L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

his arms rippled and revealed themselves. The beat of the music was hypnotic, and
every once in a while I’d see him get caught up in it, like it was taking him over and
moving him from within. Still cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he
turned and stepped towards me, this time holding a spoonful of the soup, his other hand
cupping beneath it.
“Just tasting my gran’s recipe. Yeah. I’ll bring you some. Now I’m gonna be busy for
the next hour,” he said, blowing on the spoon, then bringing it closer to my mouth.
I took a careful, hot bite. Gumbo. Oh God, better than Dell’s, in fact, better than any
I’d ever tasted.
“Make that two hours. I’ll call you when I’m back at the hotel. Yup. Bye.”
He dropped the spoon, hung up and turned to me. And he stood there like that, not
saying a word, for at least ten seconds. He seemed totally condent, just standing like
that, wordlessly, eyeing me up and down, the music still pumping. This man was
someone. That was for sure. I decided to break the ice.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,” I said over the music. He took a
remote and aimed it over my head, lowering the volume. He didn’t reply. I asked, “Who
are you?”
He was about to say something, but just laughed and shook his head. “I’m whoever you
want me to be, baby.”
“But … those bodyguards out there. They’re for you, right?”
And there it was again, that shake of the head, that shy boyish smile.
“No comment,” he said. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk
about … what you got on. Tell me a little something about what it is you’re wearing,”
he said, crossing his arms across his chest, then resting a thumb on his lips. He stepped
o u t from behind the island and stood ten feet from me, assessing me like I was
auditioning for something. My knees weakened at the sight of his belt buckle resting low
in front. I tried not to stare, but this was a powerfully seductive man. I felt silly and old
in my dumb yoga pants.
“Um, they asked me to wear this,” I said, looking down at my idiotic sneakers.
“Nice. When I told them ‘soccer mom,’ I wasn’t being literal. But I gotta say, this is
pretty much what I had in mind. Just that the clothes are wrapped around a sexier
package than I imagined.”
“May I?” I asked, pointing to a stool at the island. I was shaking so much, if I didn’t
sit, I’d collapse.
“Sure. You like gumbo?” He grabbed his spoon and turned to the oven to give the pot
another stir.
“I love it. It’s … it’s really delicious. Um … Are you going to cook for me? I’m just not
sure I ever said anything about a fantasy involving cooking.”
“ I am going to cook for you. And you’re going to do something for me,” he said,
pointing his spoon at me.
“I am?”
“You are.”
“I thought this was my fantasy?”