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“Your clothes are in the walk-in closet,” he said when I was finished. “I had a maid transfer them while you were sleeping.”
The closet was off Brien’s bedroom. His clothes took up three-quarters of the space: rows of shoes; shelves with neatly folded T-shirts and pants. A three-sided island jutting from the wall displayed several levels of dress shirts arranged in color-coordinated groups. His suits were on the second side and the third side held neckties, belts and small cubbyholes for cufflinks and watches.
It was like walking into an exclusive men’s shop. I blinked. “When do you have time to wear all these?”
A shrug. “You’d be surprised. This is your section.” He led the way around the side to where an entire wall had been given over to my clothes—shoes, dresses, jackets, sweaters. He touched a built-in dresser against the wall. “The rest is in here.”
I swung to face him. “You moved me in with you.”
“It’s safer that way.”
“So it’s just until after the challenge?”
“We’ll see.” He lifted a brow in anare you questioning me?look, which might’ve pissed me off if I hadn’t been still processing that he’d moved me into his personal space.
“I thought you didn’t trust me to sleep with you.”
“I have a secret room I can sleep in.”
“Oh.” Stupid me, to think his moving me into his apartment meant something.
I turned away to choose some clothes. I sensed his gaze on me.
“Well? Do I need to use the vault?” he asked.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “The vault? That’s what you call your secret room?”
“Yeah. Do I need to use it?”
“No.” I met his eyes. “You’re safe with me. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to sleep with me.”
“Mm,” he said noncommittally and headed for the living room. “I’ll order you breakfast.”
When I joined him a few minutes later, dressed in jeans and a thick cotton sweater, a fresh tray had appeared on the coffee table—an egg and cheese sandwich, freshly squeezed orange juice, a salad of ripe blueberries and succulent peaches.
My mouth watered. Suddenly, I was starving.
Brien took a chair opposite the couch. He brushed off my thanks, saying, “You had a rough night. I need you in top shape.”
But I saw how he watched me eat, like feeding me satisfied something in him, and it gave me hope.
After I’d devoured the entire contents of the tray, he offered me a box of chocolate truffles. “Want one?”
“For breakfast?”
He shrugged and started to place it on the table, but I snatched it from him. “I never turn down chocolate,” I said with a grin.
He poured himself a glass of blood-wine and settled onto the opposite end of the couch, watching with that same intent satisfaction as I ate a truffle.
I picked up a bottle of ice water and unscrewed the lid. “Do you have to be somewhere?”
“Why?”
“Because.” I took a gulp of water and put the bottle back on the tray. “I want to tell you everything.”
I want you to trust me.
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