Melted and Whipped (3 page)

My eyes go wide. Of course. I knew Scooter’s age. I’m an idiot; it’s like being near Porter has scrambled my brain.

“His parents sent him out here for a week because his mother’s not well. Scooter isn’t fooled, though. He knows that whenever he gets shipped somewhere else for a week, she has surgery scheduled.”

Instantly I think of my sister. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Will she be okay?”

He nods. “She came through it fine, and hopefully this is the last one.” Porter clearly doesn’t want to talk about it because he thrusts his hands into his pockets and looks around. “How long have you worked here?”

“Four years,” I say. Abandoning my pledge to not feel inferior because of my job, I add, “I spent a few years working in an office. HR department. But I was miserable. I do miss my family like crazy, but coming out here’s the best decision I ever made.” My grin feels forced, like I’m trying to convince myself that it’s true.

Porter barks out a laugh. “You reached that conclusion after a few short years? It took me this long to realize how unhappy I was. But then you always were smarter than me.”

It’s just a throwaway compliment, but I feel my cheeks and the tips of my ears heating.

He turns his gorgeous eyes my way. “Are the slopes open tomorrow?”

“Full day tomorrow, and only in the afternoon on Christmas,” I say. Already I’m doing the math, wondering what the chances are of seeing Porter if I show up for some recreational skiing. I’d love to sip hot cocoa with him in front of a fireplace and catch up. It’s probably the last thing he’d want to do. It’s not like I’ve become more appealing since graduation.

“So you have to work?” he asks.

“Just tomorrow morning. Seniority has its privileges.”

“Will you have any free time after? I’d like to talk about Scooter’s abilities. His father asked me to evaluate him, but I’d like to get your take.” He shakes his head. “You’re probably busy.”

“Not busy,” I tell him. My heart is pounding, and the silence between us is begging to be filled. “All of my friends have gone home for the holidays. I was planning to heat up leftovers and binge-watch my way through my movie queue.”

One of Porter’s eyebrows ticks up. He’s probably thinking I’m pathetic. Then I realize he wasn’t even asking about dinner; we could easily discuss Scooter over coffee. It’s like my brain stops working when Porter looks at me. I don’t know why; it wasn’t like that when we first met.

The answer hits me hard. Throughout college I had a boyfriend, and he had a girlfriend.

It’s not just that.

The image of him punishing that girl in the red thong… I want him. I want to know what it feels like to be bent over his knee. I want to find out what I was missing all those years ago, and I’m willing to bet he’s even better now.

My body heats, and I struggle not to lick my suddenly dry lips.

Porter’s not offering anything along the lines of what I’m thinking. For all I know, he’s got a girlfriend.

“Then it’s settled,” he says. “Come to my house. I’ll make dinner—no leftovers.” He touches my arm. “If you have something else to do, I understand. I only want to talk about Scooter. Your boyfriend won’t have anything to fear; I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

He says it like it’d be easy.

And I realize… All those years ago, he didn’t turn me down because he was dating the brunette. He’d simply lost interest in me.

Somehow, I manage a smile. “Let me know when and where.”

The address Porter gave me is in the area known as “billionaire row.” It’s not a row but an entire section of the mountain, peaceful and secluded, with the mansions hidden by thick forest. It’s not a neighborhood I’m familiar with, and if not for GPS, I’d get lost on the twisting, winding roads.

There’s a gate at the bottom of a hill, but other than two stone columns, there’s no fence. Of course, one would need a pair of good snowshoes to make it through the deep snowdrifts around the dense evergreen trees.

I drive up for what feels like ten minutes, and I swear my ears pop. Then I come around a gentle turn, and the whole of the valley is spread out before me. The gorgeous glass and wood mansion, which would normally leave me drooling, can’t compare to the spectacular view, the deep greens of the trees and a sky so vast and blue it feels like water, like I could float up. The air smells faintly of wood smoke.

Porter appears. He’s wearing dark pants and a navy blue sweater. He motions for me to park in what looks like a lean-to for cars, in the space beside a pearl-white luxury SUV.

He’s opening my door almost as soon as I’ve turned off the car.

“Thanks,” I say, leaning over to retrieve my purse from the floor.

“Did you have any difficulty getting here?”

“Nope.” I get out, my fingers smoothing my loose black skirt, and he closes the door for me. “How did you time it so well?”

“The security system lets me know when someone is approaching the gate.”

Silence falls, and I begin to feel uncomfortable, like we’re not going to have anything to talk about. Then I remind myself that I’m here to discuss Scooter, nothing else. At least there’s plenty I can say on that subject.

The walkway connecting the lean-to and the mansion is covered, and I realize Porter could leave his mansion, get in the car, and drive into town all without being sullied by a single fleck of snow.

Actually, I’m a bit jealous. When I leave my place, I have to navigate ice and piled-up snow, and my car is always surrounded by dirty slush.

The front door, which is more heavy glass than wood, is slightly ajar.

“So you know, I’m still in the process of making it my own,” he says as we enter. “May I take your coat?”

He helps me out of it. Porter is a perfect gentleman, exactly as he promised. It’s what I expected, but I can’t help but feel disappointed.

He motions for me to go ahead of him, and we walk down a wide hallway that opens into an elaborate kitchen. There are several stoves, an actual stone hearth, three sinks… I lose track of it all.

“The previous owners ran a catering company,” Porter explains. “Unfortunately, all this is wasted on me. I’ve got a few standby recipes to impress my dates, but I don’t even know how to use half of the things in here. Do you like red wine?”

“I do,” I say too quickly. Geez, I sound desperate. I search for something to fill the silence. “I’m surprised they didn’t take it all with them.”

He places two wine glasses on the counter of the enormous marble island, and I attempt to be graceful as I climb onto one of the padded stools, which is heavy, with generous back support and two rings for footrests.

“They retired to Arizona,” he says. He pulls a simple corkscrew from a drawer and deftly opens a Bordeaux. He pours a little into one of the glasses and slides it toward me. “Tell me what you think.”

“I don’t know much about wine,” I confess, smoothing my skirt and adjusting my blouse. It’s the only nice outfit I own, but at least I feel sexy in it.

“All you have to know is whether you like it or not. I’ve got about twenty bottles here, and if this one is no good, I’ll open another. And another.”

I grin and pick up the glass. To my relief, Porter turns toward one of the refrigerators, leaving me to imitate a wine connoisseur in peace.

It smells… thick, like the aroma is somehow stronger than most wines. That’s the best way I can describe it. I take a small sip, letting the dark red liquid coat my tongue for a brief moment before swallowing.

“It’s lovely,” I say.

Porter sets a plate of assorted cheeses on the counter. “Are you just saying that, or do you actually like it?” As he speaks, he splashes some wine into his glass. He swirls it, looks at it, smells it, tastes it.

He’s done this a million times before, clearly. To me the ritual always seemed quaint, and that’s if I’m being generous. Porter makes it sensual, sexy.

“I really like it,” I say.

He takes another sip. “You’re sure it’s not too dry?”

I nod and push my glass forward. “I’m sure. Are we making stir-fry?”

He grins. “You’re not making anything. Is stir-fry okay?”

“Yes, of course.” The wine is certainly better than what I’ve been drinking lately, and in any event it gets the job done. Half a glass later, I’m finally starting to feel comfortable.

Porter is chopping onions, and he refuses all my efforts to help, so I alternate staring out the enormous window at the valley of trees and staring at Porter.

He turns on the stove, then pulls off his sweater, and I forget all about the window.

I knew he was in shape, but I didn’t realize his body was perfect. In college he got a lot of attention because of his build, but he was thinner then.

He’s certainly grown into his frame, and the thick muscle suits him. I wonder when a guy who runs a company has time to work out. The body I’m looking at takes serious dedication. I’m jealous of his gray button-down shirt, the way it gets to cling to him.

“What’s your company?” I ask, the wine having loosened my tongue enough.

“Financial consulting,” he says, tossing a look over his shoulder. He smiles.

Porter’s smiles will be the death of me.

“That’s very mysterious,” I say.

“The reality is rather simple. Let’s say you have ten thousand dollars to invest,” he says, turning to face me. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

“That’ll be the day,” I say with a laugh. My glass is almost empty.

“It’s just a number I threw out there. We don’t accept clients who have less than a million to play with, and most have at least five times that.”

“Damn,” I say, shocked. In college, at least we were both students. Now the gulf between us is like the Grand Canyon. I point to the wine. “May I?”

“Sorry, I forgot my manners.” He refills my glass, then he refreshes his, which was only about half empty, I notice.

Which means I need to slow down, so I help myself to a small wedge of soft white cheese, a Brie or something like it. It’s salty and delicious, the creamy texture decadent on my tongue.

I swallow the cheese. “So someone comes to you and says, ‘Help me. I’ve got ten million bucks, and I don’t know what to do with it.’ Then what?”

He laughs as he leans up against the counter again. “We have a consultation, we make recommendations. For our help, we take a percentage.”

“Of the profits?”

“Of the amount invested,” he says.

“You must be very, very good at what you do.”

He nods. “I am.” The simple admission doesn’t sound boastful. More like a statement of fact.

“So why quit?”

“I’m surprised you of all people would ask me that,” he says.

“It’s not the same, though. Even if I’d slaved for decades, I would have barely hit six figures a year. I was stressed, overworked, and office politics made me dread getting up in the morning. When you own your company, you can fire the people you don’t get along with.”

“That’s essentially what I’m trying to do, except it’s not my employees I want to get rid of.”

“Then who?”

He turns to the stove. “The clients.”

I ponder that for a few minutes while admiring the stretching and flexing of his back as he adds ingredients to the pan. Delicious aromas of lemongrass and ginger begin to flood the kitchen, and my mouth waters for something more substantial than red wine and cheese.

“Let’s talk about Scooter,” I say, thinking we should get that out of the way while I’m still sober enough to form coherent sentences. “He’s got promise.”

“One second.” He adds a cup of liquid to the pan, creating an almost deafening sizzle and lots of steam. He waves it away with a dishtowel.

“There’s a…” I join him at the stove and push the button to turn on the exhaust fan.

“Thanks,” he says. “I always forget to do that.”

I’m standing close enough to feel the side of his muscular arm as he shakes the frying pan over the stove. I know I should walk away, but I don’t want to.

Porter abruptly turns off the heat and drops a cover over the pan. “That needs to sit for a few minutes. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here, after all. Scooter—”

“This isn’t about Scooter.” Porter turns to look at me, and because we’re so close together, I have to really crane my neck to meet his gaze.

I’m too close, I realize. This is inappropriate. This is—

He catches his face in my hands. His eyes briefly flare with a question—very briefly—before he dips down to mold his lips over mine.

I’m so stunned that I don’t even realize what’s happening at first, but then Porter’s tongue traces the closed seam of my mouth.

My lips soften, opening to him.

In response, his large palms cup my face even tighter, and his body rocks a little, inching closer.

A moan of longing rises in my throat. Embarrassed, I try to pull away.

Porter releases me. “Are you okay?”

All I can do is nod.

“Good.” He steps in close. His warm breath caresses my lips. “Because I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since…” He shakes his head and the next thing I know, his tongue is sliding over mine.

He tastes like the wine. Strong. Powerful. I’ll never be able to drink red wine again without remembering this, without getting turned on.

Because I
am
turned on. Pulsing heat throbs in my core, and I feel my pussy getting slick with desire.

I’m about to reach for him, to finally feel his perfect body under my fingertips, when he breaks our kiss.

Eyes closed like he’s savoring the moment, he continues to hold my face, then brushes his lips over mine, which are throbbing like the rest of my body. They feel swollen, lightly bruised.

“I think dinner is ready.” His voice is husky and raw.

Dinner is the last thing on my mind, but I think it would be rude to suggest we skip it in favor of doing more of the kissing thing.

When he releases me and turns his attention to the pan on the stove, I flee to my glass of wine. I don’t bother with the polite dance of asking if I can have more; it’s not like he’s going to say no.

I fill my glass and take a long swallow. Heaven help me—the wine tastes like his kiss.