I’m a journalist for God’s sake. And a good one.
Adrien doesn’t move a muscle as I walk slowly to the table. His scent reaches me first. Cedarwood, asphalt, smoke and something warm underneath, like motor oil still holding heat—something that fits him a little too well.
It shouldn’t feel this calm.
I don’t like this.
“Adrien,” I say, mostly to reassure myself I didn’t hallucinate the whole introduction.
“Troubles?” he echoes, a question lingering at the end.
This stupid nickname.
And just like that, the urge to yell and throw something comes back. I swallow and close my eyes for a second to get some control of myself.
When I open my eyes again, he’s grinning.
Fuck this curly bastard.
My eyes glisten when I see the coffee cup, so I take it. I ignore Adrien’s annoying gaze as I slowly walk around the enormous room. I need to change, I’m still in the same clothes. I don’t even want to think about how I got into it.
“Tell me you weren’t the one who changed my clothes.” I quickly turn around and ask him, surprisingly not yelling, but my voice is bold enough to let him know how angry I am.
He just lifts his eyebrows.
“God, no. He would—”
“He would kill you?” I finish for him.
“Right.” He’s sort of stunned but smiles proudly as he continues. “Well, not actually kill me. I’m his favorite person in the world, by the way.” He smiles mischievously and still doesn’t take his eyes off me.
I raise my eyebrows as he goes on.
“I mean, look at me.” He spreads his arms like he’s advertising himself.
Is he for real? I almost want to smile. Almost. But I swallow it.
He probably saw that, because he’s tilting his head and smiling wider.
I can’t help it, I just don’t feel any danger with this guy. I’m probably wrong.
“Troubles, you can smile. I don’t bite.” He pauses and studies me, “Unless you want me to, of course.”
He rests his head on one of his wrists and continues to stare at me. Is this an attempt to flirt?
Fuck this guy, really.
I turn my back to him before he sees the tornado of emotions on my face, heading toward the big cabinet.
Clothes. Jackpot.
I go through the materials, finding sports leggings and bras in what looks like twenty different colors. All in my size.
Strange, but okay.
I open another drawer and freeze for a millisecond. Lingerie. Way too much of it. All my size. That’s… unsettling.
“The walk-in closet is right there,” he says, pointing to the other side of the suite.
