Although Chloe had Sundays and Mondays off, she rarely used them to relax. She generally went out in the morning and often didn’t return until nearly dark—or even after—but the hours in between were almost always devoted to things related to cooking. Sometimes she explored new shops or revisited old favorites to familiarize herself with what they had in stock or to pick up a few essentials. Sometimes she sat in on lectures or classes that addressed new methods or trends in cooking. Sometimes she checked out intriguing restaurants to see what was on their menus that she might adapt for her own. Sometimes she attended tastings of cheeses, charcuterie, beers or wines.
It was to one of the last that she was headed out late Monday afternoon when she ran into Hogan, who was coming in the back door. She’d been exceptionally good at avoiding him since last week when Anabel had tried to hire her back—the same afternoon she’d shared those odd few moments with Hogan in the gallery that had ended with her completely overreacting when he nudged her shoulder with his.
She still wanted to slap herself for recoiling from him the way she had. There had been nothing inappropriate in his gesture. On the contrary, he’d obviously been trying to be friendly. There was a time when Chloe loved having her shoulder nudged in exactly that same way by...friends. It had just been so unexpected, that was all. Especially coming from someone who wasn’t...a friend.
And, okay, it had also been a long time since someone had touched her with anything resembling friendship. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her at all. She went out of her way to avoid physical contact these days. With everyone. It just wasn’t professional. Among other things.
It was those among other things that especially came into play with Hogan. Because even an innocent touch like a nudge to the shoulder felt... Well. Not innocent. Not on her end anyway. Not since it had been so long since anyone had touched her with anything resembling friendship. Or something.
Which was why she had been super careful not to let it happen again. Since that afternoon, dinner every night had been nothing but serving, identifying and describing Hogan’s food. No more sitting down at his table. No more spilling her guts. And certainly no more touching. She was his chef. He was her employer. Period. Thankfully, he finally got the message, because after three or four nights of her sidestepping every question he asked about her by replying with something about the food instead, he’d finally stopped asking.
At least, that was what she’d thought until she saw him today. Because the minute he stepped inside he smiled that damnably charming smile of his and said, with much friendliness, “Chloe, hi. Where you going?”
It was the kind of question, spoken with the kind of expression that was almost always followed by Can I come, too? He just looked so earnest and appealing and sweet, and something inside Chloe that had been cold and hard and discordant for a very long time began to grow warm and soft and agreeable.
Stop that, she told that part of herself. Stop it right now.
But that part wouldn’t listen, because it just kept feeling better. So she did her best to ignore it.
“Must be someplace really nice,” he added. “’Cause you look really nice.”
Had she thought that part of her was only growing warm? Well, now it was spontaneously combusting. The man’s smile just had that effect. As did the fact that he was wearing garage-issue coveralls streaked with machine oil, an outfit that should have been unappealing—and on anyone else in her social sphere, it probably would have been—but only served to make Hogan look even more handsome.
She’d always found the working-class hero too damnably attractive. Men who worked with their hands and their brains could, at the end of the day, point to something concrete that was actually useful to society and say Hey, I did that with my bare hands. Inevitably, that always made her think about what else a man like that could do with his bare hands—especially at the end of the day. And, inevitably, she always remembered. Men like that could make a woman feel wonderful.
She pushed her glasses up with the back of her hand—it was a nervous gesture, she knew, but dammit, she was nervous—and, without thinking, told him, “You look really nice, too.”
Only when he chuckled did she realize what she had said and immediately wished she could take back the words.
But Hogan shrugged off the comment. “No, I look like I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon under a 1957 Mercedes-Benz Three Hundred SL Gullwing that belonged to my grandfather. Which I have been. You look really nice. So where you going?”
It was nice of him to say so, but Chloe was the epitome of plain in a black pencil skirt, white shirt, claret-colored cardigan and black flats—all of which she had owned since college—with her hair piled on top of her head, the way it always was.
“Thank you,” she made herself say, even though she was uncomfortable with the compliment. “I’m going to a wine-tasting.”
She thought the announcement would put an end to any idea he might have about joining her. She was still serving him beer with his dinner—though he had certainly expanded his horizons there—and was hoping to find a few wines at this tasting today that might break him in easily.
“Sounds like fun,” he said. Even though he didn’t sound like he thought it was fun. In spite of that, he added, “Want some company?”
Of course she didn’t want company. Chloe hadn’t wanted company for years. Six years, in fact. Six years and eight months, to be precise. Six years, eight months, two weeks and three days, to be even more precise.
“I mean, knowing about wine,” Hogan continued, “that could help me in the Anabel department, right? I need to know this stuff if I’m going to be moving in her circles. Make a good impression and all that.”
He wasn’t wrong, Chloe thought. She knew for a fact that Anabel Carlisle knew and enjoyed her wines. She could invite Hogan to come along, if for no other reason than that. And what other reason could there be?
Even so, she hedged, “Actually, I—”
But Hogan cut her off. “Great. Gimme ten minutes to clean up and change clothes. Be right back.”
She was so stunned by his response that it took her a minute to react. She spun around and said, “But—”
But she knew he wouldn’t hear her, because he was already pounding up the stairs.
She told herself to leave before he got back and explain her disappearance later by saying she’d assumed he was joking so went her merry way. She really didn’t want company today. Or any day. So why didn’t she slip out the door and make her way up 67th Street to Madison Avenue, where she could lose herself in both the crowd and the sunny October afternoon? Why did her feet seem to be nailed to the floor? More to the point, why did a part of her actually kind of like the prospect of spending the rest of the afternoon with Hogan?
She was still contemplating those questions and a host of others when he reappeared ten minutes later. The man was nothing if not punctual. And also incredibly handsome. So far she’d seen him in nothing but jeans and sweaters and greasy coveralls, but, having clearly taken a cue from her own outfit, he now wore a pair of khaki trousers, a pinstriped oxford and a chocolate-colored blazer. And in place of his usual battered work boots were a pair of plain leather mocs—not quite as well-worn as the boots, but still obviously, ah...of a certain age. Just like everything else he had on.
How could a man have inherited as much money as Hogan had and not have spent at least some of it on new shoes and clothes? Then again, who was she to judge? The last time Chloe bought a new article of clothing for herself, it had been for... Well, it wasn’t important what she’d bought the dress for. It had been six years since she’d worn it. Six years, eight months, two weeks and six days, to be precise. And she’d gotten rid of it soon after.
As Hogan began to walk toward her, heat bloomed in her midsection again, only this time it was joined by a funny sort of shimmying that only made it more enjoyable.
No! she immediately told herself. Not enjoyable. What she was feeling was...something else. Something that had nothing to do with enjoyment.
As he drew nearer, she noticed he hadn’t managed quite as well with his grooming as he had his clothing. There was a tiny streak of oil over his eyebrow that he’d missed.
“All set,” he said when he stopped in front of her.
“Not quite,” she told him.
His expression fell. “I’ve never been to a wine-tasting. Should I change my clothes?”
She shook her head. “No, your outfit is fine. It’s a casual event. It’s just that...”
He was within touching distance now, and she had to battle the urge to lift a hand to his face and wipe away the oil herself. The gesture would have been no more inappropriate than his nudging of her shoulder had been last week. For some reason, though, the thought of touching him in such a way felt no less innocent than that one had.
So instead, she pointed at his eyebrow and said, “You missed a spot of grease there. Over your left eyebrow.”
He swiped the side of his hand over the place she indicated...and missed the streak by millimeters.
“It’s still there,” she said.
He tried again, this time with the heel of his palm. But again, he missed it by that much.
“Still there,” she said again.
He uttered an impatient sound. “Do you mind getting it for me?”
He might as well have asked her if she minded picking him up and heaving him out the window. Did he really not understand that physical contact was a physical impossibility for her after the way she’d overreacted to being touched by him last week? Were they going to have to endure another awkward moment to make that clear?
Strangely, though, the thought of touching Hogan now was slightly less...difficult...than it should have been. Resigning herself, she reached toward his face. Hogan’s gaze hitched with hers, making it impossible for her to untether herself. Those brown, brown eyes, richer than truffles and sweeter than muscovado, made her pulse leap wildly, and her mouth go dry. Finally, finally, her hand made contact with his face, the pad of her index finger skimming lightly over his brow.
Her first attempt to wipe away the smudge was as fruitless as his had been—not surprising, since she was barely touching him. She tried again, drawing her thumb over his skin this time—his warm, soft skin—and that was a bit more successful. But still, the stain lingered. So she dragged her thumb across it again, once, twice, three times, until at last, the spot disappeared.
She didn’t realize until that moment how her breathing had escalated while she was touching him, or how hot her entire body had become. Her face, she knew, was flushed, because she could feel the heat in her cheeks, and her hand felt as if it had caught fire. Worse, her fingers were still stroking Hogan’s forehead, lightly and idly, clearly not to clean up a speck of oil, but simply because she enjoyed the feel of a man’s skin under her fingertips and didn’t want to stop touching him yet. It had been so long since Chloe had touched a man this way. So long since she had felt the simple pleasure of warmth and strength and vitality against her skin. Even a fingertip.
Worst of all, Hogan seemed to realize exactly what she was feeling. His face was a little flushed, too, and his pupils had expanded to nearly eclipse the dark brown of his irises. Seemingly without thinking, he covered her hand with his and gently removed it. But instead of letting it go after maneuvering it between them, which she had thought he would do—which he really should do—he held on to it, stroking his thumb lightly over her palm.
The warmth in her midsection went supernova at that, rushing heat to her every extremity. So acute was the sensation that she actually cried out—softly enough that she hoped he might not have heard her...except she knew right off he did. She knew because he finally severed his gaze from hers...only to let it fall to her mouth instead.
For one insane moment she thought he was going to kiss her. She even turned her head in a way that would keep her glasses from being a hindrance, the way she used to when—The way a person did when they knew something like that was about to happen. That was just how far she had allowed her desire to go. No, not desire, she immediately corrected herself. Appetite. Instinct. Drive. It had been too long since she’d enjoyed the sexual release every human being craved. Hogan was a very attractive man. Of course her body would respond to him the way it did. It was a matter of hormones and chemistry. There was nothing more to it than that.
Not that that wasn’t more than enough.
He still hadn’t released her hand, so, with much reluctance, she disengaged it herself and took a giant step backward. Then she took a breath, releasing it slowly to ease her pulse back to its normal rhythm and return her brain to its normal thoughts.
“There,” she said softly. “All better.”
She hoped he would think she was only talking about the removal of the oil streak from his face. But all better referred to herself, too. Her physical self, anyway. The emotional parts of her, though...
Well. Chloe knew she would never be all better. Not with so much of herself missing. But she was better now than she had been a few minutes ago, when touching Hogan had made so much of her feel so alive. That feeling was just a cruel ruse. She knew she would never feel alive again.
“All better,” she tried again, forcefully enough this time that she sounded as if she actually believed it. “We should get going,” she added. “We don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Hogan watched Chloe escape through the back door, his hand still hanging in the air between them. And he wondered, What the hell just happened? One minute he was asking her to wipe away a smudge of grease—an action that should have taken less than a second and been about as consequential as opening a jar of peanut butter—and the next, they were staring at each other, breathing as hard as they would have been if they’d just had sex. Really good sex, too.
His hand was even trembling, he noted as he forced himself to move it back to his side. And his whole body was hot, as if she’d run her fingers over every inch of him, instead of just his forehead. What the hell was up with that? The only person who was supposed to be making his hands shake and his skin hot was Anabel. Certainly not a near-stranger with a chip on her shoulder the size of the Brooklyn Bridge.
He gave his head a good shake to clear it. Then he made his feet move forward to follow Chloe, who had already gone through the back door. Outside on 67th Street, she was standing near a tree with her back to him, her face in profile as she gazed toward Madison Avenue—though she didn’t look as if she was in any hurry to get anywhere. In fact, her expression was kind of distant and dreamy, as if it wasn’t tasting wine she was thinking about, but tasting...uh...something else instead.
Hogan shoved the thought away. He had to be imagining things. Chloe Merlin had made it clear that she wanted to keep her distance from him, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually and every other-ly there was. Ever since that day last week when she’d reeled away from him in the gallery, she’d been professional to a fault. Every effort he’d made to get to know her better—because he always wanted to know a person better who was working for him, the same way he knew the guys who worked for him at the garage—had fallen flat.
Then again, he’d never met anyone like Chloe, so maybe it was just because of that.
By the time he drew alongside her on the street, she was back to her regular cool composure. When she looked at him now, it was with the same sort of detachment she always did. Her red-lipsticked mouth was flat, and she straightened her glasses with her fingers this time, instead of the back of her hand, a much less anxious gesture than usual. But he still couldn’t quite forget that erotic little sound of surrender that had escaped her when he dragged his thumb along the inside of her palm. It would be a long time before he forgot about that.
“We’re going to a new restaurant on Madison Avenue, just around the corner from sixty-seventh,” she told him. “L’Artichaut. They don’t actually open until next week, so it will be nice to have a little sneak peek in addition to the wine-tasting.”
It suddenly occurred to Hogan that there might be a charge for him to participate. “Is it okay if you show up with someone? I mean, I have my wallet, but I don’t have a lot of cash on me.”
It was something he might have said in the past, when not having cash on him was a fairly regular occurrence. Saying something like that now, in light of his new financial situation, made him think he sounded like he was expecting Chloe to pick up the tab for him.
“There’s no charge,” she said. “It’s by invitation. And mine included a plus-one. I just didn’t, um, have a plus-one to invite.”
Wow. She really was a Park Avenue sensation if she got invited to stuff like this. Then the second part of her statement registered. And made him a lot happier than it should have.
“I hope you don’t mind having one now,” he said.
“It’s fine,” she told him. But she still didn’t sound like it was.
“Now that all the legalities of inheriting my grandfather’s estate have been settled, it’s kind of hard for me to keep busy, you know? I mean, I don’t really have to work anymore, and, as much as I liked working in the garage, I thought I’d like not working more. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Even people who like their jobs? To not have to get up every day and go to work?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Is that what everyone wants?”
Well, everyone except, apparently, Chloe Merlin. Then again, she’d never said she liked her work. She said she needed it. He still wanted to know what the difference was. “I always thought it was,” he said. “I started working for a paycheck in my dad’s garage when I was fourteen, cleaning up and manning the cash register and running errands until I was old enough to work on the cars. When I was in high school, I worked another job, too, at a market up the street from us, delivering groceries.”
Because it had taken the income from two jobs to keep Anabel in the style to which she was accustomed. Not that Hogan regretted a bit of it. She’d been worth every extra minute on his time cards.
The point was that he’d been working hard for more than two-thirds of his life. When Gus Fiver told him how much money he had now, Hogan had realized he could sleep late every morning and stay up late every night and enjoy a million different pursuits. Problem was, he wasn’t much of a night owl—he liked getting up early. And he didn’t really have any pursuits. Not yet. He hadn’t even been away from his job for two weeks, and already, he was restless.
“I don’t understand how the idle rich handle being idle,” he said. “It feels weird to have all this money I didn’t work for. I don’t want to be one of those people who gets everything handed to them, you know? I need to figure out a way to earn my place in the world.”
“Some wealthy people who don’t work keep themselves busy by finding causes to support and raising money to help them. You could become a philanthropist.”
He shook his head. “I’d rather just have someone tell me who needs something and write them a check.” Which was something he’d actually started doing already. “There’s nothing wrong with charity work,” he hurried to add. “It’s just not my thing. I’m not comfortable asking people for money, even if the money’s not for me.”
“But you are comfortable giving it away.”
“Well, yeah. It’s not like I need it. Just the income I get from my grandfather’s investments has me set for life. Not only do I have that incredible house,” he added, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the place they’d just left, “but he left me three other houses to boot. The guy had four houses. Who needs that many?” Before she could answer—not that the question had really required an answer—he added, “And he collected cars. There are four parked under the town house and another eight in a storage facility in New Jersey. Not to mention another ten at his other houses. Twenty-two cars. Hell, even I think that’s too many, and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to collect cars.”
She almost smiled at that. Almost. It didn’t quite make it into her eyes, though. Still, he guessed hearing some mook complain about having too many houses and cars was pretty funny. Her reaction made him feel better. Maybe they could get back on solid, if weird, ground again.
“So that was what you were doing this afternoon?” she asked. “Looking at the ones parked at the house?”
He nodded. “Yeah. They’re in incredible condition. Maybe Philip Amherst wasn’t a huge success in the father and grandfather departments, but the guy knew wheels. In addition to the Merc Gullwing, there’s a 1961 Ferrari Spyder, a 1956 Maserati Berlinetta, and, just when I thought the guy was going to be one of those European snobs, I pull the cover off this incredible 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS 427 in absolute mint condition that’s—”
He stopped midsentence, because Chloe was looking at him now with an actual, honest-to-God smile on her face, one that had reached her eyes this time, and the sight nearly knocked the breath out of his lungs. He’d been thinking all this time that she was cute. Quirky, but cute. But when she smiled the way she was smiling now, she was... She was a... She was an absolute... Wow. Really, really...wow.
But all he could manage to say was, “What’s so funny?”
She looked ahead again. “I think you’ve found your purpose.”
“What? Collecting cars?” he asked. “No, that’s too much. I’m already having trouble justifying keeping them all.”
“Then maybe you could do something else with cars,” she suggested. “Start designing your own line.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have that kind of talent.”
“Then invest in someone who does.”
He started to shoot down that idea, too, but stopped. That actually wasn’t a bad idea. He even already knew somebody he could put some money behind. The daughter of one of the guys who worked at the garage. She was still in high school, but the kid knew cars inside and out, and had some great ideas for what to do with them. No way could her parents afford to send her to college. But Hogan could. And there were probably dozens of kids like her in New York...
But he still needed to figure out what to do with himself. Investing in the future generation was great and all that, but Hogan needed a purpose, too. He’d worked with his hands all his life. He just couldn’t see himself never working with them again.
Chloe halted, and Hogan realized they were standing in front of their destination. Looked like, for now, at least, what he would be doing was spending a few hours in a French restaurant tasting wine he knew nothing about. A couple of months ago the idea of doing something like that would have made him want to stick needles in his eyes. Today, though, it felt like a good way to spend the time.
He looked at Chloe again, at how the afternoon sun brought out sparks of silver in her white-blond hair and how the breeze had tugged one strand loose to dance it around one cheek. He saw how the smile had left her lips, but hadn’t quite fled from her eyes.
Yeah, tasting wine with Chloe Merlin didn’t seem like a bad way to spend an afternoon at all.