Probably it was all because he felt bad for the beaten-up girl. What if he just feels responsible because he’s my landlord, and I was in his building when I was… I don’t even have words for what happened to me today. I guess “nearly killed” covers it.
Charity. Ugh, the very thought of him pitying me—trying to cheer up the zombie by giving her what she asked for—makes me cringe so hard I’m almost bent double.
I’m so embarrassed. If I could teleport to wherever my parents are hiding out, I would. I’d probably accept melting into the ground.
Thoughts swirl around my mind as I carefully shower and dry myself, then slip into Brody’s shirt.
I give in and sniff the collar like an addict, and perhaps it’s just my imagination, but I catch his scent. Seawater, neroli, steel, and musk. It’s sharp and strong.
And that’s when I realise what I have to do. Brody is way too kind-hearted to deny me, even if it must make him uncomfortable.
So. New resolution.
I am not asking Brody for things. I cannot risk it being just him humouring me.
It’s probably a moot point, because I’ll figure out somewhere else to stay—maybe try to find my parents—tomorrow. But anything that happens between us from now on will have to be because he initiates it.
In the morning, my resolution doesn’t prevent my awareness of the man I’m sharing a space with. There are sounds of movement from the rest of the penthouse, and my squirrel brain thinks about Brody getting out of bed—I wonder if he sleeps naked?—having a shower, buttoning his collar over the sandpaper bump of his Adam’s apple, and covering his body with one of those beautifully-fitted suits he wears.
I’m practically drooling at the image my mind fills in from the smallest sounds, but as I dress in my shorts and strappy top, I give myself a stern talking-to.
No lusting after my kind, extremely hot, and oh-so-serious landlord. No making suggestions. No telling him my deepest, filthiest desires. No playing the sympathy card.
As I see the curve of my breasts beneath my top, I add a new one. No attempting to catch his interest with my only-just-not-a-teenager body. He’s twice my age. He wants a mature woman, probably a blonde who is as serious as he is, not a try-hard girl like me.
So despite having slept in it, and stayed up way too late with the awareness of my nipples pebbled on the fabric that usually lies against his chest, I slip his shirt on over my little top. It swamps me, but it covers me too. No risk of accidentally showing off my boobs.
When I find him, he’s sitting in what seems like a breakfast room, sunlight spilling in from the windows, a newspaper spread at one elbow and a cup of coffee in the other.
I don’t have to announce myself. He notices me immediately and sweeps his gaze over me from head to toe. Lingering on the shirt before settling on my face. I can’t read his expression.
“Great bruise, isn’t it? But you should have seen the other guy,” I joke.
I look a fright. Even worse than yesterday. The bruising and swelling has developed overnight, and I guess it’s not as bad as it could have been without Brody’s care.
“I will,” he mutters and adds more distinctly, “I had Denis make you some breakfast options. I’m not sure what’ll help your bruises though…”
“Cold revenge pizza?” I suggest with a smile, and he returns a wry look.
“That can be arranged. I have some business to attend to today, but Denis is at your service. No Italian will get past him, I guarantee. Now sit and eat.”
I do as he says, and I don’t know how I know, but that seems to please him. Not an actual smile, don’t get me wrong. But something about the tilt of his head and the way his shoulders lower fractionally suggest he’s more relaxed.
On the table is basically one of those breakfast buffets you see in adverts for expensive hotels. There are several silver domes, as well as pastries, toast, cereal, and jugs of fruit juice, tea, and coffee. Denis turns out to be a man in his sixties with a strong Russian accent and a countenance as serious as Brody’s, but focussed on what I’m eating rather than me. He pours me tea, that being my caffeine of choice at all times of day like a proper Brit, and under Brody’s observation when Denis retires to the kitchen somewhat accepting that I don’t eat much in the morning, I nibble on a strawberry.
“Thank you for this. I’ll be out of your way soon,” I offer.
Brody’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I need to…” I run out of words. Because I really don’t know what to do next. This whole, “being a mafia target” doesn’t come with a pdf user guide. Even if I was the sort of person to read manuals. “Either leave?—”
“That’s not a good idea,” he snaps. “We discussed it yesterday.”
I’m learning that Brody is abrupt and brutal in cutting people off when he thinks they’re making poor choices. But he’s right.
“Get my apartment liveable, do my final exam, and figure out everything else after that.”
“Don’t go downstairs.”
