I frown at him, confused. “What? Why? This isn’t a real…”
“I know,” he cuts me off. “But we have to make it look real. We’re going to be followed by paparazzi, and maybe even PIs determined to find out if we’re legit. Living together will make it easier to convince onlookers that we’re together. Besides, my place is huge. There’s plenty of room for you and we won’t be tripping over each other.”
It makes sense, I can’t deny that. Still, it feels like things could get a little muddy if we’re not careful.
“Okay,” I say at length. “I’ll move in, but we need to make one thing clear. What happened in California was a one-time thing, all right? If we’re going to do this, we can’t complicate things. We cannot have sex. We’re friends and that’s it.”
To my surprise, I see a flash of disappointment in his gaze, but it’s gone in an instant and he nods. “Agreed. That’s exactly what I was thinking as well.”
Good. This is good. We both are going into this knowing exactly what it is. An arrangement. A mutually beneficial business deal.
Nothing more.
Before I can move, he slips me off his lap and back over to my seat, and when he lets me go, I try to ignore how cold I suddenly feel without his touch.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WELCOME HOME
JAYCE
By the timeI pull into the underground garage of my building, the adrenaline pumping through me from the game and the exertion on my body has left me exhausted. Glancing at Sutton, I can only imagine how tired she must be. She’s resting her head against the window, her eyes hooded, as if she could fall asleep any second. She’s still so stunning, I have a feeling I could watch her doze for hours. I park and turn the car off and she blinks and looks at me.
“Oh, we’re here?” She sits up and yawns. “Sorry, I totally spaced out there for a bit.”
“Don’t worry. You have to be beyond tired. It’s been a long day.”
She chuckles softly. “That it has.”
We get out of the car and I grab her suitcase out of the trunk. We swung by Carson’s apartment to pick it up on our way here.
“This way.” I turn and lead Sutton to the private elevator that will take us up to my penthouse. We don’t speak as we ride, which I’m okay with. I like the quiet, and like to have the time to really think through what’s all happened. It’s not even an awkward quiet. I feel comfortable with her, and I appreciatethat she doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with unnecessary chatter.
This plan will work. I’m sure of it. Once the proposal at the game gets out there, it won’t be long before our families see it. Grandfather will probably see it first, since he’ll have actually watched the game, unlike most everyone else in my family.
When we reach my floor, we step out of the private elevator and into my penthouse. The first thing that always hits me when I come home is the light. Denver’s skyline pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, right now lit up beneath a starry night sky and bright moon.
“Open concept,” Sutton grins. “Very nice. The exposed steel beams and concrete floor are a nice touch. Very industrial chic.”
I chuckle and shrug. “Glad you approve. My mom hates it. Says it’s like I’m living in a warehouse.”
Sutton snorts and glances at me. “With white quartz counters and a touchscreen smart fridge in your kitchen? That’s a fancy-ass warehouse.”
I like that she seems to appreciate the space and notices the details. She would, though, wouldn’t she? After all, she’s an architect. This is what she does. So I follow behind as she explores the space, taking in the softly lit wine wall in the kitchen before moving to the living area. She traces her fingers along the back of the charcoal sectional and lets out a hum of appreciation when she sees the marble coffee table.
“Was that custom-made?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I feel a strange urge to impress her. “Actually had it shipped from Italy.”
“It’s gorgeous.” She tilts her head and studies the smooth surface of the solid, heavy piece.
For a moment, I just watch her, but then I realize I’m staring and clear my throat. “So, you have the run of the place,” I tell her. “There’s a cook and housekeeper that comes three timesa week. She does laundry then, and makes self-serve meals. If there’s anything you’d like, you can write her a note on the pad of paper in the kitchen by the fridge. She’s a little old-school that way.”
“You just have one person working for you?” she asks, arching a brow, but not in a snobbish way. She sounds genuinely curious.
I shrug. “I’m not big on having a lot of full-time staff. My family does, but it’s just me here. I can handle most things myself.”
“I’m not so into the idea either,” she confesses with a little smile. “I have a cleaner for my townhouse in New York, but that’s about it. They only come a few times a month.”
I like that. She’s not overly dependent on others and can stand on her own two feet. Can take care of herself.
