It’s the exact type of thing I would choose for my room. In fact, exploring his house in search of an escape route over the past few days, I’ve discovered that I really like everything in it. His taste in decor and design and even in the art on the walls actually matches mine.
Annoying myself even more by liking the damn chandelier, I push off the bed to face the cold shower. Maybe it will calm me down. And clear my head. I need another plan.
As I step under the steady stream of water, I yelp in horror. My entire body goes rigid and goosebumps break out over every inch of my skin. There is no possible world in which this is something that would relax me.
I’m in and out in a matter of seconds, swearing at him under my breath as though he’s the one who shut the heater down. Actually, thisisall his fault. I shouldn’t even be here.
Angry that I can’t shower, I get dressed in the clothes he sokindlyordered and had delivered here the morning after he brought me to his mansion.
I slip into the jeans, which hug my ass perfectly, and pull on a long-sleeved, soft, pure-cotton top. Over that, I throw my favorite hoodie, which now has a different scent to it. The scent of his laundry detergent, since his housekeeper cleaned it for me.
I pull the hoodie up over my nose and breathe it in. It’s lovely.
Why does it have to be so lovely?
It’s just laundry detergent, Izabel. He probably doesn’t even choose it himself. The housekeeper probably chooses it.
Well, she has good taste.
Suddenly, a new idea sparks, and my entire body is filled with amusement and satisfaction. Oh yes, this one isgoingto work. There is no way in hell it won’t annoy him.
Hurrying downstairs, I slip into the laundry room. If I recall correctly, there was a load of white shirts waiting to go in this morning.
I giggle when I see the machine on and just starting to fill up. The housekeeper had perfect timing.
Running back to the kitchen, I grab a jar of beetroot from the fridge, then bolt back to the washing machine. I empty the whole thing into the clothes. Chunks of beetroot and all the juice start churning over his crisp white shirts. Armani. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. The works, all turning a beautiful, bright shade of splotchy pink.
Satisfied, I toss the empty jar in the recycling and head up to my room to relax.
Within the hour, Anton is storming into my room, his face clouded with anger.
Finally!
He has one of the shirts gripped in his hands, and as he waves it around, he shouts about how childish I am.
“What was the point of this!?” he asks angrily, standing over my bed and glaring at me.
I shrug, grinning up at him with the book I was reading resting on my lap.
“Every single one of these shirts was tailored!” he blurts out, and I continue to watch calmly, savoring the fact that I finally hit him where it hurt.
He tosses the wet shirt right out of my bedroom door, then turns back to me and leans over the bed.
His face is close to mine when he growls, his eyes flaring with challenge, “Are you begging for my attention, little pixie? Is that what this is all about?” He reaches out and touches my face, sending a warm shiver down my spine. “Because if you want my attention, there are easier ways to get it,” he muses.
His eyes glimmer with amusement, and all of the joy I felt a moment ago is sucked right out of me like a punch to the gut.
I swat his hand away.
“I’m notbeggingfor yourattention!” I say, aggressively denying the suggestion.
He stands up, shoving his hands into his pockets as he observes me. “You could have fooled me.” The grin on his face shoots annoyance right into my veins.
“Get out!” I snap.
“You don’t want to play?” he speaks.
“Out!” I demand again.
