Bachelor (Rixton Falls #2) by Winter Renshaw Page B

that counts as decorating and you’re impressed by that, then we’re good.”
    “At least you’re honest.”
    Derek lifts my bag to the bed for me and rests his hands on his hips. “So, this is my place. The kitchen and living room and all that, you saw when we first walked in. This concludes my tour.”
    I smack him lightly across the chest. He’s solid under my touch, and I realize I’m close enough to breathe him in. The faint scent of his morning shower fills my lungs, and I step back, realizing how completely inappropriate it is to pay any mind to those sorts of things in a time like this.
    “Where do you sleep?”
    “Clear on the other side of the apartment.”
    My smile fades, and I tend to my bag. “I’m going to settle in. You can get back to the office now. I’ll be here when you get back.”
    “All right.” His hand slips into his pocket, retrieving his keys. “I’ll give you a formal tour of Rixton tonight when I get back. Maybe we can get dinner somewhere. Unless you cook. Do you cook?”
    I shake my head. “Not really.”
    “Kind of figured that.”
    He winks, and maybe I should be offended, but I’m not.
    I don’t know what I am. All I know is that as foreign as all of this should feel to me right now, it’s strangely comfortable.

Chapter 11
    D erek

    I hear the TV before I unlock the door, and by the time I step inside, I find Serena laid up on the couch, mindlessly flipping stations and eyes glued to the screen like a transfixed zombie.
    “Hey,” I say.
    She shakes her head, blinking her eyes and refocusing them on me.
    “You been watching TV ever since I left?” I ask.
    She stands up, rising on her toes and stretching. At some point, she changed into something more comfortable—fancy, lace-trimmed pajamas, it appears—and the little cotton top she wears lifts as she stretches, showing off a patch of soft belly above her waistband.
    “Shameful, I know.” She clicks the TV off. “It was either that or go snooping through your off-limits bedroom.”
    “I hope you’re joking.” I drop my bag on the kitchen island and yank the door to the fridge, fishing out a Heineken.
    Seriously. She wouldn’t like what she finds in there. I’ve got a whole drawer full of condoms in my bathroom, and an assortment of handcuffs and silk ties and blindfolds in my nightstand. I’m not saying I’m a manwhore, but I am a red-blooded, American man with working plumbing, and I go through spells from time to time. And during those spells, nothing seems to remedy me better than some good, old-fashioned, no-strings fucking.
    “Of course I am. What kind of guest would I be if I invaded your privacy like that?” She steps toward the island.
    “You a beer drinker?” I ask.
    She eyes the green bottle in my hand, and I twist the cap off until it hisses.
    “Not really.”
    I shove it toward her. “You are tonight.”
    She brings it to her nose, taking a sniff, then tasting it. Her face puckers. It’s bitter to her, but she’ll get used to it.
    I grab myself another and take a seat in a barstool.
    “So is this what you do after work?” She takes the seat beside me.
    “Sometimes . . .”
    “What do you do when you’re not drinking alone?”
    “I see friends. Family.” I shoulder-check her. “Just because I work, doesn’t mean I don’t have a life.”
    “They say drinking alone is the sign of a problem.”
    “I say they’re full of shit.” I take a swig of beer. “Nothing better than a cold beer after a long day.”
    “It is stressful?” she asks. “Being a lawyer?”
    I take another drink and shrug. “Sometimes.”
    “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do?”
    I angle myself toward her, head tilted and feeling guilty for assuming she was a full-time Park Avenue princess.
    “And what is it you do, Serena?” I ask.
    “I’m the CEO and founder of a not-for-profit organization that raises awareness for boat safety,” I say. “Things have been on hold the last couple of months,