“Pretty good. So. Everything’s okay here?”
“More than okay. I didn’t expect your people to clean my room or do my laundry.”
“That’s their job. Don’t worry about it.” His lips are pressed like he wants to add something, but is restraining himself.
“Right.” Maybe Nicholas is waiting for me to offer, unlike Owen, who made the demand as soon as I moved in. I try to feign nonchalance, like it’s every day I crash with a guy who has staff taking care of everything. “So how much am I supposed to chip in?”
Nicholas’s eyebrows rise. “Chip in?”
“Yeah, you know—for utilities and stuff.”
“Utilities?” He looks like I just saidroach kebab.
“Shared expenses?” I suddenly feel like I’m doing something wrong. His reaction is incredulous and vaguely insulted.
“I didn’t offer you my place so that you could ‘chip in.’” He scowls. “I’m not Owen.”
“I know. I didn’t think you were.” Nobody with functioning eyes would confuse him with my ex.
“Good. So, do you have any plans for this weekend?”
I guess that’s the end of the utilities discussion.“I’ll probably go apartment hunting, but other than that…” I shrug. Normally, I’d say something along the lines of grocery shopping, doing my laundry and cleaning the house. But obviously I don’t need to do any of those things. Not that I’m complaining. It just feels oddly awkward to be this pampered when I’m not on vacation. “Are you doing anything special? Do you need me out of your hair?” After all, it’s his place. He might be hosting some exclusive party with his fancy billionaire friends.
“No. I don’t need you out of my hair.” He mutters what sounds like, “I want you in my hair like shampoo.”
Except I couldn’t have heard that right.
He takes a step closer, and my heart starts pounding. I look up at him, mesmerized by his presence. The air in my lungs grows syrup-thick and starts to still.
He tucks my hair back, brushing his warm fingers over the shell of my ear and sending little shivers through me. My heart pounds louder.
His lips brush my forehead lightly, like a butterfly alighting. The spot tingles, and warmth coils in my belly.
“Good night,” he says softly.
“Good night.” Despite my best attempt, I sound breathless and slightly raspy.
He gives me a little smile, and looks like he might do—or say—something else, but then vanishes into his room. I close the door and lean against it, a necessary action, since my knees seem to have suddenly lost all their strength.
Maybe this is how our routine’s going to be. He comes home a little bit after I’m done with dinner and we chat a bit. We won’t be in each other’s way too much.
But that isn’t what happens. He begins coming home after midnight. I know because I stay in bed reading until at least eleven, when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. He must be extremely busy at work.
Still, he always makes sure we have breakfast together, asking me about my plans and how my week is going. The kiss he brushed on my forehead slowly migrates south until he’s kissing my cheek before we leave for work. Part of me wonders if I should kiss him back on his cheek—or chin, since I’m so much shorter—but I can’t seem to muster the courage. The only reason I kissed him at the pool was because Joey’s accusation pissed me off.
Nicholas texts me at four to let me know he’s going to be late. It’s so…domestic. Like we are dating for real. Actually, it feels more than that. Owen never texted me when he was going to be out late, except when he felt obligated to ask if I wanted to join him at a club or something.
Stop being silly. There’s no way Nicholas is feeling anything even remotely domestic. He’s just being his usual considerate self. I should quit trying to associate domesticity—or anything relationship-esque—with Nicholas before I start acting like the offensive romance-reader stereotype Owen says I am.
Chapter Nineteen
Molly
Friday morning, I still don’t have an apartment. I can’t believe Rob can’t find anything. I thought real estate agents had secret handshakes, back-alley deals, hidden networks of contacts. He claims everything is getting taken off the market as soon as it pops up, which, honestly, sounds pretty flimsy. I’m beginning to wonder if all those positive reviews for his service are fake and he’s really just some lazy bum who’s going to end up wasting my time.
Maybe ask Dad for help?
No. No way. He might find me a place, but it’ll be onehelikes, not one that suits me. And he’ll send me a list of properties I should buy because he’s convinced I should buy rather than “waste my money paying somebody else’s mortgage,” as he likes to put it.
