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“I don't mind sleeping on the couch,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to the carpet, cheeks burning red.
He chuckles lightly and opens the door to the bedroom. “Not gonna happen, princess.”
Peering around him, I look into the softly lit room.
A large mattress lays atop a black leather bed frame, the headboard stretching up toward the ceiling. Beneath it, a silver shag rug spreads across the floor. The walls are a light gray, save for the one behind the bed that is painted a shade of black so dark it looks like the night sky. A single lit sconce flickers on top of a side table. Cole must have forgotten to turn it off when he left this morning.
Stepping farther into the room, I run my fingers over the crumpled gunmetal-colored bed sheets, eyeing the dip in the center of the mattress.
Can I really sleep here?
“You okay?” he asks gently.
Nodding, I turn my head so Cole can't see the lie on my face.
“I know when you're lying,” he says plainly.
I heave a sigh, wondering how he can see right through me despite all the acting experience I have.
“Tell me, Thea. What's wrong?”
“I don't know if I can sleep here,” I tell him, my voice nothing more than a gentle murmur drifting on the draft that blows in through the gap beneath the front door.
“And why's that?”
I look at him, his hands shoved into his pockets, his chin dipped low. He's watching me through thick lashes too long for a man to deserve, and I decide right then to be honest with him, no matter the cost.
“I don't know if I can sleep in the bed where you have sex with other women.”
His brows shoot up, lips twitching in astonished amusement. Stepping toward me, he reaches out to run a long index finger down the length of my face, lingering momentarily on the bridge of my freckled nose. It makes me shiver.
“Are you jealous, princess?”
“No.” I bat his hand away—not because I want to, but because I should.
“'Course not.” He grins wickedly. “But don't worry“—he leans in close and whispers—“I've had the sheets cleaned since the last time I fucked a woman on them.”
* * *
It's dark out by the time I emerge from Cole's bedroom and haphazardly find my way to the main living space of the condo. He didn't show it to me earlier and I'm surprised by how nice it is, how homey the whole place feels.
The space is open-plan but divided into three clear sections. The living area consists of a white couch and two matching armchairs, all of which point to the largest television I've ever seen inside a house—and that's saying something, considering the type of people I have around me back in LA.
In front of tall, arched windows is a dining table big enough to sit a whole family. An industrial-style pendant light suspends from the ceiling, hanging at just the right height to be stylish but not inconvenient.
And finally, on the far side of the room is the kitchen. With its stained wood cabinetry and countertops that have seen better days, it's obvious that it hasn't been changed since it was installed god knows how many decades ago. Behind the breakfast bar jutting out from the wall, Cole stands in a tight white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, stirring something on the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask, taking a seat on one of the barstools to watch him as he cooks, trying and failing not to notice the flex of his muscles with every movement he makes.
As if he can't help himself, his gaze laves over me. I wish I could say that I didn't know what I was doing when I changed into a spaghetti-strap tank top that's cut low across my breasts, leggings and—predictably—his shirt that I've decided to keep as my own. Lazily sexy is the look I was aiming for.
But I'm a woman of candor and I can admit to myself, however much regrettably, that I wanted him to look at me the way he is right now.
With heat. Want. Desire.
“Dinner.” His focus falls back to the stove.
That earns him an eye roll. “I see that.”
