Yes, I liked spaghetti.
But more, I desperately, even feverishly wanted to know if he was a good cook.
Naturally, I didn’t share either of these.
I stated, “It really shouldn’t matter to you if I do or don’t considering I’m your fuck for the evening.”
“An evening when I intend to eat spaghetti,” he returned.
“If that’s the case, I’ll come over at eight,” I replied.
There was a brief hesitation before he suggested, “I think we should define this fuck business you think you got goin’ on.”
For some reason I found that funny.
I could not allow him to make me laugh.
“A fuck hardly needs defining, Sebring.”
He ignored me. “You seem to be good with climbing on my dick, climbing off it and going home.”
“Yes, that would be how I define a fuck,” I confirmed.
“Right,” he said shortly but was far from done. “Not askin’ you to share your darkest secrets, Olivia, sure as fuck not gonna share mine with you. But you are not hard to look at. You’re sharp and smart and funny. And straight up, I’d rather sit around eatin’ spaghetti talkin’ to you while lookin’ at you before I fuck you than sit in my place by myself waitin’ for you to show and climb on my dick.”
All that was nice.
I could not allow that to feel nice.
“Seb—”
“We don’t gotta be friends,” he said. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly. This is no strings. I’m not lookin’ for attachments. I think we both get with who we are in our world it wouldn’t be smart we formed one. That shit never works. Not for anyone.”
He certainly had that right.
He didn’t need me to confirm that, he kept going.
“You got your gig with your family business and that in no way interests me. I do not want your gig or your family in my business. But we’re adults. We both got our heads screwed on straight, or at least I do and with your need to establish boundaries, I’m gettin’ yours is too. There’s more than one way to enjoy someone. You just wanna offer me your body, I’ll take it and be down with that. But I’d rather get the opportunity to look at you for longer periods of time than what I get fuckin’ you. If that comes with us having a few chats that don’t go beyond surface, I’m down with that too.”
He was handing me an option, marking the path so I wouldn’t get hopelessly lost.
An option I knew I shouldn’t take.
“I like spaghetti,” I announced.
Damn.
There was a smile in his voice I would have preferred to see aimed at me when he said, “Seven.”
“Right.”
“Later, Olivia.”
“’Bye, Sebring.”
We hung up.
Ten minutes later, he texted his address.
I finished paying bills.
Then I spent way too long finding the exact perfect outfit with shoes and accessories and primping with the intent of looking utterly, amazingly fabulous at the same time hoping my outfit came off like I was doing nothing important, just heading over to some guy’s house for spaghetti and a fuck.
I did all this convincing myself the path was marked.
But knowing in the deepest recesses of my mind that I was already lost.
* * * * *
Before I left, as Harry had taught me (in case of emergency, which I decided to think of this as that), I carefully took off the tracker my father had placed on my car.
I also checked to see if any of the boys were in their usual places when they randomly sat and watched my house.
When I saw all was clear, I headed out.
But even with my sat nav, I got lost on the way to Nick’s.
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 space 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.
But more, I desperately, even feverishly wanted to know if he was a good cook.
Naturally, I didn’t share either of these.
I stated, “It really shouldn’t matter to you if I do or don’t considering I’m your fuck for the evening.”
“An evening when I intend to eat spaghetti,” he returned.
“If that’s the case, I’ll come over at eight,” I replied.
There was a brief hesitation before he suggested, “I think we should define this fuck business you think you got goin’ on.”
For some reason I found that funny.
I could not allow him to make me laugh.
“A fuck hardly needs defining, Sebring.”
He ignored me. “You seem to be good with climbing on my dick, climbing off it and going home.”
“Yes, that would be how I define a fuck,” I confirmed.
“Right,” he said shortly but was far from done. “Not askin’ you to share your darkest secrets, Olivia, sure as fuck not gonna share mine with you. But you are not hard to look at. You’re sharp and smart and funny. And straight up, I’d rather sit around eatin’ spaghetti talkin’ to you while lookin’ at you before I fuck you than sit in my place by myself waitin’ for you to show and climb on my dick.”
All that was nice.
I could not allow that to feel nice.
“Seb—”
“We don’t gotta be friends,” he said. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly. This is no strings. I’m not lookin’ for attachments. I think we both get with who we are in our world it wouldn’t be smart we formed one. That shit never works. Not for anyone.”
He certainly had that right.
He didn’t need me to confirm that, he kept going.
“You got your gig with your family business and that in no way interests me. I do not want your gig or your family in my business. But we’re adults. We both got our heads screwed on straight, or at least I do and with your need to establish boundaries, I’m gettin’ yours is too. There’s more than one way to enjoy someone. You just wanna offer me your body, I’ll take it and be down with that. But I’d rather get the opportunity to look at you for longer periods of time than what I get fuckin’ you. If that comes with us having a few chats that don’t go beyond surface, I’m down with that too.”
He was handing me an option, marking the path so I wouldn’t get hopelessly lost.
An option I knew I shouldn’t take.
“I like spaghetti,” I announced.
Damn.
There was a smile in his voice I would have preferred to see aimed at me when he said, “Seven.”
“Right.”
“Later, Olivia.”
“’Bye, Sebring.”
We hung up.
Ten minutes later, he texted his address.
I finished paying bills.
Then I spent way too long finding the exact perfect outfit with shoes and accessories and primping with the intent of looking utterly, amazingly fabulous at the same time hoping my outfit came off like I was doing nothing important, just heading over to some guy’s house for spaghetti and a fuck.
I did all this convincing myself the path was marked.
But knowing in the deepest recesses of my mind that I was already lost.
* * * * *
Before I left, as Harry had taught me (in case of emergency, which I decided to think of this as that), I carefully took off the tracker my father had placed on my car.
I also checked to see if any of the boys were in their usual places when they randomly sat and watched my house.
When I saw all was clear, I headed out.
But even with my sat nav, I got lost on the way to Nick’s.
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 space 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.
