional viewings from anyone) and I could work with a s.p.a.ce like this.

I felt his eyes on me and looked up to him at my side.

"Impressive," I noted.

"I can die happy, you approve," he muttered, but there was no sting to his words because even in the subdued lighting of his s.p.a.ce I could see his eyes were amused.

He was teasing.

I ignored that and declared, "Though, I feel I must inform you that the La-Z-Boy skews your aesthetic."

My flippant remark was a mistake.

The biggest one I'd made in my life.

Because the second I finished uttering it, Nick's arm shafted up. Before I knew what he intended, he'd hooked it around my neck, using it to yank me to him. I collided with his long, solid frame just in time to hear and feel him burst out laughing.

His laughter was as deep and pleasant as his voice.

And then some.

A lot of some.

So much of some I wanted the sound and feel of it to last a lifetime.

Unfortunately, it did not. His arm at my neck released some pressure and I felt him s.h.i.+ft so I looked up at him to see he'd adjusted to look down at me.

"It's my dad's. Been my dad's since I could form a memory. Dad loved that chair. No f.u.c.kin' clue how many NASCAR races and football games he watched in that chair, probably thousands. Remember him holding me on his knee when I was f.u.c.kin' around and climbed the cabinets in the kitchen to get something, knocked over a gla.s.s pitcher that broke, then fell on the gla.s.s pitcher, gas.h.i.+n' open my leg. Deep. Long. Twelve st.i.tches. Dad held me there while Mom wrapped a bandage around it before they took me to the doctor." His eyes drifted beyond me as he finished, "Got a million stories like that about that chair."

I did not like where this was going.

I so much didn't like this, continuing to do things I knew I shouldn't do, I noted gently, "As lovely as that is, I'm not feeling good thoughts about that chair being ten feet away."

He stilled.

Completely.

Except his eyes.

They came right to me, working, s.h.i.+fting, going from blatant shock to melt to sweet warmth until he closed them from me and they were hidden.

"He's not dead, Olivia," he explained quietly but without inflection. "Mom got sick of that chair. Said it was an eyesore. Redecorated the whole f.u.c.kin' family room with the sole purpose of getting shot of that chair. The minute we heard it was goin', Knight and me started fightin' over who would get it. Anya put her foot down that she would not inherit that ratty-a.s.s chair. So, not havin' a woman to bust my b.a.l.l.s, for once in my life with Knight-and that is not an exaggeration-I won. Though, sayin' that, that chair is worth negative five hundred dollars and it cost me a f.u.c.kin' arm and leg to s.h.i.+p it from Hawaii, it's b.u.t.t-ugly, f.u.c.ks with my aesthetic and on a wet day, it smells. So I'm not real certain how big a prize I got."

"It appears you may have much the same relations.h.i.+p with your brother as I do with my sister."

His arm around my neck tightened as he started moving, drawing me farther into his place.

"Somethin' we have in common, outside we both like control, you in those shoes and you in those jeans. Though I 'spect the reason why I like you in those shoes and jeans is different than the reason you like 'em."

"I suspect you're right."

He stopped us by the wine, released his hold on me, gave me an amused gleam out of his blue eyes and ordered, "You pour. Then you're on salad duty. I got bread to sort and s.h.i.+t."

After that, he sauntered comfortably around the bar in a pad that might be perfect, but to him it was home, to get to the bread, which was part of the foodstuffs arranged on the island.

I put my purse to the bar, shrugged off my jacket, poured wine and asked, "You want more?"

"Top up would be good," he muttered, reaching a long arm out to nab a bread knife from a knife block at the back counter.

I moved around the bar and topped up his wine. Then I a.s.sessed the salad stuff. After that, I a.s.sumed salad duty, keeping an eye on Nick who was very much sorting the bread. In fact, with an ease obviously born of practice, he was making homemade garlic bread, including microwaving crushed garlic, b.u.t.ter and olive oil, brus.h.i.+ng, sprinkling bits of cheese and broiling.

I looked to the bubbling sauce.

"Homemade bread, does that mean homemade sauce?" I asked.

"Didn't have time," he muttered surprisingly, a mutter that alluded to the fact that, if he did, he could also have made homemade red sauce. "And hope you like meat," he went on. "Sauce has got ground sirloin and Italian sausage in it."

"I like meat," I a.s.sured him.

His attention came to me on that but fortunately he didn't treat me to some coa.r.s.e, schoolboy, low-intellect comment.

He just gave me a look telling me he had one on the tip of his tongue and he was saving me from it.

"Thank you," I replied to his look.

Another mistake.

He again started laughing.