What You Need(59)
Lennox’s arms circled my waist and she rested the side of her face on my shoulder blade. “What’re you thinking about so hard?”
“That this should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Oh, and how much I’d love to have a personal chef preparing my meals.”
“Me too.”
“But you could have that. Not to point out the obvious, but it’s not like money is an issue for you.”
The way she’d said that wasn’t snarky or judgy, just matter-of-fact. I faced her and she immediately stepped in, nestling her face against my chest. Lennox was a lot more openly affectionate than I’d ever imagined. “True. It’s a multitude of issues.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . do I let the chef plan every bite that goes into my mouth? Will it always be healthy? Will it always be good? If I’m paying a lot of money for food and it isn’t what I’m in the mood for, isn’t it a waste to throw it away? How am I supposed to know what I’m hungry for a week ahead of time?”
She smiled against my pec. “I can see you’ve thought this through.”
“Not to mention my issue with having people in my place when I’m not there. Pawing through my kitchen and making a mess. Who wants to come home at ten at night to the lingering odor of cooked fish?”
“First of all, there wouldn’t be an odor if you hired a good chef. Second of all, how many nights a week do you work until ten o’clock?”
“Too many.”
Lennox looked up at me. “Has that changed with this quest you’re on to change your life?”
“Let’s see, last night this hot blonde dragged me out of my office right at five. But the nights before that . . . I think the earliest I made it home was nine.”
“I imagine it’s a gradual process. One hour earlier this week, maybe an hour and a half earlier next week. Within a few months you might get done in time to make yourself dinner in your kitchen.”
I scowled. “I have no desire to learn how to cook.”
“If you say because it’s women’s work, I’m punching you in the stomach.”
“Such a violent streak.” I kissed her scrunched-up nose. “But you’d have to beat my mother to the punch—ha ha—because she believed in gender equality when we were growing up. Annika had to learn how to run the lawn mower and where to put oil in her car, whereas Walker, Jens and I knew how to use a vacuum and we were well versed in scrubbing toilets.”
“The Lund children, heirs to a billion-dollar fortune, had . . . chores?”
“As my mother pointed out, only half of our DNA came from privilege. The other half came from hardworking blue-collar Swedes. That’s not to say Mom scrubbed her own toilets after she married Dad.”
“I’m all pro at all kinds of cleaning. Heck, I surpassed amateur status at an early age. You might say I was a cleaning savant.”
I laughed. She had such a way with words.
“So now that the kitchen is cleaned up, what are we doing tonight?”
“A hike up to the summit. I haven’t done it since I was a kid. There are no snow clouds and no moon, so we’ll really be able to see the stars.”
“A night hike. Uphill. In the dark. With snow on the ground. And temperatures in the low single digits?” She studied me as if that was the worst torture she could imagine.
“What? I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong. This suggestion does not border on serial killer behavior.”
“No, but it definitely borders on sadism.”
*
Lennox
Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep.
I should’ve been exhausted from the hike. It was hard for me to admit I’d had fun. Mostly it was fun to see Brady so relaxed. To see him smile. To hear him laugh. To watch his very fine denim-clad ass just a few feet away, bunching and flexing with each step he took.
To see the lust burning in his eyes every time he touched me.
When we returned to the cabin, I’d given him a hug and a quick kiss good night.
In the Rose Room, I stripped and crawled between the covers. The room was colder than I was used to, so I slipped on my flannel pajamas.
I stared at the ceiling for a while. Then the walls. I don’t remember at what point that night I realized that the rose wallpaper looked like big splotches of blood.
Once my thoughts jumped on that train, there was no getting off. I spooked myself. Big time. I swore I heard animals scratching at the window. When the hot water heater kicked on with a clank-clank-clank that sounded exactly like a ghost’s chains rattling, I threw back the covers and tore down the hallway to Brady’s room.