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“Okay, I’ll admit it, I like this,” I say, running my fingers down the railing on the elliptical. The gym is almost nice enough that I can forgive the serial-killer vibes I’m getting from the rest of the apartment. “How long have you been here?”
“Six years.”
I bark a laugh at him. “Six years? And you don’t have asinglepicture of anyone anywhere?”
“Like I said, I travel a lot, as you well know.”
“Still,” I say softly, moving past him and back toward the kitchen. “I’m not even that close with my family and my place had pictures of me and my parents.”
“I don’t like gatheringthings,” he says, making a face. “I don’t need the clutter.”
“Clutter is personality.” I stand by the windows in the living room, looking out at the breathtaking view of Dallas. All right, I’ll admit, this apartment is like a psychologist’s wet dream, but I can definitely get used to staying here.
“No, clutter is junk. It’s areplacementfor a personality. You’re mistaking filling your life with useless stuff for having actual goals and dreams and aspirations.”
I glare at him in the window’s reflection, making a face. “Are you saying I don’t have a personality?”
“No, I’m saying thatstuffdoesn’t matter. I could have the most impressive things and still be empty.”
I shrug, not really agreeing, but not willing to argue either. Decorations, pictures, knick-knacks and tchotchkes and paintings on the walls are all indications of a life. They’re representations of an existence. This place, it feels cold and barren, like his world is somewhere else. Like all he does is eat, sleep, and work.
But that’s not a personality. That’s just drifting. Trying to get ahead for the sake of trying.
My place had life in it. Colors, objects to remind me of my past, paintings I liked. Sure, decorations turn invisible after a little while, but still. I put effort into my surroundings.
It’s like he doesn’t care about this apartment.
“Here’s where you’ll stay,” he says, showing me to the guest room. It’s smaller than the master, but it has its own bathroom and the bed seems comfortable.
I run my fingers over the bureau. It’s a good space. “Now we need to have an awkward conversation,” I say.
His eyebrows raise. “If you want to discuss conjugal visits—”
“I’m pretty sure the wholeno sexthing is very much in the contract.”
“Contracts can be amended.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
I glare at him. “No. Sex.Don’t get any stupid ideas, like maybe accidentally coming into my room in the middle of the night in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a huge hard-on.”
“Would that work? Also, thank you for assuming it’s huge.”
“God, you’re insane. Seriously, insane. Can you please listen to me?”
“Huge and pierced,” he says, grinning.
My mouth falls open. Pierced? Really? But no, I amnotthinking about his pierced cock. I’ve never evenseena pierced cock before.
I glare at him, annoyed he got me all excited imagining what he’d look like with a massive hard-on and nothing else.
“Stay on topic,” I say, forcing myself to concentrate even though I’m licking my lips. “I need clothes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Gareth.”
“Fine. You need clothes.” He sighs. “How much?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t had to buy an entirely new wardrobe before.”
