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Finders. Keepers.
And I'm definitely keeping her.
Chapter Two
Charlotte
"Theo?" I blink, tryingto make sense of the sight before me. I thought I was awake. But if I were, my boss, Theo Kline, wouldn't be looking at me like the sun rises in my eyes. He only does that in my dreams.
"Yeah, baby doll," he whispers, his voice gritty. "It's me."
His hand slides down the side of my cheek, shifting strands of hair away from my face. Electricity sizzles against my skin before sinking deep into my bones.
Holy crap. This isn't another dream. If it were, I wouldn't feel sparks against my skin where he's touching me, and he'd still have clothes on. I know this because I've been trying—and failing—to get him naked in my dreams since I first met him at Thanksgiving dinner five months ago.
He kisses me in my dreams like he's going to die if he doesn't, but even the hottest of his kisses aren't as real as his hand on my skin right now. And the dreamsalwaysend before he gets undressed. Which, if you ask me, is proof that the universe hates me. Not even when I'm sleeping will it let me see Theo naked.
He's practically nakednow,miles of golden skin and rippling muscles on full display. If this is my punishment for setting my apartment on fire, I'm in danger of becoming a serial arsonist. Becauseholy crap.
I shamelessly eat up the sight of him. What? He's mostly naked and I just woke up. I can stare if I want to stare. Besides, every other woman on the planet would make the same choice if they were here right now. So would most men. People call him the Ice Prince because he's a hockey player and looks like…well, a prince. His nose is crooked where it's been broken before, but it doesn't make him any less attractive.
In short, NHL superstar, Theo Kline is stupid hot. Like should-have-been-on-Mount-Olympus gorgeous. He has these crazy green eyes and full, kissable lips. He's always scowling when I see him, which should make him less attractive, only it doesn't. The deep groove between his brows and the little lines around his eyes make him even more gorgeous.
His face isn't the only perfect part of him, either. If Michelangelo'sDavidis the specimen of male perfection, it's only because Michelangelo never met Theo. There isn't a single thing about him that's feminine. He's rugged and hardy, like a big tree. Only…beautiful. He's too big to be as graceful as he is, yet when he's on the ice, he moves like he was born to do it. His powerful legs propel him across the surface as if he's dancing. He's ripped, with broad shoulders and washboard abs that makes me want to do dirty, dirty things.
He makes me mute. No lie. I look at him and forget that words are actually a thing that can be spoken aloud. And sentences?Ha! He probably thinks I have a speech impediment because I can't string words together without stuttering and stumbling all over myself around him. Most of the time, I don't even try. I actively avoid being in the same room with him, just so I don't humiliate myself.
Avoiding him isn't hard anyway. He's rarely here when I come to clean. His mom—my future step aunt—claims that's just because he's busy, but I'm pretty sure it's because he hates me and she's just too nice to say it. Whenever he does come home before I leave for the day, he gets all scowly and grumpy. I think he only offered me the job cleaning his house because my uncle and his mom are getting married soon. I meant to say no, but that's not what came out of my mouth. Instead of a polite refusal, I blurted out an acceptance.
I wasn't even looking for a job!
"Why are you in my room?" I ask…which is rude, but also a valid question. If he's here to do dirty things to me, I'm not going to object. Are you kidding me? He can have my V-Card. It's not like it's doing me any good.
"I'm not in your room, little one," he says. His lips turn down, that deep groove appearing between his brows.
"You're not?"
Oh, no.
"No."
No, no, no.
I sit upright so fast it makes me dizzy. When I look around, I realize he's right. His room is a sanctuary. Stepping inside is like stepping into a cave…if caves were lavishly decorated and cozy as heck. Ancient oak flooring locks together like puzzle pieces. Turquoise pendant lights hang from the ceiling, warming the soft black walls. A five panel, abstract painting, shot through with turquoise, gray, and white, takes up one wall. Big windows and a massive set of French doors complete the room.
My bedroom is a prison compared to his. Actually, it's not even that anymore. I don't evenhavea room now. My landlord evicted me yesterday for setting my apartment on fire.
I know that sounds bad, but it wasn't entirely my fault.
Last month, a new neighbor moved into the unit above mine. Which would have been great and all, except for the fact that he's thrown a party every single night since he moved in. And I'm pretty sure an actual stampede lives with him. My landlord didn't care when I told him that. The police didn't care much when I called them, either. Not even when I told them I had exams. They just told him to keep it down and then left. All five times.
I gave up calling after that.
Between the parties, exams, and work, I haven't had very much sleep all week. So I probably shouldn't have tried cooking curry after my last exam yesterday. But hindsight is twenty-twenty…and I really wanted curry.
Long story short, I passed out at the kitchen table while it was cooking.
What's that saying about heat in the kitchen? Yeah, there was heat in the kitchen. And smoke and flames. Which would have been fine if there were also a fire extinguisher. But my landlord—ex-landlord—is a cheap jerk. The fire extinguisher expired in the eighteen-hundreds.
