The way he stalked toward the kitchen sort of undermined his claim on manners, but she let it go. Baby steps.

Peering around curiously, she took her first look at Gray’s condo. She almost grinned when she saw it was exactly what she’d expected. The floor seemed to be made of honest-to-God concrete. There were a couple of cool-toned area rugs to break it up, but still. Concrete was concrete.

The walls were a shocking white, softened only by a handful of depressing-looking metal structures. Either he’d completely overpaid his decorator or he’d gone shopping himself at Home Depot. The living room off to her right was clearly unused, and she wandered into his personal office, running her hand over the built-in bookshelves.

This room at least had a bit of warmth. She wondered if it was the only one he spent any time in. The walls were still white, but a large colorful painting of an old-fashioned bar took up one wall, and the other held a few photographs, most of them pictures of Jenna and Jack.

She could easily picture him here, relaxed in the large leather easy chair with some brainy book in his lap and a glass of whiskey on the side table. What the man really needed was a dog. Maybe a Labrador or a spaniel. Something friendly to sit by his feet and banish that chronic look of loneliness the man wore around him like a cape.

Sensing eyes on her back, she turned around and saw Gray standing in the doorway, two wineglasses in hand.

“Don’t you ever read fiction?” Sophie asked, accepting the wineglass he handed her. “There are dozens of biographies, and not a single one seems to be fewer than a thousand pages.”

Gray gestured to the bookcase on the far end of the room. “Take a look at the top shelf.”

Sophie wandered that way, taking a sip of excellent Chardonnay. She immediately saw what he wanted her to see and a laugh bubbled out. “Harry Potter? Really?”

He shrugged. “Biographies are my preferred reading material, but I enjoy well-written fiction once in a while. Plus I wanted to see what all of the hype was about.”

“You reading about a boy wizard.” She shook her head, completely unable to picture it.

“Quit snooping through my stuff. Come into the kitchen.”

She followed him out of the office, pleased to see that he seemed more relaxed than when he’d first opened the door. Maybe it was just the lack of pinstripes, but he didn’t have his usual wary expression. Jeans suited the man, Sophie thought. She found herself studying a surprisingly yummy-looking backside.

“Quit checking out my ass.”

She choked on her wine. Caught.

“I’m just mentally cataloging potential areas of improvement on behalf of your future wife. Do men do squats, or is that more of a Hollywood actress exercise? And—wow. Look at this kitchen!”

Her exclamation earned her what might have been a half smile. “I like to cook.”

“So do I, but I don’t have like five ovens,” she said, looking around in awe. The kitchen was a restaurant-sized industrial masterpiece. This was no standard-issue luxury kitchen. It was clearly custom-built for someone who knew their way around food.

“I’m a little embarrassed to have assumed the extent of your cooking skills was toast,” she said with chagrin. “Did I really force delivery pizza on you with the mistaken assumption that it was the best meal you’d have all week?”

“I didn’t mind,” Gray said, not unkindly.

Sophie snorted. “Says the man who has about a dozen French cookbooks whose names I can’t pronounce.”

She plucked one of the fancy cookbooks from the shelf and was surprised to see that it wasn’t just for show. It was splattered and creased and littered with his neat handwriting.

“What I’m making tonight is actually from that book,” he said, nodding toward the cookbook in her hand. “There’ll be more than enough food since I was assuming a party of four, but I think we can make a pretty good dent.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just imply your fake girlfriend was fat.”

He gave her a look. “You know you’re not fat, Sophie.”

She raised an eyebrow. He was flirting now? Nah. Then his gaze finally drifted down briefly to her chest.

Okay, maybe flirting.

Perhaps the bra and new sweater had been worth it after all. Brynn had been right. There were ways other than obvious cl**vage to call attention to the girls.

Thinking about her sister made her feel guilty. Would Brynn mind that Sophie was cozying up to her ex-boyfriend in his home, about to eat a home-cooked French meal? Hell, had Brynn been here before? She hadn’t that night of the awkward double date, but she could have come over at some point after that.

The thought bothered Sophie more than it should, considering this wasn’t even a real date.

Gray snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Where’d you go?”

Pushing Brynn out of her mind, she settled onto one of his bar stools, taking another sip of wine. “Oh, I’m just wondering exactly how experimental you’re thinking of getting tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she felt unexpectedly tingly.

“Food, Gray, I was talking about food.”

The corner of his mouth hitched up in what she was beginning to realize was his version of a smile. “Ah. Well, in that case, let’s get you started on the first course before you do that hungry sulky thing.”

“Okay, you have to know that discussing a woman’s appetite and generally implying she’s a glutton isn’t exactly going to get you laid, right?”

“I thought we were just talking about food,” he said archly.

“We are,” she sputtered, blushing. “I just mean, you know…for future reference with other women. Real women.”

“Are you saying a part of you is fake?” he asked, his eyes dropping again to her chest. She was appalled to find her ni**les tightening. Luckily he couldn’t notice through the eight layers of push-up padding. God bless Victoria and her secret.

“Wow, accused of selling sex and of being plastic by the same man. How is it that we haven’t killed each other yet?”

He gave her a real smile this time, and she warmed a little at this slightly more friendly Gray.

“Would you like to help cook?” he asked.

“Not really, I’d much rather watch the master and drink all of your delicious wine.”

He nodded and pulled a tray of grilled asparagus out of the fridge. “Don’t touch that yet,” he snapped as she reached out to grab one. “I’m not done.”

She watched, fascinated as he proceeded to poach a couple of eggs and add them to the platter. Strips of salty prosciutto were added to the sides of the plate, and he finished the whole thing off with a drizzle of some fancy-looking olive oil and balsamic vinegar and croutons.

By the time he took a seat at the bar next to her, her mouth was watering.

“First course is served,” he said, handing her a fork. She was just about to spear a perfectly grilled vegetable when he grabbed her hand.

Startled by the contact, her eyes met his, and her mouth went from watering to dry. The man was more adept at seduction than she’d given him credit for. With nothing but a sultry look and the touch of a hand, she was practically panting.

“Don’t tell me I don’t get to eat this,” she joked, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Gray picked up his wineglass. “I’m a big fan of celebrating the food I cook before eating it.”

She blinked in confusion. “You want to pray?” Not that there was anything wrong it, but she hadn’t pegged him for the type.

“No, I just meant that I thought we should do a toast,” he said quietly.

And then she melted just a little more, because his expression had gone from looking seductive to slightly embarrassed. Feeling a rush of warmth for this complex, emotionally challenged man, she set down her fork, and dramatically cleared her throat as she picked up her wineglass.

“Ahem. I’d like to toast my dreamboat of a fake almost-boyfriend, who is, in addition to being a cuddly laugh-a-minute hottie, also a damned good chef. Not that I’d know because he won’t let me actually eat the food, probably because he thinks I’m annoying, gluttonous, and slutty, but—”

Gray clinked his glass to hers and let out a half laugh. She couldn’t help smiling back. She felt oddly proud of coaxing humor from someone who so seldom smiled. As she dug into the decadent dish, her sister crept back into her mind. Was Sophie sitting in the same spot Brynn had sat in when they were dating?

Was Sophie once again merely playing a part, whereas Brynn had been the real deal?

They ate in companionable silence, and common sense told her to keep quiet, but the wine flowing through her system had other ideas.

“What does Brynn think of your cooking?” she blurted out.

“We never quite made it to that stage.” He pushed a crouton around on his plate. “I don’t think I’d know what to talk about.”

“You seem to be doing fine with me,” she said, trying to keep the gloat out of her voice.

“Only because you forced your way into my life like a battering ram. My options are to talk to you or go deaf from your incessant chatter.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“How hungry are you? I was thinking I could put together a quick salad.”

“I doubt anything you cook from that book is quick, but sure. A salad sounds great. Where’d you learn to cook like this, anyway? Mom? Grandma?”

Gray stood and pulled greens from the refrigerator. “No, my mom died when I was a kid, and the only grandmother in the picture was my father’s mom. Not exactly the warm, fuzzy, culinary type.”

The fact that Gray had grown up without any maternal influence didn’t surprise Sophie in the least, but it made her sad all the same. It also explained quite a bit about Jenna’s rough edges and Jack’s excess of superficial charm.

She’d also learned from Jenna that their father hadn’t exactly been the warm type either. Lack of a softer influence had resulted in one very jaded big brother. Over martinis, Jenna had let it slip that Gray had absorbed the majority of their father’s attention, but not in the way a son would hope for. The senior Grayson Wyatt had continually berated his eldest son for being quiet and wimpy. Gray had been sent away to boarding school with instructions to become more likable.

Sophie winced as she realized that her own comments about making him more approachable might add to open wounds. How must it feel to always be told that you’re not appealing enough? To be shy, but told that in order for someone to like you, you had to be more talkative?

Had anyone ever told Gray that he was sufficient just as he was? That he was successful and kind, even if he had no idea how to show it?

She doubted it.

Not that he was faultless, of course. That chronic scowl had to go, she didn’t care how introverted he was. But at the same time, she no longer was sure she wanted him to smile just because it was expected. Sophie was beginning to like the fact that Gray’s smiles had to be earned. They felt more like a reward worth reaching for instead of a superficial grin freely given.

Perhaps most startling of all was the fact that the two of them weren’t quite as different as she’d assumed. They were both struggling to reconcile being true to themselves while managing the expectations of others. He with being more approachable, and she with being more conventional. On the one hand, they wanted to be open to self-improvement. On the other, they didn’t want to compromise their own values.

“Please tell me you’re not having some sort of melodramatic womanly moment over there,” Gray said as he drizzled some oil over a bunch of exotic-looking greens.

“I totally was. You want to hear about it?” she asked.

“Absolutely not.”

She told him anyway. “I was just thinking how we have more in common that I would have guessed.”

He sighed and put a salad in front of her. “Is listening to this optional?”

“Quit being so emotionally closed-off,” she said without heat.

“And this is why I don’t read Cosmo.”

Sophie dug into her salad, pleasantly surprised that something so simple could taste gourmet. “Hey, this is really good. You should open a restaurant. And you still haven’t told me how you learned to cook like this.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “I kind of stumbled into it, really. At some point after college I realized that I wanted to be able to make something other than grilled cheese. So I went to cooking school. Le Cordon Bleu, actually.”

“Isn’t that where professional chefs go?”

“They take anyone with enough money.”

“Ah, so you bribed them. Fair enough. You pay for cooking school, you pay for sex. It all makes sense.”

He let out a low growl. “When do we get to drop the prostitute thing? I’m making dinner for you, and I think in return you should quit making cracks about that night.”

She bit into a perfectly crisp green bean and considered. “I will under one condition.”

He muttered a string of obscenities which she pretended not to hear.

“I promise never to bring it up again if you tell me what exactly about me made you think I was a hooker. I mean, I know I wasn’t exactly classy, but it was Vegas. I was hardly the only one in skimpy attire.”

He looked almost hopeful. “If I address the elevator incident, we can move on?”

“Promise. I will never ever imply that you once wanted to pay me for sex.”

“I never wanted—” He broke off, realizing that she was baiting him.

He was really getting better at this whole reading-of-the-people routine. She felt so proud.