“Are you kidding me? I get to see inside the Brute’s lair. It’sveryexciting.”
Monty follows me as I skip inside, my head on a swivel as I take it all in.
“Oh my god, it’s huge! I didn’t think you’d have something like this.”
Denver walks in behind me and closes the door, locking it.
“I don’t mean that in a bad way… Oh god, that sounded so rude, I just meant?—”
“That I’m not a billionaire, so I wouldn’t have a penthouse? Sinclair, it’s fine, I know what you meant.”
“I just meant, you’re hardly ever home, you’re always with my father… well, me now…so I figured you’d have something practical and… I just didn’t expect this.”
I take in the exposed brickwork and vaulted ceiling. “It’s incredible. A trendy artist’s loft kind of vibe. Are you going to bring your paintings out next and show me? If they’re really ugly, I swear I’ll not let it show on my face.”
“No paintings,” Denver says in amusement.
I continue to take in the space, my eyes ping-ponging over the sleek black kitchen and industrial-looking stools at the breakfast bar. Everything about the space is masculine and neat. There aren’t any keepsakes or much of a personal nature at all. It’s all so in control. Just like him.
“Oh! Who’s that?” I ask, my eyes catching on the one photograph in the living area. I pick it up from the bookshelf and study it. “You’re smiling!” I stare at the photo of Denver standing next to another guy who looks familiar. They both have matching smiles on their faces. Denver looks younger, but it’s still him. Minus the seriousness and dark broodiness. “Oh mygod, you should do it more, you’re one hell of a kisser and one hell of a smiler. Your mouth has skills.”
I grin, but it falters when he looks at the photo, a brief flash of guilt crossing his face.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Rick.”
Simple. Straightforward. One word.
Just like he can be when he doesn’t want to talk about something.
“Oh. He looks like a nice guy,” I say.
“The best.” Denver sighs.
He’s moved closer and his giant warm body is inches from mine. I place the frame down where I found it carefully, then turn to face him.
“So no paintings?” I feign disappointment as I run my fingers over his shirt buttons, toying with them, when it’s obvious he isn’t going to say any more about who Rick is.
“No paintings,” he rasps.
“Hmm.” I trail my fingers up his chest and loosen his tie. “What are you going to entertain and delight your guests with then?”
His darkened eyes flick to Monty, who’s already curled up on a beanbag dog bed on the floor.
I frown. “You don’t have a dog.”
Warm fingers hook underneath my chin and turn my face back to his. “No. But you have Monty.”
The delicious deep husk of his voice sets butterflies swarming in my stomach.
“You bought a bed for Monty? When?”
“Two and a half years ago,” he says, stroking my hair back from my face.
“That’s when I got him,” I say in confusion.
“I thought there was a possibility you’d come here with Sterling or Sullivan one day. I wanted you to feel comfortable knowing Monty was okay.”
