“What is this?” I ventured.

“The start of you and me.”

My body went still, that tingle came back, my eyes stared into his and my heart again stopped beating.

Then I whispered, “What?”

“Babe, you’re standing in my arm, in my house, drinking my wine after agreeing in the kitchen.”

“I haven’t even sipped the wine,” I pointed out.

His lips twitched.

Twitched!

I made Knight Sebring’s lips twitch!

“Right, well, you will,” he muttered.

“And I didn’t agree to anything,” I went on.

Another lip twitch.

Then a repeated, “Right, well, you will.”

“Knight,” I lifted a hand and hesitantly placed it on his chest (which was rock-hard by the way… seriously in trouble). I powered through how good his chest felt under my hand and pressed ever onward, informing him cautiously, “You kind of scare me.”

“Yeah. I’m that guy ‘cause I need to be that guy,” he stated mysteriously. Then his face dipped to mine again and he talked quieter when he continued, “Straight up, baby, I’m also that guy ‘cause I just am that guy. But you’ll learn you got nothin’ to fear from me.”

“You drag me around,” I whispered.

“Yeah, and you follow me.”

“I kind of have no choice,” I pointed out.

His head went back and all traces of amusement left his face when he informed me, “You always have a choice. You didn’t take it. Except once, when you pulled away from me at the elevator.”

This was, casting my mind back, kind of true.

“There were two times that you carried me,” I reminded him.

“And both times you held on.”

Damn. This was true too and not kind of at all.

“I need to ponder this.”

His arm tightened, a gorgeous smile spread on his equally gorgeous face and it was at both that I realized I said that out loud.

Then a buzzer sounded in the kitchen.

“Right, then do it eatin’ a steak. I’m hungry,” he ordered, let me go and sauntered toward the kitchen.

I stood, watched him move and took a sip of my wine.

Then I found my feet following him.

When I arrived, he was pulling out the grill pan in order to flip the meat.

“Can I help?” I offered.

“Yeah, grab some placemats. Drawers this side of the bar,” he took me up on my offer as he slid the grill pan back in the oven.

“You have placemats?”

He straightened and looked at me.

“Yeah. Why?”

“A man who wears a Metallica tee doesn’t have placemats,” I informed him and his lips twitched again.

“Yeah, you’re right, unless he’s also a man who hired a bossy bitch who seriously likes to spend money to kit out his new condo. That man owns placemats.”

My eyes swept the kitchen with its black KitchenAid appliances, counter appliances and the hooks under the counter where the shiny, expensive-looking cooking utensils hung. It had a black on black theme with black marble countertops, shiny black cupboards and even black tiles on the floor.

Then my eyes kept moving through the living room with its stream-lined couches, low, glass-topped coffee table and large, tall, chrome, curved lamps at kitty-corners with their domed, white shades drooping over the area. All this sitting on a charcoal gray rug that looked like a huge, square piece of fluffy fur.

Then my eyes moved over the low chest at the top situated against the wall that had three black, huge, glossy bowls on top that were wicked cool but held nothing. Then my eyes took in the heavily-framed print on the wall above it that looked like a lot of gray and black splotches and strokes that depicted nothing and made me feel less. And last, there was another state-of-the art, expensively designed CD player mounted on the wall.

It was all spare, colorless but dead cool.

I looked back at Knight. “So this woman bought everything?”

He was pulling down glossy black plates from a cupboard as he answered, “Asked my favorite color, that was it. Then she bought everything.”

“Let me guess, you told her your favorite color was black.”

His eyes came to me and his lips twitched.

Again!

“No, I said it was red.”

I stared at him.

Then it was me who burst out laughing.

Through my laughter I asked, “Seriously?”

“No f**kin’ joke,” he put the plates on the bar and opened a drawer as I moved to open and close two before I found and grabbed two black, cloth placemats. “Jacked. I was away on business, came back, this is what I got. Not a hint of red in the place. Not a hint of anything.”

I set the placemats by the stools on the other side of the bar and asked, “Did she do your bedroom?”

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t like satin sheets?”

His eyes came to me, there was something in them that made me go still but he answered, “Took one look at them, nearly lost my mind. Luckily, she wasn’t around. Slept on ‘em one night, would never sleep on anything else. Not at home.”

“So they’re nice,” I whispered.

“Fuck yeah,” he whispered back.

We stared at each other a beat as I felt his two words hit me in a very secret place.

Then Knight’s eyes moved over my face before they caught mine and he said quietly, “Think it’s a good idea we quit talkin’ about my sheets.”

I nodded because I agreed.

Definitely.

He put cutlery on the counter and ordered, “Arrange that shit and park your ass on a stool, babe. I’ll serve this up.”

I grabbed the cutlery, shifted around the other side and arranged it on the placemats as Knight worked in the kitchen. Then I parked my ass on a stool, sipped wine and watched.

He was cutting open steaming baked potatoes when I noted, “You explained the car. How do you know my last name?”

“What?” he asked, buttering the potatoes.

“The doorman knew my last name. I can only assume you told him.”

His glanced at me then went back to the potatoes, now grinding pepper over them. “Nick told me.”

I felt my brow furrow. “Nick knows my last name?”

He put the pepper aside and grabbed some maldon salt out of a small black bowl and tossed it on the spuds. “Day after I ripped him a new ass**le about the party, he asked who I took home. I told him your first name then he said, ‘Anya Gage?’ and since you’re probably the only Anya in Denver and definitely the only Anya at that party, I guessed. So, yeah, Nick told me.”