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A little taken back by his PDA, I whisper, “Sure,” softly. He pushes off my chair and goes to walk out of the kitchen, glaring at Jessica. “Stop sleeping with my workers, Jess, or I will cut off your rights to come in and out.” Then takes the stairs one at a time.
“Well, that was odd,” Jessica looks like she’s seen a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes as wide as saucers. I know she’s not talking about his reaction to the bodyguard.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, standing up and emptying my cup in the sink.
The young bodyguard dude walks further into the kitchen. “Jessica, I can’t lose my job.”
“It’ll be fine, you’ll find another.” She smiles, then winks at him. The girl is a savage. He shakes his head in disbelief but looks like he doesn’t want to argue with her, and then walks out of the kitchen, back to wherever he came from. I really should ask Bryant about the arrangements around his house. I didn’t even know that his workers stayed here.
She turns over her shoulder and looks at me. “We’re going to be great friends.” I’m sure we are, actually, I know we are. Tidying up the counter, I pack away the milk and other scatterings that are left out. I’m not tidy, not in the slightest. I drop my shit everywhere and I’m comfortable with that fact, but kitchen benches are one thing I can’t stand to be messy. After I’ve cleaned, I make my way upstairs and into the master bedroom, taking in the beautiful view. The floor to ceiling windows mold the front of the room, casting a perfect view of the Upper East Side. The four post bed that sits opposite a large television and… oh my fucking God! I gasp, my hand coming to my mouth just as I hear Bryant walk into the room. “Is that?” I point to the artwork hanging on the wall, and no, it’s not the Mona Lisa, but fuck me it may as well be. “Is that Mark Rothko’s work?”
Bryant doesn’t answer, so I turn to face him. He’s smirking. Of course he is. Smug asshole. I change tactics because it obviously is Rothko’s work, and forgive me art gods, I’m only saying this to wipe the smug look off of Bryant’s face.
Shrugging, I grin. “Figures you’d own Mark Rothko.”
That gets his attention because he cocks his head and pushes off the wall, coming into the room more. “And why do you say that?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” I look directly at him now, my eyes dancing with mischief. “The artwork is about as bland as you.” Now, I only know his work because Lydia has one of his pieces in her library, and I don’t know, I’ve always been fascinated by art and people’s different views of one picture.
After a long pause, Bryant throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, ok, and who would you have hanging on your wall, hmmm?”
I don’t even have to think. It’s instant. “Alec Monopoly or Banksy.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bryant groans, shaking his head. “Isa, that isn’t…”
“Don’t say it, Royal. Don’t say it.”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes. “But there will be none of that on my walls.”
Yeah, we’ll see. He turns his head toward the shower. “Won’t be long.”
I cast a look to the bathroom, sucking my bottom lip in and nod. “Sure.” Before I can think about getting in with him, the bathroom door closes. I quite like this side of Bryant. The carefree side, I hope I see more of that side through this completely false marriage. Walking into the closet, I take out some skinny jeans and a casual tank top. I hope wherever he’s taking me doesn’t have a dress code because even if it did, I wouldn’t change. Yes, it’s so official, Bryant and I are complete worlds apart.
After I’ve changed, I pull a brush through my long hair just as a voice clears from behind me. I whip my head toward the bathroom door to find Bryant standing there naked with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The water cascades down his six-pack abs and then disappears somewhere between the edges of his V. So me not going in there was obviously a shit decision because now my lady parts are fucking tingling like no one’s business. Well, Bryant’s business, but you catch my drift. That body is really not fair, and what’s even worse, I know what it feels like under my fingertips. What it tastes like on the tip of my tongue, and how his thigh muscles clench when—“Isa?” Bryant interrupts my dirty thoughts, and I quickly look up to meet his eyes, my cheeks flashing hot. Fuck.
“Yes?” I answer innocently, eyebrows quirked, a shit attempt at coming off as casual, though I’m guessing I’m making it more obvious the more I try to hide it, so I tilt my head and look over his arms.
