years ago. I’ve always wanted to live here, enjoy the bright lights and all that.”
“Do you like it?” She whisked the salad dressing in a bowl, then plucked a teaspoon from a drawer to do a taste test.
“I do. Especially when I have such interesting neighbors.”
She smiled, her cheeks flushing a vibrant shade of rose pink. “You mean clumsy neighbors who can’t figure out how to slice an avocado without hurting themselves?”
“Same, same.”
She moved about the kitchen with ease, her long skirt swirling around her feet with each dance-like step. There was an airiness to her, a whimsy that was so different from the serious women he was usually attracted to. She bent to open the oven and heat wafted up into the air, carrying with it the scent of her cooking.
“That smells incredible.” His mouth was already watering, and he’d had some of the best pizza in all of New York. “Don’t tell me you’re a professional chef.”
“No, just an amateur one. But I did make the base from scratch.” She slid on an oven mitt and pulled out the tray containing their dinner. “I really enjoy cooking. It relaxes me...well, when I’m not cutting myself.”
“Tell me that doesn’t happen too often.”
“Thankfully it is a rare occurrence.” She placed the tray down on the stove and Rhys could see she was relying on her uninjured hand to hold the weight.
“Do you need a hand slicing it up?”
“No, I’ll be fine. If you could take the wine to the table, that would be great.”
Moments later they were seated, steaming slices of pizza resting on large white plates in front of them. But the way Wren looked at him made him hungry for something else. A sensual smile curved on her lips.
“Eat up,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “It’s best when it’s hot.”
“I like it hot,” he said, picking up the slice and blowing at the steam shimmering off the pizza’s surface.
“I can see that.”
“Are you flirting with me?” He bit into the pizza and moaned as the hot, cheesy goodness hit his tongue.
“What if I was?” She took a bite of her slice and flicked her tongue out to catch a stray droplet of sauce. “Are you open to a little neighborly flirting?”
She folded both of her feet under her so that she sat cross-legged on top of the chair, tangling the frothy layers of her skirt around her legs. Realizing that she was still wearing her apron, she reached behind herself and untied it. As she pulled the apron over her head, her tank top rode up, revealing a slice of lightly tanned skin and smooth, flat belly.
She scrambled to tug the fabric back down, her cheeks flushing, but Rhys carried on the conversation, pretending he hadn’t almost choked on his pizza. “Flirting is fine by me. In fact, I’ve been looking for someone to practice my flirting skills on.”
“Is that so?” She reached for her wine. “Are you a little rusty?”
“That’s for you to judge.”
“Go on, hit me with your best pickup line.” Her eyes sparkled and a smile twitched on her lips.
This was about to go downhill. Fast. Pickup lines weren’t really his style. In fact, he excelled at meeting women in unconventional ways...like having them turn up at his apartment, bleeding.
He shook his head, laughing, as he took another bite out of his pizza. “I prefer a more casual approach.”
She planted her fists on her waist and flapped her elbows up and down. “Buck, buck, buck.”
“You did not just call me chicken.” Damn, the girl had sass.
“Let me hear your line, then.” She grinned.
“Oh, you’re on.” He reached his arms above his head, making a show of stretching his neck from side to side. Her eyes skated over him, wide and stormy. “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”
“No!” She roared, throwing her head back and letting out a burst of laughter that was belly deep and totally disarming. Totally and richly at odds with the rest of her dainty, fairylike appearance. “That’s terrible.”
“Are you a fruit, because honeydew you know how fine you look right now?”
She gasped. “I didn’t think it could get worse—”
“Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”
“Please.” She held up a hand, her shoulders heaving as laughter spilled out of her. The sound warmed him from the inside out. “Stop.”
“Your body is sixty-five percent water and I’m thirsty.” He pretended to brush the dirt off his shoulders. “I could go all night.”
“Okay, okay. You win.” She clapped her hands together and bowed. “You are the king of the worst pickup lines I have ever had the misfortune of hearing.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Fair. I promise to listen to you next time.” She drained the rest of her wine and immediately topped them both up. “I’m curious now. How do you usually pick up women?”
“I’m a bit out of practice.” He figured honesty was the best policy. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about the sad state of his love life right now.
“Me, too.” She nodded to herself. “Looks like we’re in the same boat.”
Over the course of the next hour they finished the whole pizza and made a start on another bottle of wine. A delicious and languid feeling spread through him, loosening his limbs and his tongue. Maybe it was her incredible cooking, the good drink or some combination, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as connected to another person as he did with Wren.
She unwound her legs and untangled her skirt, stretching her arms back and thrusting her breasts forward. His mouth watered as the fabric stretched, making it sheer enough that he could see the shadow of her nipples through the fabric.
Nope, that woman did not need to wear a bra at all.
* * *
“THANKS FOR SHARING the pizza with me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I get a little excited when I cook and I always end up with way too much.”
“I’m open to helping you deal with any leftovers that might come up.” Rhys flashed another pearly white smile and Wren wondered how many times that smile had drawn women to him. “But let me at least do the dishes.”
“No way. You saved me from bleeding all over the building, trying to find bandages.” She held up a hand. “Dinner was my treat. The dishes can wait.”
“Well, thank you. It was delicious. You sure you’re really not a chef?”
“No, I’m an artist.” The words slipped out and brought with them an immediate sense of guilt. “Well, what I mean to say is that I work in a gallery.”
“That’s not what you said.” His dark eyes scanned her face, curiosity obviously piqued. “You called yourself an artist.”
Shit. She’d been so desperate to have that title for so many years that clearly the idea still floated around in her brain like a piece of flotsam waiting to trip her up. Being an artist was no longer her dream. And after she finished using her art as a cover to find out what happened to Kylie, it would be out of her life for good.
“I dabble,” she said eventually, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea.
“What sort of art?”
She swallowed against the lump in