Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
A seductive aroma of invigorating citrus soap and clean sun-dried linen.
A couple of hours into training, Spectre was pulled away by management, so he told them to knock off early.
Grace thought it was Kismet.
They had all evening to explore this newness between them.
The training team cleared out, leaving him and Mirage alone.
“Hey, I’m gonna hit the weight room for a couple of hours, then scare everyone out of the cafeteria for dinner,” Mirage said, standing close enough to have to tilt his head a little to hold their eye contact. “Pasta’s on the menu.”
Grace nodded with his jaw tight. He’d love to have Mirage for dinner.
Mirage gave him the tiniest smirk. “Good. I’ll be ready about five.”
Grace watched him go in those loose fatigues and the white T-shirt that molded to his back.
Damn.
Grace finished his shave and shower and was reading his department emails when a thought came to him.
He contemplated for a few minutes, trying to talk himself out of the ludicrous idea before convincing himself to grow a pair.
If a cold motherfucker like Meridian can pull off some romantic shit, then so can I.
Grace went into his kitchen and rolled up his sleeves as he surveyed the available groceries.
He had plenty of pasta—it wasn’t only Mirage’s favorite—so he just needed a suitable protein…and maybe the fixings for a salad.
He wanted to show off, but he was also sweating with panic.
Grace wished in that moment that all the feelings hadn’t come back.
He was fine with the lust and craving but not the other shit.
He loathed anxiety, uncertainty, and God forbid…fear of embarrassment.
Even though he was a crusty son of a bitch and didn’t have much to say, he wanted to show his partner that he had more layers than he showed.
Grace took scallops and prawns out of the freezer to thaw, then pulled the rest of the ingredients for prepping and placed them on the island, already feeling his mood shift. Cooking had always been his method of unwinding after a mission.
He had a couple of hours to spare, and he’d never invited Mirage inside his place, so he wanted to make a good first impression.
It was already dark in his home, and he thought lighting candles would be going too far. Instead, he opened the electric shades for the full view of the crescent moon and stars, then chose some light jazz instrumentals to play from his sound system.
His pasta was ready and the seafood perfectly seared.
The last step when he plated it was to top it off with some grated parmesan and chopped chives.
He made his homemade dressing for the simple tossed green salad chilling in the refrigerator crisper.
He jumped back into the shower to freshen up, and forty-five minutes later, he was leaning against the window with a cognac in his hand, waiting for the sound of the elevator opening on their floor.
Please don’t let me look like a goddamn fool.
He didn’t know who he was begging… The first-date gods, he guessed.
By the time his anxiety began to get the better of him, he heard the locks releasing to Mirage’s apartment.
Grace opened his door.
“Hey, you ready?”
Grace leaned against his door, staring at Mirage’s lips before his gaze traveled down the length of his body.
Mirage stared, waiting several minutes before he said, “Grace. What is it you want me to do?”
“Come inside.”
Mirage blinked. “Did you say, ‘come inside’? As in your apartment?”
Grace nodded.
“What about dinner…? It’s pasta night.”
Grace glared.
“Fine. I’ll come inside.”
Mirage
Mirage didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he decided to play along. Not to mention, he’d always wanted to be invited inside Grace’s apartment.
Grace stepped to the side and pushed the door open wider. “Watch the tracers.”
Mirage shook his head. Of course he has those.
Once he was past the foyer, he first noticed the sensual music and welcoming glow of warm lighting.
Mirage took a quick survey of the dark, romantic ambiance that made him want to stay awhile.
The condo had an open floor plan with oversized leather furniture and woodgrain paneling.
Still standing at the entrance, he glanced back at a silent Grace, who motioned with his arm for him to keep walking to what he assumed was the kitchen.
Mirage rounded the corner, and his bottom lip almost hit the floor as the aroma of something delicious slapped him in the face.
Grace’s elegant living room was nothing compared to his fancy-ass kitchen.
Unlike his own basic shit, Grace had gleaming stainless-steel appliances, marble countertops, and over two dozen small jars of herbs and spices on glass-encased shelves, which were probably in alphabetical order.
Grace’s stoic demeanor faltered watching Mirage take in the fancy setup before he schooled his features.
There were pots on the stove and serving dishes—the expensive kind—that indicated to Mirage this was not takeout.
He cooks!
Grace went to the island dominating the center of the space, flung a dish towel over his shoulder, and began to plate their food like he was fucking Bobby Flay.