“I’m moving in,” he says this with a straight face, and all I can do is throw my head back and laugh.
“Moving in. Like hell you are.”
“I installed cameras in your apartment,” he looks up at me with stormy eyes that sparkle with determination.
“You did what?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“It was part of the deal, either that or I move in here. Someone broke in today and had them all removed.”
My ears burn, and I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. “Get out!”
He ignores me and reaches for a book on the coffee table. My book. My eyes widen as he opens it, the bookmark slipping to the floor. In seconds I’m across the room, kneeling on his lap, my hands wrapped clumsily around his neck. He reaches for my hands, bringing them down and pinning them behind me.
“If you wanted me, you should’ve just said so, sweetheart,” his eyes crinkle in the corners with glee.
“Let me go.” I struggle against him, trying to free my hands. His hold is strong, unrelenting and my breathing is rapid from the exertion. It’s like pushing against a brick wall with this man.
“If I let go, are you gonna be a good girl and do as you’re told?”
“Asshole!” I growl.
He lets go of my hands, and I wing at him. Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough, and he grips my wrist. “Let’s play nice, princess.” Braxton’s heated gaze moves to my lips.
I pull away, standing to put some distance between us. I walk to the bedroom making sure to slam the door behind me.
* * *
I reemerge after a shower when the growling in my stomach wouldn’t cease. The smell of tomato and herbs only worsens the pangs I feel.
“Tantrum done?” he asks as he steps into the living room, a dish towel flung over one shoulder.
I say nothing, just sit at the island that separates the kitchen from the living area. He doesn’t pester me more, just walks over to the stove where he scoops some pasta and bolognaise sauce into a bowl, setting it in front of me. He sprinkles it with some parmesan then hands me a fork. He walks back over to the stove and fixes himself a bowl before taking a seat next to me.
I’m too hungry to protest and dip my fork into the pasta dish. I moan out loud when I taste it. It’s that good. I glance at him, and he’s grinning as he wolfs down his food. We eat in silence, the sound of the 7:00 p.m. news in the background.
After cleaning the kitchen, I hang up the dish towel and make my way to my room, returning with a pillow and a blanket. “Here, you can use these.”
“Thank you. I could’ve gone next door for mine.”
I look at the two-seater, wondering how a man his size is going to have a decent night’s sleep on it. I remind myself that this is his choice, so he will have to get used to roughing it.
“Good night then,” I say, retreating into my bedroom.
I lie in bed, tossing and turning, every position I sleep in making me more uncomfortable. I slip out of bed and decide to make myself some chamomile tea. I don’t bother with shoes, not wanting to wake Braxton. I tiptoe down the corridor and into the kitchen. The light above the stove is on, and I sneak a peek at Braxton as I pad over to the counter. Most of him seems to be off the couch, the blanket loosely flung over his bottom half. He’s shirtless, a tattoo I can’t quite make out on his forearm.
When the kettle switches off, I retrieve it to pour into my cup, my eyes roaming back to the man on the couch. He’s solidly built, and I wonder how his skin would feel against my fingertips. I let out a yelp and spring back when boiling water hits my foot. Braxton is up in a second, rushing toward me.
“What the hell are you doing?” the kitchen light switches on.
“Making tea, geez,” I snap.
“What happened?” his eyes are wild as they search my face.
“I just dropped some hot water on my foot.” I couldn’t say that the water had overflowed onto the counter while I was gaping at him. Still am. He’s even more toned up close, several scars littering his tanned skin.
“Are you all right?” he looks down at my foot where red tinges the skin.
Braxton retrieves a bag of peas and sets it on the counter. He lifts me by the waist, placing me on the counter, and I gasp at the contact. He wraps the peas in a dishtowel then lifts my foot to place the peas on it. The burning eases but I shove his hands away and continue applying the cold press myself.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. As he walks away, I notice more scars on his back. I avert my gaze and continue pressing the peas to my foot. After a few minutes, I hop off the counter and make my way past the living room where Braxton sits on the couch, his arms folded over his chest watching me. Something flickers in his eyes for a second, so fleeting I’m not sure it was there in the first place.
I continue to my bedroom where I curl up in bed, and this time, with the peas soothing my foot, I feel my eyelids getting heavier with Braxton on my mind, his disheveled hair, his toned body. I feel a smile tug at my lips, but I am too exhausted to stay awake.
