Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4) (18 page)

It’s beautiful. It’s sophisticated. It’s amazing. And it’s…
Jude.

“I was beginning to think you’d drowned. But now I see you’re just lost.”

I gasp so loud I shriek as I whirl around and come face to face with the man whose closet I’ve so rudely intruded upon. I can feel it as my cheeks turn red, and I curse myself for putting myself in the position to be embarrassed in front of him.
Again.
He’s going to think I have some sort of condition. I swear, I’ve never met anyone who makes me blush this much.

I open my mouth to apologize, but the only words that come to mind are—“Your closet is—it’s—it’s
incredible
.”

He stares at me for a moment, clearly amused, before he says, “You just spent the last half an hour in my shower, and it’s my
closet
you love?”

“Sorry,” I murmur, finally finding my apology. “I shouldn’t have come in here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, offering me his hand. “Come. Dinner is almost ready.”

My heart beats wildly as I even
consider
placing my hand in his; but in light of my horrible manners, I feel as though I owe him. I slide my palm against his and it takes everything in me not to pull away. His touch sends an electric current throughout my entire body. It’s overwhelming.
Too
overwhelming, but I don’t let go. When he looks down at our joined hands, and then into my eyes, I wonder if he feels the same thing—but he doesn’t say a word before he leads me out of the closet, out of his bedroom, and up the cool metal stairs.

When we reach the landing of his second level, I stop dead in my tracks. Every time I enter a room, I’m more blown away than I was when I entered the last.

The entire second level of his house is one, big open space. The walls are made of brick, robbing the room of any chance at brightness. But the wall-to-wall windows that take up the back side of the room probably provide a ton of sunlight during the day.

The space, while one big room, is more like three in one. He’s got two brown leather sofas that straddle a wooden-plank-topped coffee table. My lips twitch with a small smile as I think—
a lot of trees were killed for the making of his décor.
He’s also got two over-stuffed tan chairs that take up another side of the table. Then, behind the living room, just in front of the large windows, is a long dining room table, complete with six chairs. It all feels so warm and inviting, and I wonder how a
bachelor
could reside in such a place all by himself.

Over the dining room table, I spot the one and only thing that could possibly speak of his single status. Up the set of spiral, metal stairs on the far left side of the room, there’s a little loft. It appears to hold a pool table and a couple stools.

“The original house came with an attic,” he explains, hinting that he’s been watching my eyes as they dance around the room. “I took it out. I appreciate high ceilings.”

I hear him, but I don’t acknowledge him, still completely blown away and absolutely speechless. There’s no television in sight. And while I never pegged him as a man who hung
posters
, I’m impressed with the art he has hanging about the room.

“Teddy?” he questions, allowing my fingers to slip away from his.

I shake my head, trying to gain control of myself. I look up at him, his grey eyes trained on me, and in this moment, I understand that there is so much more to him than what meets the eye. He harbors
brilliance
in that mind of his—and it’s breathtaking.

“You’re like…you’re like really good at what you do, aren’t you? I mean—” I glance around the room once more before a laugh forces its way from my chest. “You’re like a badass in your field.”

“Yes,” he states assuredly and without pause.

He reaches up and rubs his chin before he tucks his hands into his pant pockets. Now that I’m not freezing cold and freaking out about being in his house, I notice that his jaw is covered in a five o’clock shadow. It’s too short to be scruff, cluing me in to the fact that he’s earned that shadow throughout the day, and it’s sexy as hell. I also realize that he’s not wearing what he was when he picked me up. Now he’s in a pair of navy khakis and a checkered button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and his collar undone. That must mean that he came back to the room to change while I was in the shower.

He looks far more put together than me, and I have to pull my eyes away from his as I question, once again—
What in the hell am I doing here?

My stomach growls, filling the silence between us, and I clap my hands over my stomach, as if the act will shut the organ up.

“I think that’s our cue. Come on.”

I look up just as he’s making his way across the room, and I follow behind him. His kitchen is to the right of the dining room. There’s an island with four stools tucked beneath it and I invite myself to take a seat while he busies himself at the stove. My eyes sweep the space, of course, and I find it just as mesmerizing as the rest of his house. My kitchen could fit in here at least three times, and the copper farmhouse sink he has makes me a little jealous. And don’t even get me started on his assortment of coffee makers. He has a Keurig, an espresso machine,
and
a French press.

I might be falling in love.

With his kitchen, of course.

“S
o, what are you making? It smells good.”

“Lemon chicken and asparagus stir-fry,” I tell her, opening the cabinet to pull out two plates. “Would you like rice?”

“Please,” she murmurs.

As I plate our food, I think about how this will be the first time I’ve made a woman dinner since I moved to Fort Collins. It’s certainly not something that I do on a regular basis, but I have done it a time or two in my day. It’s a tactic best reserved for those conquests that like to play hard to get. Though, something tells me it’ll take a lot more than
stir-fry
to win Teddy over.

Once I’ve plated our food, I turn to face her. I originally planned on dining at the table, but she looks quite alluring right where she is. She’s drowning in my clothes, my t-shirt draping off the side of her bare shoulder, exposing her milky white skin and a smattering of freckles. With her hair wild and wet, her skin still glowing from her long shower, she looks almost freshly fucked—and just looking at her makes me hungry for something far more satisfying than chicken.

I clear my throat, ignore my semi-hard cock, and place her plate in front of her—setting mine just beside hers.

“Something to drink? I’ve got wine. However, I wasn’t planning on your visit, so it’s of the darker variety.”

“Um,” she hums, rearranging herself in her seat. She brings her feet up to sit cross-legged and sweeps her hair behind her ears nervously. “Do you have a zin? Or a malbec?”

“I’m certain I do,” I assure her, heading toward my pantry. It only takes me a moment to find what I’m looking for. After opening the zinfandel, I pour two glasses and then occupy the seat beside her. “Bon appetite.”

“You really didn’t have to go through all of this trouble,” she tells me before taking her first bite.

I ignore her ridiculous insinuation. She called me, completely stranded, with the intention of asking me to leave her, completely stranded, someplace else. Even if she wasn’t incredibly irresistible, I was brought up far better than that.

“How is it?” I ask, nodding to her second fork-f.

“It’s delicious. Thank you. I’m horrible in the kitchen, so my homemade meals come from a box.”

“No one ever taught you how to cook?”

“My mom tried,” she says with a shrug. “I guess, at the time, I just wasn’t all that interested. Eventually, she gave up. Harper knows a thing or two, though. Where did you get your skills?”

“My mother. She insisted that her boys couldn’t leave the house without being able to feed themselves properly.”

She giggles, her face lighting up with the sound. “Smart woman.”

“She is,” I say, reaching for my wine.

“Did she have anything to do with all of this?” She waves her fork as she looks around my living space. “I mean, your penchant for design?”

I can’t help the small smile that plays at my lips as I watch her eyes—bright with wonder and admiration. The face she made when I brought her upstairs and she caught her first glimpse of my space, it stirred something inside of me—something a lot higher than my dick. I’m fully aware that I’m good at what I do. I know the work I put into my home and the value behind my design. But to see her appreciate it—it makes her worthy, worthy to be in my personal space. Most women don’t get invited up here. In fact,
no woman
, other than Marta and Aunt Eddalyn, has seen much more than my bedroom and the front door. It surprises me how much I enjoy having Teddy here.

“No,” I finally answer when her eyes settle on mine. “I guess you could say I was born with a designer’s eye, encouraged by my Aunt Eddalyn and my education.”

“It’s very beautiful,” she says shyly. “Will you tell me about it? I mean, what did it look like when you bought it?”

Over the next half an hour, we talk while we eat. The longer she sits, the more comfortable she becomes, and I’m glad to see her begin to relax in my company. When I ask her what her place looks like, the laugh that bubbles out of her is both glorious and contagious.

“It’s certainly nothing like this. It’s a small apartment—so small, in fact, that it could fit in this room.” She shrugs before she rearranges herself, bringing her left leg up as she bends her knee and rests her wrists around her ankle. I watch as my shorts slide down her thigh, and I’m immediately distracted by the bit of ink I see on her skin.

“Miss Fitzpatrick, you surprise me.”

“I do? Why?”

“What’s
this?
” I ask, reaching over to trace my finger across the little bit of tattoo that has been exposed.

“Shit!” She jumps—from my touch, or from my awareness of her ink, I’m not sure. Nevertheless, she’s quick to lower her leg as she tugs on the shorts.

“I’m not allowed to see?” I murmur, lifting an eyebrow at her inquisitively.

“Um.” She draws in a deep breath, sweeping her hair behind her ears—her nervous
tell
. “I just—I don’t usually show people.”

“Ah, but now I know it’s there. I think you should show me—your white knight for the evening.”

I’m well aware that my choice of words is laughable. I’m far from any woman’s
white knight
, but I did rescue the damsel tonight. Furthermore, my curiosity has been piqued, and I’ll say just about anything to have my way.

She studies me for a moment, her pretty brown eyes searching mine—for what, I don’t know. Just when I think she’s about to give in, she speaks.

“How about I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

I smirk at her as I reach for the remainder of my wine. “I would say yes, but I don’t have any tattoos.”

“No. Well, I mean, that’s not what I meant,” she stutters.

Fuck—I love the way she rambles when she’s anxious,
I think to myself as I finish my drink. I then look at her, my unspoken request for clarification expressed with a beckoning wave of my hand.

“My tattoo, it comes with a story. I’ll tell you my story if you’ll tell me yours.”

“I have many stories, Teddy.”

“I’m sure you do,” she says with a small smile. “But I want to know one in particular.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to tell me about the last woman you loved.” I furrow my brow at her. What she’s requesting is not at all what I was expecting. She continues before I can say a word in reply. “I know we don’t really know each other. I know that’s a really personal story, but so is my tattoo. If you want to see it, you’ll have to pay up.”

I can tell by the determined look on her face that she won’t budge on her terms—but I try, anyway. “What makes you think I’ve ever been in love?”

A knowing smile pulls at her lips, making me want to kiss her.

“Because,” she begins to say, pulling my attention away from her tempting mouth. “No one decides that what they seek from a woman is everything
but
love unless they’ve been in love. And, no offense, but you can be a bit of an asshole—and assholes aren’t
born
, they’re
made
. That’s a lesson I learned a long time ago. So, are you going to tell me about her?”