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—Paige—
“I’m not going to dignify that with—”
“With what? The fact that you once wanted to carry my last name?”
“Considering I was never your girlfriend—”
“You’re right. You were much more than that.”
“Enough with the flirting and lies.”
“Flirting is what boys do. And, sweetheart, you know I’m all man.”
“On that note, I’m going to take a shower. My bed better be back in my room when I get out.”
Before he could object, I turned and left.
The nerve of that man; he truly knew no bounds. I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d try to pull a stunt like this. I was trying so damn hard to act like this didn’t change anything between us, but I couldn’t help remembering all the times I’d wake up with him carrying me from the couch in his apartment to his bedroom. Even before we started messing around.
He liked it when I slept in his bed with him. That simple memory was enough to trigger the anxiety I felt deep in my bones about being in his home, to begin with. It wasn’t an emotion I expected in the least. I was invading his personal space in a way I hadn’t prepared for or anticipated. It felt like we were playing house, and it was too close for comfort to me.
It didn’t help matters that he was still as charismatic and handsome as he used to be. He looked older, more refined and distinguished. Now he was wearing suits and ties, only added to his captivating allure.
I wish I could say I wasn’t attracted to him anymore, though I’d be lying through my teeth. My body responded to his presence in the same way it used to, and I was beginning to think I’d never really hate him the way I longed to the way I should have.
Despite still feeling this inevitable connection between us, I tried to focus on his penthouse and why I was there in the first place. Except all that did was show me how cold and empty his life might be. His penthouse may have had a killer view of downtown, but it was cold and unwelcoming.
No personal or family photos hung on the walls.
No intimate touches in his decorations or style.
His furniture looked expensive and stiff, but not comfortable at all.
It felt like a staged home where everything had its place. There was no sense of warmth or love anywhere to be found. The space was immaculate, with not even a speck of dust in the air. The further I walked around, the more I realized that the Adrian Drake I grew up with, the man I had known for a big part of my life…was gone.
Shaking off the unease the thought triggered inside of me, I felt bad for him again. I was beyond pissed in my fluctuating emotions that seemed to change in a matter of seconds. I didn’t want to feel anything for him but hatred and anger. I was about to walk back toward the guest room. However, the sound of his shower turning on brought my attention to how close I was to his bedroom. My feet moved of their own accord. Slowly but steadily, I walked into his personal space, instantly assaulted by his intoxicating scent.
Unable to resist, I peered around the massive area, getting a good look around. His room oozed masculinity and dominance, adding to its intimidating feel. A huge, black armoire was positioned on the right wall, almost taking up the entire room. The vast sliding glass doors on my left led out to the balcony, overlooking the city lights of Kentucky with an array of colors blurring in the distance.
His suite was three times larger than the guest room, which was quite impressive in itself. The walls were painted a dark shade of gray with expensive black-and-white art spread evenly around the walls. There were two black end tables on each side of his bed with detailed wood carvings along the edges that matched the bed frame.
My toes immediately curled into the soft, shaggy, black accent rug that lay directly beneath his bed as I ran my fingertips along the polished wood of the frame. I couldn’t help but wander toward his immaculate walk-in closet.
Dozens of collared shirts hung on multiple racks on one side, dress pants and suit jackets on another. Ties of all colors and patterns were on the far wall while dress shoes of every kind lined the floor. The man didn’t own one piece of casual attire.
Not one T-shirt.
Pair of jeans.
Sneakers or even sandals.
My fingers skimmed over his collared shirts, running the tips along the soft fabrics. I don’t know what got into me, but I found myself pulling off one of his white collared shirts from the hanger and bringing it up to my nose. I clutched it tight against my chest. Inhaling deep, I wanted to drown in his scent which was suddenly giving me this sense of comfort and relief.
