Ghostface Killer(27)

"Red good?"

"Perfect." I slap the towel back in place. We both laugh breezily. It's just too easy. Being together.

Baz pours two glasses of wine, and I notice even that's organic. "You're pretty hardcore with your diet, huh?"

Baz takes a tentative sip of his Bordeaux, regarding me over the glass. I get the feeling that question made him uncomfortable.

"I sort of have to be," he divulges.

"Why?"

He hesitates for a few beats before sharing his thoughts. "I have some issues." He clears his throat.




 

 

"Issues?" I probe.

Baz rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

"You don't have to tell me. We all have some kind of issue. I get it. We just met. You don't need to lay everything out all at once."

God knows I'm not going to.

Baz dissects me with those piercing green eyes. What did I say? I was trying to be nice. I take a sip of wine, hoping to move right along from this topic of conversation.

He steps closer to me, and my body reacts on a molecular level. It's like I can feel him without him even touching me.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Baz?" I question.

"Because I want to tell you. But I'm afraid." I swear my jaw drops. He's afraid, and he actually admitted it? Benny immediately pops into my mind. Fear is weakness, Stevie. Don't be weak.

That has been drilled into my head for as long as I can remember. Don't be weak. But looking at Baz right now, I don't see weakness. I just see a man.

"You don't have to be scared. Whatever it is, I won't judge. Trust me. I'm the last person on Earth who has any right to do that."

It's like we gravitate to each other as we speak, now standing so close our body heat intermingles.

Baz breathes heavily, drinking me in. I won't push. I'll just wait until he's ready to talk.

"I suffer from ADHD and depression," he discloses, apparently ready. "Diet and exercise are critical to controlling the symptoms."

I think back to the pills in his medicine cabinet. I assume that's what they're for.

"Okay," I reply as non-judgmentally as possible. "You're not perfect. No one is."

The tense look on Baz's face softens.

"Sometimes I feel like I have to be."

"You don't with me." We settle closer to each other, pulled into yet another magnetizing moment. I lift onto my toes as he leans down to kiss me. I'm so ready, eager, waiting. I can feel his warm breath skirt across my cheek as he clutches my face, and just before our lips finally touch, the connection is broken by my phone ringing loudly.

Fuck. I look over at my bag.

"Do you need to get that?" Baz asks.

Probably.

"I should check to see who it is." I drive the last nail into the heated moment, completely destroying it.

Baz releases my face with a disappointed huff.

Trust me. I feel you.

I pull the phone out of my bag but miss the call. The caller ID says G. I toss the phone back with a resentful flip.

"Nobody important." I return to Baz, who is repositioning the potatoes in the oven.

I grab my wine, and before I can take a sip, Baz has me pinned against the kitchen island. The look in his eyes is fierce as he leans in close to my face. My stomach drops as he halts with his nose a hair away from mine. "Next time, no interruptions," he stipulates sternly. I swallow the razor blades in my throat and nod in agreement. Then he pulls away. I grab onto the edge of the island so my legs don't give out and send me tumbling to the floor. Holy shit, this man. 

I sip my wine slowly as I watch Baz finish up dinner, enjoying every minute of the show.

The sun is starting to set by the time we finally sit down to eat. I'm famished, and everything on the plate looks beyond delicious.

"Okay, take the first bite. Let me know what you think." Baz pours more wine as he puts me on the spot.

"No pressure or anything," I tease as I cut into the venison steak. I take a bite, preparing to lie if I don't like it, but thankfully it tastes as good as it looks. I chew, nodding my head. "It's delicious."

That glorious smile breaks out on Baz's face, and I'm overcome with a satisfaction I've never known before. I'm happy he's happy. How peculiar.

We begin to eat, sticking to small talk. It's clear neither of us wants to delve too deep into conversation. Which is fine.

But as the night goes on, and we polish off dinner and another bottle of wine, the sexual tension begins to thicken. The air seems to become as flammable as gas, and all it will take is one tiny strike against sulfur to send the whole house up in flames.

The question is, who's holding the match?

I clear the plates with my pulse beating in my ears. I need to keep busy. Keep focused, or I'm going to end up attacking him right where he's sitting.