If it’s Chrissy and Rory—not unlikely considering they’ve both been demanding to tour my place and also because they’re worried about me not having any furniture except for my bed (which only survived because the legs on the frame are metal and high, situating my mattress and linens above the flood).
I’ve been putting them off because they’re busy and Chrissy’s pregnant and they were traveling.
But it wouldn’t be a surprise if they’ve finally run out of patience.
I groan softly but move to the door when the second knock comes. If itisthem, they won’t give up with a simple knock or two. They’ll stand outside and call my bluff, not budging until I let them inside and give them the full tour of my empty condo.
My fingers wrap around the handle and I twist. “You may be here,” I say as I pull the door open, “but I’m not sharing my snacks.”
I should have realized Chrissy and Rory couldn’t make it to this floor without buzzing up.
Ishouldhave looked through the fucking peephole.
But I didn’t.
So, when the door’s fully open, revealing none other than sexy, yummy-penis-wielding Jace Henderson, I’m momentarily frozen in place.
Gorgeous.
Tall.
Strong.
Smells like heaven…
And smiles like sin.
“That’s fine, cookie,” he says, lifting an arm and showing me he’s holding a bag. “I bought my own.”
And then he waltzes right inside.
Twenty-Two
Jace
Fuck,I want to kiss the befuddled look off her face.
But Brooks’s words have been running through my head nonstop since we spent the evening together.
So, when I got the text from security telling me that Marie was back—and with a suitcase in hand—I didn’t hesitate. I closed down my computer, made a couple of key stops, and then headed straight home. Or well, straighthere.
“You sure you don’t want to share your snacks, gorgeous?” I ask as I set the bag on the counter and start pulling out what I brought. “I think you might change your mind.”
She doesn’t reply right away, and I chance a look up, see that she’s staring at the open door like it’s grown a second head.
Then she seems to shake herself, shutting the door and turning to face me.
Turning toglareat me.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re officially moving back in?” It’s a question, but one I already know the answer to—mostly because I signed off on the invoice for the work today.
There’s a long pause.
Then she sighs. “Yeah,” she mutters.
“Smells like paint.” I don’t like that, don’t like that she might be exposed to the fumes, that she might hurt herself.
