Page 21 of The Golden Scoop

“Speak for yourself,” Matt answers. “Take notes: Matt Hunt can cook you a five-course meal any day.”

“I doubt that,” I mumble.

“I’d be happy to show you. Pick the date.”

I roll my eyes and turn away from his, once again choosing to ignore his words and the effect they’re having on me.

“You’re not writing anything down,” he whispers, coming up behind me.

“Nothing interesting enough yet to do so,” I answer, turning to him. “And my personal thoughts I’m keeping to myself, like professionals should.”

“That’s no fun,” he argues with a pout. “Maybe you’ll find the rest more… juicy.”

His hand comes down to my lower back and guides me deeper into the house through a long hallway. There’s a guest room and a guest bathroom, both bigger than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. At the very end, a closed door.

“Is this⁠—”

“My bedroom,” he interrupts.

I want to argue I feel like I’m invading his privacy, even though he seems to be loving every second of it. But my urge to snoop is so strong my curiosity wins. I keep my lips sealed as he opens the door.

It’s stunning. Really. If I could afford a house like this, I’d want it designed by the same person who did this one.

The California king bed sits flush against the back wall, framed by dark wood, with a headboard of the same material. Five wooden beams cut through the cream-colored ceiling.

I can see the start of a walk-in closet, but I resist the urge to approach it, too scared the intensity of his scent trapped in one space is going to make me lose my mind.

The en-suite bathroom is modern, perfectly clean and tidy. There’s a shower and a bath. I scoff. Rich people and their passion for unnecessary things.

And yet, despite how hard I’ve been trying not to gawk, it all goes down the drain when I take in what sits on the wall opposite the bed.

Books.

A whole bookshelf built into the wall, almost completely full. I run my hand along the spines, some of them so old they still have that leather feel to them. There’s history, crime, thrillers… some in Spanish, others in Latin and French.

I’m about to tease him and ask him how long it took him to stage this when my eyes drop to the armchair in the corner, next to a small stand holding an open book with reading glasses on top.

Say something snarky. Restore normalcy, I think to myself but come up blank.

He must sense my distress.

“Do you want to try it out?” he says, nodding toward his bed.

A giggle traitorously escapes my lips.

“Jesus, Matt. Give me a break.”

He doesn’t try to hide his amusement, laughing, full and unfiltered.

“Fine, let’s keep moving.”

We trace our steps back into the main area and then down a set of stairs to the bottom floor. To the right, a home cinema. Equipped with the best of the best, or so he says. A place to recharge his self-adoration whenever he’s in need, I add.

On the other end, a small gym, with more glass-panel windows opening up to the massive garden and vanishing-edge pool that blends into the hillside.

The sound of his belt buckle being undone snaps my eyes back to him. My stare drops to where his fingers are unbuttoning his pants.

“Matt,” I warn.