though. Almost every friend she’d had in high school and the early years of college, every female friend that is, had somehow, someway subverted their dreams because of love. Her experience might be a statistical anomaly, but it was a damn scary one.
Bree had nothing against relationships, but that was for later. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of marriage before thirty, and quite possibly longer than that. Forget a child in her twenties. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child at all. Not something she had to worry about at the moment, thank goodness, but liking Charlie? That was a distinct possibility.
Of course, his liking her back was highly improbable. On the level of her winning the lottery. Which was worse in some ways, because even though it was one night, and she had a hint of a crush on him, there was every reason to believe there might be sparks in the bedroom. It would be so very Bree to find herself enamored with Charlie, only to crumble in a fit of pining and lovelorn paralysis for however long it would take to get over it. That would also not be good for the plan.
This having-sex decision was more complicated than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t given in to more champagne.
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but Charlie really had been gone a long time. She pushed off the couch and went toward the kitchen, hoping nothing had gone wrong. Two steps later, the door swung open and Charlie came in carrying a silver tray. On it, he’d put a pot, an actual teapot, made of fine china decorated with flowers and vines. There were matching cups, two, and saucers, also two. A little cream pourer, a bowl of sugar lumps, tongs, TONGS, lemon slices, a strainer, and she had to get closer to see that the tins were actually different varieties of tea. She looked up at Charlie, and he looked back. It was a … moment.
Part of her wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of her wanted to know what the hell?
“Seems I have a tea service,” he said, his voice low and wickedly deadpan. “I never knew that. I don’t do a lot of cooking, and someone else put my kitchen together. But I thought, why not? I may never be asked for tea again.”
“I see—oh, that one isn’t tea. That’s biscuits?”
“English shortbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh, according to the package.” He put the tray on the coffee table after she’d scurried to clear off some magazines. “My guess is that my housekeeper is the tea aficionado. She comes in three times a week, and I don’t pay attention to her snacking habits. Makes sense, though. She stocks the fridge. The tea set looks like something my mother would own, and expect me to own.”
“And here I was thinking a mug and a Lipton’s tea bag. But this will do.”
“It will, huh?”
Bree nodded. “So many different kinds,” she said, busy investigating. There was chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and one she had never heard of called British Blend. She pointed to it. “Shall I make a pot?”
“Go for it.”
She was very glad she’d used loose tea before as she poured the leaves into the hot water, then left it to steep. In her cup, she used the tongs to put in two lumps of sugar, poured in a hint of milk and waited nervously as she realized how close together they were on the couch.
This wasn’t like having his arm around her at the party or even sitting pressed up to him in the limo. A bedroom was now involved, only steps away.
She could take one of two approaches to the next minute: she could bring up the decor and keep wondering what was going to happen until he did something obvious, or she could put on her big girl panties and ask if they were going to share more than tea. “So,” she said, “you like art deco.”
Charlie glanced up at her, his own sugar lump tonged and hovering above his cup. “Yes. I do.”
She barely heard him over the cursing in her head, which was frankly not very nice. She wasn’t a wimp and hated to think she was a chicken, but the only way to prove she had cajones was to act like it. “Is the whole place art deco?” she asked, trying to be sexily coy, not creepily stiff. “Your bedroom, for example?”
She winced. She couldn’t help it. A fifteen-year-old could have done better.
The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plunk and Charlie smiled. “Perhaps, after tea, you’d like to see it?”
Bree nodded, then busied herself with straining the leaves and pouring. She decided she’d said enough already, but Charlie didn’t pitch in to fill the silence. He might have been watching her or gazing out the window; she didn’t know because she didn’t dare look up. It was enough to will her hands steady and her thoughts calm and composed. Something had happened in the past few seconds; maybe it was how his voice had lowered and how the husky murmur slid over her skin like a warm vibrant promise—she had no idea.
No, he was definitely zeroed in on her, she decided, as the weight of his stare seemed to change the very air around them. She could actually feel him watching, waiting, missing nothing. She set down the pot, picked up her cup and took a sip, barely tasting more than the warmth as the quiet stretched between them. The element of surreality, what with silver tongs and it being two in the morning, made time shimmer and slow. She drank again, the delicate cup insisting she raise her pinkie.
She finally glanced over and saw that Charlie was, in fact, staring. He also lifted his cup to his lips, drank silently, his hand large and his fingers long, his eyes never leaving her, never wavering.
She was acutely aware that he could have glanced down to the tops of her pushed-up breasts, to her barely covered thighs. If he had he would have noticed the intermittent tremors, the pink skin she felt sure was not just on her cheeks but the tips of her ears.
It was unbearably sexy, that stare, his dark eyes so large, unblinking. As if he could see more than she wanted him to.
As every second ticked by, the heat intensified, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She blinked. “The tea’s good,” she said, surprised her voice was steady.
He swiped his bottom lip with the edge of his tongue; barely a swipe really, only enough for the light to catch on the moisture.
“Although I have no idea what makes it a British blend. It tastes like … tea.”
He lowered his cup. “I’ve got a window in my bedroom,” he said, his voice—still low and rumbly—moving through her like distant thunder. “I want to take your dress off slowly. Let it fall down your body. I’ve been wondering for hours what’s underneath. I’m guessing black, maybe lace, maybe silk, but definitely black. You’ll look incredible standing by that window with the lights of the city as your backdrop.”
Bree almost dropped her cup, clumsy and awkward as a surge of wet heat flowed through her. She’d been so together, too. All calm and reasonable and thinking things through. And then he had to go and say that.
She was officially in another plane of existence because there was no one in the world as she knew it who could have said those words in that tone with that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was someone sitting behind her, some model or actress or virtually anyone who wasn’t Bree Kingston.
“Bree?” His smile was slow, controlled, while she hesitated.
God, why was she hesitating? A few more seconds and maybe she could get her legs in working order.
He stood and held out his hand for her. Heart beating flamenco style, head swirling in a cloud of lust and weirdness, she rose without spilling, tripping or making any unfortunate sounds.
Instead of pulling her closer, Charlie stepped into her personal space, then into her. His body touched her from chest to thigh, and he was warm and big and he smelled as if he’d just walked in a forest. Looking up was nothing new, but meeting his gaze so near, feeling his tea-sweet breath caress her lips, that was stunning. As he bent down, her eyes closed at the last possible second, and then, and then …