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“Great,” I sigh, looking around. My plans are starting to feel like they’re circling the drain. “Well, I guess we can take my bags through to my bedroom.”
“Don't you think you have enough in there already?” Olivia folds her arms as she takes a step forward.
I blink in confusion. “You put all my bags in the bedroom?”
“Somebody had to,” she mutters. I’m starting to realize that she must have agreed to all this before she really knew what she was letting herself in for.
Before I can say anything else, she marches over to my bag and starts dragging it away, her bare shoulders flexing under the strain. I take one cheeky second to look at her before I go to help. That flight must have really messed my brain up.
I just need her to leave so I can go out and get laid. That’ll sort me out.
With a grunt, I pick up the rest of my bags and haul them after Olivia to my room. As I step in, the quantity of stuff I shipped over dawns on me. There are boxes and bags everywhere, a complete mess — in devastating contrast to my lovely, tidy living room.
“Are you hungry?” Olivia asks, struggling with the bag as she tries to maneuver around to some of the free floor space so she can drop the thing with a thump. I feel kind of bad about making her carry some of this stuff now. How was I supposed to know that she would pick up the heaviest bag, though?
“Not really,” I lie. I hardly ate anything on the plane. I didn't really feel like potato slop. But I can always grab something to eat when I'm out, so I'm not that worried about starving. I just need her to go away.
“I see,” she says, disbelievingly. “I can order us something in if you want to get settled.”
“No, no, it’s okay, really,” I say, possibly too quickly. She narrows her eyes at me like she’s seeing through me as clearly as a window.
“We can go out if you’d prefer.” She folds her arms, drawing my attention back to them. She’s not ripped, but clearly she’s strong. Clearly, she knows how to work out.
“Oh, no, I don’t want to bother you if you’ve got better things to do.”
She bites her lip before she replies. “Look, I have so many other things I want to be doing instead of this, but I’m here doing my job which, unfortunately for both of us, is looking after you like a three-year-old.”
“Well then, just go home. I’m tired, yeah?”
“Are you now?” she says, folding her arms.
The yawn that slips out is genuine, even if it was mostly for show. She still doesn’t seem persuaded, but she does give in. Finally! “Okay, okay. You take a nap, and I’ll be back later to pick you up for a meeting at the club. The managers can’t wait to meet you.”
“Awesome,” I mutter. “Bye, then.”
She doesn’t bother to even look back at me as she leaves, shutting the door softly behind her.
I let out a huge sigh of relief and flop backwards onto the sofa. Nothing I said to her was a lie — I am tired, and if I shut my eyes, I could pass out for the next few hours. But as much as I want sleep, I want a drink more. Olivia was pretty enough to look at for a while, but I want to find some girls to dote on me. Someone I can charm.
If I lie here for much longer though, I am going to doze off. Time for a shower instead. I strip out of my plane clothes and jump in, cranking the temperature as hot as I can bear. It feels so good to be unconfined, unwatched, unrestrained. This place is going to be awesome.
Eventually, I drag myself out of the shower, dig out some clean clothes and brush my hair. I glance at the clock, surprised that only twenty minutes have passed. Which is a good thing. Olivia must have left the building by now.
I look at the mass of boxes and shrug. “Whatever,” I mutter to myself, heading out the door. Unpacking can wait. It’s time to explore the land of the free.
CHAPTER 3
OLIVIA
I don't particularly enjoy being brushed off. Unfortunately for Miles, I'm not as stupid as he thinks I am. So, when I get downstairs, I linger in the lobby with its sleek sitting area, pool table, and reception that I’ve never seen anyone manning. I pace the floor, trying to stay on the rug so my shoes don’t make too loud of a noise on the hard floor, not wanting to draw attention to myself. It's finished to look like marble, but even though these apartments are expensive, there's no way they've shelled out money for the real stone.
Still, it looks nice. I wish my apartment complex was this clean and neat. Not that I live in a bad place, but it’s pretty small and nowhere near this modern. I don't suppose Miles would have settled for anything less than the most modern and fancy place going. This guy’s a piece of work.
Somewhere inside me, I’d been hoping that all the newspapers were exaggerating about him, and I’m whatever the opposite of delighted is to find out that actually, none of it is too far from the truth. He's perfectly polite, and I don't think he means to be obnoxious. But he certainly comes across as an entitled little brat. No wonder he's been through six clubs in less than a decade.
I've read up on him. There's not a single thing he can keep secret from me. I'm going to know his every movement for the next four months, whether he likes it or not.
To nobody’s surprise, about twenty minutes later, hair still slightly damp from a shower, clothes creased from where they've been hastily unpacked from a bag, Miles emerges from the elevator, his eyes darting around like he's in a spy film. Like he's doing something wrong. At least he knows it.
