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“I’m having breakfast delivered in the morning. Will you see to it that it makes it to my door?”
“Uh…” I give what I hope comes off as a careless shrug even as my nuts tingle. “Yeah.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
“’Night.”
The thing is, it’d be totally orthodox and expected for me to send the college-aged woman who arrives at seven a.m. with croissants up to the penthouse to leave The Heir’s order outside his door. We do it all the time. Food deliveries come at all hours, and we’re not supposed to leave the lobby for longer than it takes to piss. As long as they’re in and out in ten minutes, it’s fine.
And, as established, I’m exhausted. I don’t have the desire to fight anyone this morning, and I’m not in the least bit turned on by the idea of a repeat of yesterday. Frankly, it seems like too much work.
But I need to put an end to this—whatever it is—along with our stupid feud so I can focus on things that matter—like finding a new roommate or moving out of New York. Figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.
So, with the best intentions, I accept the delivery, hand the building off to William, and head up to the twelfth floor—one last time.
While I know he’s expecting me, I’m once again not sure what I’m going to have to deal with this morning. I’m surprised when Olivier opens the door. And I say Olivier because he looks almost like a regular person. While his jeans are Dior and his Henley is probably bespoke or something, he looks nothing like The Heir.
He looks…
Some kind of way that makes my lungs shrink slightly in capacity. A week ago, I would have chalked that feeling up to bitterness, but I can’t be so sure anymore. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’ve been “intimate,” but we did go through something. Together.
“Would you like a croissant?” he asks. “I ordered two.”
I look down at the bag I’m holding. “I can’t stay.”
He holds out a hand, and I pass the bag along to him. “Five minutes?”
My gaze narrows with suspicion. “Why?”
His expression remains placid. “I’d like to apologize.”
“Mm…” I see the red flag as clearly as if it’s waving over his head, but honestly, I’m too exhausted to pay heed to it. Better to get this over with. I came up here to set things straight, right?
Very, very straight.
“I don’t eat carbs,” I say.
“I didn’t figure you did.” He sighs, opening the door wider and gesturing me inside. “Regardless, please come in.”
Such manners. I glare at him as I do as he says.
It’s warm in his apartment. My instinct is to take off my jacket, but I hesitate over the top button. “Do you mind?” I ask him first.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
“Five minutes, you said,” I remind him.
He sets the delivery bag down on the dining table and casually shrugs. “If you’re hot…” he clears his throat. “You know what I mean.”
I’m sweating. I unbutton the jacket and shrug it off, leaving the slim fitting polo beneath, which I go ahead and untuck to maximize airflow. I loosen the tie and work the top button of my shirt open. “What’s up?” I ask, when I’m marginally more ventilated.
“You despise me,” he says, eyes locked on mine, arms folded across his chest.
“Is that a question?”
His head tilts, gaze narrowing. “If you like.”
“You’re not my favorite,” I say.
