“Welcome to my place, Bambi,” I say. Her brows stay firmly pressed together, so I explain more. “I turned the loft of this garage into an apartment. It’s cheaper, and I have a place to store my car and tools.”
“Oh,” she says, looking up at the ceiling like she’s magically gained X-ray vision and can see through the floor. “You really live up there?”
“Yeah,” I reply, nodding toward the staircase in the corner. “It has everything I need—a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and a really great workroom that needs some love and attention,” I smile widely, sweeping my arms toward the space like I’m revealing some big prize.
She keeps her face neutral and unimpressed. “Still no.”
“But—” Before I can sell her on it anymore, she spinstoward the staircase and is already halfway up the steps before I know what she’s doing. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“You storm into my home all the time. It’s only fair,” Emery calls out, taking two steps at a time.
“That was only twice and it’s a store. I hate to break it to you, Bambi, but you’re going to have people doing that all the time,” I explain, not even sure she can hear me.
When she makes it to the top, I finally catch up to her. She pauses in the doorway and does a sweep of the place, starting with the kitchen and ending in the spacious living room.
“This is not what I expected,” she says.
“And what were you expecting, Bambi?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“Something not so…Patrick Bateman from American Psycho.”
“Wow,” I whistle, stepping into the open concept apartment. “Let me guess—you were expecting Playboy posters and empty pizza boxes. I hate to break it to you, but I’m not the frat boy you paint me out to be in your head. I even have a headboard,” I say proudly, shooting her a discreet wink.
Most people are surprised when they find out how neat I am. I look around my place, and the counters are crystal clear with mostly bare walls save for a few family photos. I even have throw pillows that I do the karate chop thing to. I rarely let women come back to my place, but the few that have had the same look of shock painted across Emery’s face.
“I think you’d have a panic attack if you ever set foot in my place,” she sighs, walking over to the bookshelf that Henry gifted me.
“That’s why it’s more believable that we usually stay at my place,” I smirk, watching her fingers ghost over the books collecting dust on the shelves.
She keeps her gaze pointed at the shelf, attempting to ignore my comment. “Do you actually read these?”
“Yes and no,” I say, inching closer to her. An excited humvibrates inside me when she tenses before trying to relax herself again. I can tell there’s a battle going on in her mind and I’m honored to be the star of it. “Some of these are my brother’s books. He’s an author.”
“Oh,” she says, her breathing starting to slow down. Emery turns away from the shelf, but I don’t back up. I don’t want to.
Those devastating green eyes flick up, and I can see the way her mind races with what she wants to do next. But my girl doesn’t back down easily, and I know she’ll stand her ground to pretend I’m not affecting her.
And she does just that. “That’s cool. I’ll have to ask him for a signed copy. Maybe after our very amicable but public break-up.
“Why wait?” I ask, lowering my voice. “I’m sure a dedication to his future sister-in-law would be more special.”
The vein pops out to say hi again. I suppress a laugh, enjoying the heat bouncing back and forth between us. “Not. Funny,” she says, reaching out to poke my chest with each word.
I grin, not moving an inch. “I think it’s hilarious, actually.”
Her nostrils flare and she closes her eyes before taking a few quick breaths. I let my gaze fall to the cleavage that’s been tempting me all night. I think I’d let her suffocate me between those things. Either that or her thighs, which have also been on full display in those tight black denim shorts.
Maybe if she doesn’t step away, I can—my thought is interrupted by her eyes snapping open and sidestepping me to the other side of the bookshelf. A tinge of disappointment washes over me, but it’s probably for the best. Everything about this relationship is fake, and it needs to stay that way.
I adjust my jeans and take in a few of my own deep breaths before turning to face her. She walks over to one of the windows and stares out at the sea of trees separating my home from Henry’s place.
“I don’t want to admit it, but your idea actually makes sense,” she sighs, keeping her body turned away from mine.
“Are we talking about the workroom again?” I ask, gliding across the wood floors and standing next to her.
Emery pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, causing me some mild discomfort again, but I ignore it because I’m eager to hear about how right I am.
“Yes. The only issue is my main mode of transportation is still out of commission—” I open my mouth to say something, but she cuts me off, “and before you offer to be my personal chauffeur, I’d like to point out that that’s not realistic.”
