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Chapter Seventeen
Stella
I wake up to loud squawking. My eyes fly open in panic. I think I’m being attacked by geese. Then I realize it’s my alarm clock. I chose that specific ringtone because I needed drastic measures to get me up at this ungodly hour.
It’s 4 a.m. Looks like I have a good chance of catching the man before he leaves this morning.
Living with Ryan Fairchild has been impossible. It’s like the guy doesn’t even exist.
He’s usually off to work before dawn, and by the time I return from work, he’s asleep. Or at least in his bedroom. He must have a fully fitted kitchen in there because he doesn’t even come out to eat or drink anything after seven.
It’s been a month of hardly setting eyes on him, only seeing his hilarious scrawled notes. And the gourmet dinners he makes for me.
I drag myself off my plush bed and pad to the bathroom. I should ideally be sprinting out to see if he’s still here, but after almost a month of not setting my eyes on him, I’m not going to leave my room with bed hair and an unwashed face.
When I’m ready, I step into the expansive open-plan living space of the penthouse and I immediately spot him in the kitchen.
I halt in my steps, my heart lurching. He’s standing by the breakfast bar, holding a glass of orange juice and peering into a large sheet of paper.
He’s wearing the oldest, rattiest gray T-shirt I’ve ever seen, one that’s as thin as a wet tissue. What’s more, I’m pretty sure he’s wearing it back to front because the neck looks awkward.
The shirt might be old, but what Ryan does to it should be labeled a crime. The stretchy material pulls tautly against his muscles, begging for fingers to stroke along its ebbs and dips. His bottom half is covered in my personal kryptonite, tight grey sweatpants with a mouth-watering imprint of his cock.
This view is definitely worth waking up early for; the man is beyond gorgeous.
He looks up as I resume my approach.
“Hey Stella. You’re up early today.”
When I reach the breakfast bar and take a stool, I see the faded inscription on his shirt that reads ‘Ryan.’
“Oh wow, that’s an interesting PJ choice. Is that in case you forget your name in your sleep?”
His lips twitch. “You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay. Ryan, what’s with the skulking around?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t skulk around.”
“You’re awake at freaking 4 a.m.! And peering at…” I move closer to see. It’s a drawing plan or blueprint, but in the shape of a ship.
“Work.” He states.
I sniff. “Wow. Work at four a.m. I, on the other hand, can barely hold my lids up before my second cup of coffee at nine. Which reminds me where do you hide all the coffee? You don’t even have a machine. I’ve checked everywhere.”
My assistant has been my lifeline this past month. She already knows to have a steaming one ready for me first thing.
Ryan throws me an unreadable look. “I don’t drink coffee, so I don’t have it. Besides, you should limit your coffee intake.”
My heart skips a beat. He still thinks I’m pregnant. How many clues do I need to drop this guy before he gets it?
I should just come right out and tell him, although he seems a bit grumpy this morning.
I take a breath but what comes out of my mouth is, “Why don’t you drink coffee?”
Ryan doesn’t answer me, instead he moves to the refrigerator.
I’m still staring at his backside when he asks, “Would you like some orange juice instead?”
