I pull up to Derek’s gated community and check in with the very serious-looking security guard. This neighborhood is known for housing some of the most elite celebrities and athletes in L.A. It’s highly guarded and no one is getting in here without special access. Which is why I’m really hoping Derek added me to the list as I hand my ID over to the guard. A few seconds later, he buzzes me through and I’m driving past the most jaw-dropping homes I’ve ever seen.
Not a single house in this neighborhood goes for under eight million dollars. And as I pull into Derek’s curved driveway, cresting the small privacy forest planted strategically in front, I get a good look at his enormous home and know exactly how Elizabeth Bennet felt pulling up to Pemberley. There’s no way he bought this thing for under twelve million.
This is where Derek lives.
Too bad he’s a meanie now.
I park my car on the designated guest parking slab, and then just sit here and stare for goodness knows how long, taking it all in. The monstrosity is built in an L shape and the exterior is a mix of gray stone, charcoal siding, and black iron trim around all the windows. There’s some sort of lion statue in a little pond off to the side shooting water from its mouth. And the windows are so large I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’re the same size as an entire wall of my apartment. This place is easily ten thousand square feet.
Why does he live here? It seems like too much house for one man.
Or…oh shoot. Maybe he’s not one man. Maybe he has a girlfriend right now and she lives in there with him? Maybe he has a girlfriend that he’s deeply in love with and only seconds from popping the question to! Maybe I’m about to interrupt a proposal!
Maybe I need to put a lid on my imagination and set my burners to simmer.
I give myself a stern look in my car’s rearview mirror. “Now, listen up, you. Derek Pender doesn’t matter to you anymore. Even if you interrupt a proposal, it has no bearing on your life. He’s free to marry whomever he wishes. You can do this. You are a strong, smart, sexy muffin of a woman and you can do this.” One firm nod, and I’m out of the car and walking under the stone portico that leads to his front door.
I ring the doorbell and wait for him to answer. I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Finally, as I’m about to get my phone out to call him, the door opens.
“Took you forever to get here,” Derek says in lieu of a greeting and gestures for me to come inside.
I don’t know why I was expecting a Downton Abbey butler to be on the other side of that door, but I definitely wasn’t prepared for the sight of Derek in athletic shorts, sweating and chest heaving under a white, sweat-soaked L.A. Sharks T-shirt. It’s clinging scandalously to his body, and I can see a perfect outline of each ripped muscle on his torso. He’s got tattoos under that shirt too. They’re dotting his pecs—though I can’t make out what they are.
I want to pause and admire the ones on his arms, but I don’t dare let myself stare long enough to identify them. My gaze has already been lingering on his massive shoulders too long.
“Yes, well, all of L.A. decided it was a good night to take a drive. And the sunset was gorgeous, so they weren’t wrong.” And you also didn’t give me any heads-up about this impromptu drive.
Ripping my eyes away from his body, I find his face. That’s no better. It’s honestly unfair that any human can look this sexy. I always thought Derek was manly and grown up back when we dated in college. This version makes past Derek look like a little baby boy in a diaper. I mean, holy crap. The forearms on him. The muscles at the base of his neck. He has crowbars for collarbones. If I lock myself out of my car, I’ll just have him ram those bones of steel into my window and it’ll break in an instant. But it’s the sheer heftiness of his muscles that are the most shocking. Last I heard, the NFL used weights in the training facility, but I think they’re lifting cars.
Everyone who’s ever cracked open a magazine knows that Nathan Donelson is the most beautiful man in the NFL. He’s got Clark Kent Superman looks. A pretty smile and dimples and dark eyes. But Derek Pender is attractive in a different way. He’s just so…well, he’s virile and dangerous-looking. His masculinity rolls off him in waves, making me want to bite my bottom lip and then his. It’s a desire that I haven’t felt in a long time.
Speaking of bottom lips, that mouth of his is turned down into a serious frown and I assume he knows I’ve been ogling him.
I clear my throat and hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “Your house is incredible. And I love the lion out there. Please tell me you named him Simba?”
“I haven’t named it anything.”
I press my hand to my heart. “How will he know you love him?”
Looking annoyed, Derek opens the door further. “Just come inside, Nora.”
He turns around for me to follow and thanks to his nearly see-through sweaty shirt, it looks like he’s got some tattoos on his back as well. I’m itching to ask if there’s any meaning behind each of them, but I’m also trying to stay as mentally detached from the man walking in front of me as possible. I can’t let myself wonder what this Derek is like. If he still hates popcorn. What his favorite show is these days? Does he still talk in his sleep?
“Everyone calls me Mac now, you know?”
“I noticed.”
“But you’re not going to?” It still feels so strange to be in the same room as him. A quiet energy hums under my skin. Like it’s trying to resuscitate itself.
“It’s tempting…” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Since I remember how much you hate that nickname. But no, I don’t think I will.”
My steps falter a beat from my shock—thankfully, he doesn’t notice. And also doesn’t ask me any questions about why I’d go by that name (probably because that would be breaking rule number two). So why isn’t he jumping at the opportunity to call me by a name I dislike? Especially since he seems to hate me so much.
I follow Derek’s sexy back all the way through his enormous lofty foyer (omg his staircase has a glass railing, making it look like it floats to the top floor), through a gorgeous living room decorated in a Scandinavian design, which opens into a breathtaking kitchen that overlooks his backyard. And oh my gosh, don’t even get me started on how incredible a backyard it is! Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I see a mix of a courtyard and pool complete with white canopied cabana. Behind all of that is his completely glass-encased home gym.
“Wow,” I say, doing a half spin to take it all in. “This is…”
“A kitchen.”
I level a flat look at him. “Oh please—it’s an ode to paradise and how dare you call it anything else.”
“Well, it’s lucky you feel that way because this is where you’ll be for the next hour or so.” He plucks a kitchen towel off the island and rubs it over the back of his sweaty neck and hair. The tight muscles in his arms flex under his tattoos and I tear my gaze away as quickly as possible.
I toss a hesitant glance around the kitchen island and find ingredients littering the counter. His Important Work is feeling less important by the second. “What exactly am I doing here, boss?”
“Don’t call me boss.”
“Okay, Derek-bo-berek-fe-fi-fo—”
He groans, cutting me off while running his hands over his face. He’s already exasperated with me, and I’ve only been here five minutes. It’s these small comforts in life that bring me joy. “Just don’t call me anything,” he says impatiently. “You’re here to make fettuccine Alfredo for my date. That’s all.”
I laugh once. “I’m sorry, I think all those extravagant muscles of yours are pulling too much energy from your brain, because it sounds like you just told me I’m going to be your personal chef, and surely that’s a mistake?”
Derek’s blue eyes narrow on me and I could swear a hint of a smile sneaks into the corner of his mouth. “No mistake. I need you to make dinner. I have a date coming over later and my chef is indisposed.”
Indisposed is what someone says about a person they’ve killed and stuffed in the basement. Did Derek kill his cook so that he could torture me in a culinary fashion?
I put one hand on my hip, trying to appear as authoritative as possible. “I truly dislike bursting your bubble, but I don’t think fettuccine Alfredo is in my job description.”
His eyes zero in on me, intense enough to make me waver on my feet. He takes one step closer. “Isn’t it, though? My last agent made sure I knew he was always at my service whenever I needed him. And I distinctly remember you saying you have your client’s best interests at heart.”
He’s giving Darth Vader right now—wholly committed to the Dark Side.
And okay, so technically it’s true that we agents are supposed to fulfill our clients’ appropriate needs, but they’re never actually so rude to ask us to do this kind of work. Well, except for that time Nicole played Elsa. But again, she offered to do so because she liked her client and wanted to help. I don’t particularly care for Derek these days, nor do I relish the idea of helping him get lucky on his date tonight. (Forget I added the last part.)
I inch into his space. “You’re abusing your power.”
He inches into mine. “Am I? You’re welcome to quit at any point if the work is too difficult for you. The contract can be dissolved in no time.” His smirk is antagonizing. I hate this Derek. He looks different, he sounds different, he acts different. I’m feeling lucky I didn’t attach myself to him in a more permanent way back then, because clearly professional football has jammed a splintered stick right up his ass.
However, I’m not in the business of giving up. I’m the CEO of taking a lemon and squashing it between my bare hands and then adding a boatload of sugar to the juice because I don’t like tart lemonade. You’re going to have to try harder than fettuccine Alfredo to scare me off, bucko.
I angle my chin higher—so close to him I can smell his sweat and notice the new fine lines beside his eyes—and then…I lower my gaze until I’m staring right up into his nostrils. Nicole wears heels to get on men’s eye level as an intimidation tactic. This, however, is my preferred strategy. “I’m happy to help. Where’s the recipe?”
“Over beside the ingredients.” His brows pull together slightly, clearly concerned that I’m staring relentlessly at his nose, but he doesn’t retreat yet. But oh he wants to. Especially when I take it up a notch and bounce my gaze from his eyes to his nose, back and forth.
He’s so tall and broad it feels like eyeing a skyscraper, but I continue staring up the gold mines of his nose, waiting for him to withdraw first. And to really put it over the top, I sniff lightly. Just once to worm my way into his head a little further.
It takes him all of two seconds to crack.
“Dammit,” Derek finally mutters under his breath before sniffing and turning his head to wipe quickly at his nose and the nonexistent booger. I turn my back to him with a satisfied grin, knowing that this small win will float me for the rest of the night.
Once he’s regained composure, certain there are no bats in the cave, he faces me again. “I’m going to go get a shower.” Not picturing that. “Everything you need should be on the counter or in the fridge.”
I nod and then bury my face in the recipe so I don’t allow myself to remember what it was like to stand under the hot spray of water with Derek’s arms around me. Kissing my shoulder and neck and then…
“Hey, Nora?” Derek asks, and the tenderness in his voice hooks me. For a split second, it’s like the man from my past is calling out to me. I wonder if it’s because he’s having the same memory I was.
“Yeah?”
He licks his lips with a small frown, making me think something truly earth-shattering is coming. “Umm. Just…don’t overcook the noodles.” His smile is a snake. “I hate when they get sticky.”
You’re sticky, I want to say to his retreating backside.
