I kick my suitcases aside and close the door to survey the space. Matthews stands, his hands in his pockets, watching me. I ignore his gaze and the way it’s tracking me. If there’s an arrogant, narcissistic side to this man, I’m waiting with a giant mallet for that weasel to pop its big, ugly head out. We’ll get that bit sorted out real quick.
I tug open the sliding glass door and test the lock. This apartment is more like a penthouse, complete with an unobstructed million-dollar view that, fortunately, doesn’t allow opportunities for threats to gain visibility inside.
I step out onto the large balcony, containing outdoor furniture that’s probably more comfortable than my bed. Cole follows.
“Have you noticed any drones? Seems that might be the biggest threat out here.”
“No, but I can’t say I’ve really paid attention.” His tone is confidently relaxed, and some part of that irritates the hell out of me.
He rests his long, lean, muscular arms on the railing and stares out at the blue water. Instead of jeans and a polo, he’s wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. I’m at least happy to find there aren’t formal dress requirements. That would have been the final straw. I’d be calling Tracker and handing in my resignation.
His short dark brown hair is damp as if he recently showered, but his face is covered in a slight five o’clock shadow. I recall what Lyla said about women fighting for his attention. He’s strikingly handsome, clearly loaded, and I now know he’s predicted to be one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL. I understand why he’d be a target for the female population. It all makes me curious why he isn’t currently in a relationship. I make a mental note to address visitors and sleepovers when I lay out the rules.
His attention falls back on me. “I don’t spend much time out here. Is that something we need to worry about?”
I ignore his question, turning to face inside and resting my back against the thick metal rail. The space is spotless. The tile and countertops shine. It’s minimally decorated, and everything is in its place. Not a piece of mail, a dirty bowl, or a random shoe to be found. Tracker is obsessive about keeping things neat and tidy, but this brings things to a whole other level.
“Do you even live here?” It comes out more of a grumble than I intended as I stare at all the glass, where not a fingerprint could be dusted.
“What?” His head snaps in my direction, and it almost makes me smile. Almost. I keep that shit locked down. There’s no room for that here.
“This place is. . . I could eat my dinner off the floor.”
He frowns, and then slowly, I see the crease between his bright blue eyes disappear. He glances over his shoulder, surveying the space, and I wonder if this is what home feels like to him—stark, cold, and spotless. For some reason, that doesn’t make sense.
One corner of his mouth ticks upward. “Will we be doing that? Closing all the curtains, living in the dark, and eating on the floor to make it seem like we aren’t home?”
We.That tiny word has my stomach smacking itself around in retaliation for letting Tracker dare me into doing this.
I angle my head to study him as I consider his question.
Cole Matthews has a sense of humor, and it causes a rogue group of nerves to attempt to fall back. Not on my watch. I command those bad boys right back to the front line, keeping my defenses in place.
I’ll do this even if it kills me.
I push off the railing, letting out a breath as my stomach recoils with the tiniest bit of relief.
Work. It’s time to get back to it.
“Come on, Matthews, show me the rest of your immaculate living space. I’ll let you know in a minute what level of hiding out is necessary.”
I think I hear a chuckle as I head back inside. I slide the large door closed and then draw the massive sheer curtains. Extra privacy can’t hurt.
I follow Cole upstairs to his workout room, which contains everything a gym rat could wish for. Across the hall are two fully furnished bedrooms.
I glance around, noting the windows don’t appear to be a security risk.
He clears his throat. “Uh, so you can have your pick. The bathrooms are…”
I turn in the doorway, facing the workout equipment. “Where’s your room?”
“Downstairs.” He scratches his chin.
Nervous tell?Inconclusive.
“I can show you. There’s another bedroom down the hall from it, but I figured—” He doesn’t finish telling me what he figured when I start down the stairs.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. . .shit!
