5. Azaria
AZARIA
The flush creeping up his neck is absolutely delicious. His jaw works like he's chewing glass, and I can practically see him trying to rebuild his composure in real time.
This is better than I expected.
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely." I step back, giving him space to breathe while I get a proper look at him.
When did Theodore Tate get so... substantial?
The buzzed hair works on him, sharp and clean.
The tattoos peek out from under his t-shirt sleeves—that's new.
Everything about him screams controlled power, like he could bench press a car but would organize his gym schedule first.
"Can I see the rest of the place? I assume there's more than this beige monument."
"The guest room is upstairs."
"That's not what I asked." I'm already moving toward what looks like a hallway. "Don't worry, I won't touch anything. Wouldn't want to disrupt your feng shui."
"Azaria—"
But I'm already exploring, and he can either follow me or stand there grinding his teeth.
The dining room makes me snort—a table that seats twelve with place settings that look like they've never been disturbed.
Everything matches. The chairs, the centerpiece, even the fucking napkin rings coordinate.
"Do you actually eat here, or is this just for show?"
His footsteps follow behind me, heavy and reluctant. "I eat at the kitchen counter."
"Of course you do. Eating at this table would require disturbing the display." I run a finger along the polished surface. "Tell me you don't dust this yourself."
"I have a housekeeper."
"Thank God. I was starting to worry you'd completely lost touch with reality."
The kitchen is worse—or better, depending on your appreciation for psychological profiles made manifest. Granite countertops clear of everything except a coffee machine that looks like it belongs on a spaceship.
Cabinets with glass fronts displaying dishes organized by size and color. A spice rack arranged alphabetically.
"Jesus Christ, Theodore. Do you alphabetize your underwear too?"
"It's efficient."
"It's terrifying." I open the refrigerator, which contains bottled water, protein shakes, and meal prep containers labeled with days of the week. "This is what serial killers' fridges look like in movies."
"I meal prep on Sundays."
"You meal prep." I turn to stare at him. "You actually meal prep. Like, with little containers and labels and—oh my God, you do label them. Tuesday's lunch, Wednesday's dinner. This is incredible."
His jaw ticks again. Beautiful.
"Some people appreciate organization."
"Some people appreciate spontaneity. Variety. The occasional deviation from their color-coded existence." I wander toward what looks like a living area, different from the first one. "How many sitting rooms do you need? Are you expecting the Queen?"
"It's a reading room."
"A reading room." The space is pristine—built-in bookshelves filled with books arranged by height, two leather chairs positioned at precise angles, a side table with a lamp that's never been moved. "Let me guess—you read for exactly one hour every evening between eight and nine PM."
His silence confirms everything.
"You know what your problem is?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"You're incredibly grumpy. Like, impressively grumpy for someone who's supposedly living his dream life.
Professional athlete, beautiful home, more money than God—and yet you walk around like someone canceled Christmas.
" I settle into one of his precious reading chairs, watching his eye twitch as I disturb his perfect arrangement. "Are you getting any?"
"Any what?"
"Sex, Theodore. Are you having sex? With actual humans?"
The flush returns, deeper this time. "That's not?—"
"Because I'm thinking no. Definitely no.
And that would explain so much about your general disposition.
" I cross my legs, enjoying how his gaze flickers down before snapping back up.
"It's probably because you're so grumpy, actually.
Hard to get laid when you approach dating like a military operation. "
"My personal life is none of your business."
"Your personal life is apparently nonexistent, which makes it everyone's business. When's the last time you brought someone home? And I don't mean some poor woman who had to endure dinner at that museum you call a dining room before fleeing into the night."
"I don't?—"
"You don't. Exactly my point." I stand up, smoothing my hands down my thighs just to watch his eyes follow the movement. "This whole place is like a very expensive hotel where nobody actually lives. Beautiful, sterile, and completely devoid of human warmth."
"It's clean."
"It's sad, Theodore. Deeply, profoundly sad."
"Stop calling me Theodore. Keep your amateur psychology to yourself and let's keep this appropriate."
I give him my wickedest smile.
"I've missed you, Theodore."
I dig into my bag, producing the first of my treasures—a tiny ceramic elephant painted in brilliant blues and golds, trunk raised for luck. "Your house needs more personality."
"What are you doing?"
"Improving the situation." I place the elephant on his coffee table, adjusting it until it faces the couch at just the right angle. "This little guy is from Mumbai. Cost me a fortune, but look at that face. Pure joy."
"You cannot do that."
But I'm already unwrapping the next piece—a crystal paperweight shaped like a pineapple, heavy and ridiculous and absolutely perfect for his sterile side table. "This is exactly why I didn't want you here."
"Because I have taste?" I move to his bookshelf, considering placement options for a small jade figurine of a dancing woman. Between the biography section and his collection of hockey memoirs seems appropriate. "Because I understand that homes should feel lived in?"
"Because you—" His hands flex at his sides like he wants to physically remove me from his space. "You can't just rearrange other people's things."
"I'm not rearranging. I'm enhancing." The jade dancer finds her perfect spot, bringing a splash of green to his monotonous book spines. "She's from Hong Kong. The artist said she represents freedom of expression."
"Azaria—"
My phone buzzes against my hip, cutting through his protest. I glance at the screen—my luggage has arrived downstairs.
"I have to go coordinate. A significant portion of my designer wardrobe is in those bags and it requires my personal supervision.
" I'm already heading toward the door, leaving my ceramic elephant to stand guard over his beige fortress.
"Can't have some delivery guy treating Valentino like it's from Target. "
"Wait—"
But I'm out the door and moving toward the elevator. The elevator dings, doors sliding open, and I step inside without looking back.
Through the glass doors, I can see the black SUV with my life packed inside.
The security guard appears before I'm halfway across the lobby, materializing like he's been waiting for exactly this moment.
"Miss Emerson, I'm going to need you to return to the penthouse."
"Excuse me?" I gesture toward the glass doors where my luggage sits in the back of the SUV like hostages. "My bags are right there. I need to supervise?—"
"Mr. Tate's instructions were very specific. No exterior access without prior coordination."
"Prior coordination?" My voice climbs an octave. "It's luggage, not a military operation."
The guard's expression doesn't shift. Professional politeness wrapped around immovable steel. "I understand your frustration, but?—"
"Do you? Do you really understand my frustration?" I can see photographers across the street, telephoto lenses trained on the building's entrance like vultures waiting for carrion. "Because those are my things. My work clothes. My life."
"The bags will be brought up through service access. Standard protocol."
Standard protocol. Of course it is.
I march back to Theo's fortress, fury building with each step. The penthouse door is still open, and I can hear him moving around inside—probably repositioning my elephant to restore his precious feng shui.
"You fucking asshole!"
He emerges from the living room, eyebrows raised like he expected this but hoped it might take longer.
"The bags will be delivered?—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Just don't. You implemented security protocols without telling me. Without asking. Without even considering that I might need access to my own possessions."
"Your possessions are safe. The delivery method is the only thing that's changed."
"The delivery method." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Those aren't just clothes, Theodore. That's my work wardrobe. Custom pieces. Irreplaceable samples. Things that cost a shit ton of money, and you've got some security grunt handling them like Amazon packages."
"The staff is trained?—"
"I don't care if they're trained by the Queen's own valets. Those are my babies down there, and you've locked me away from them like I'm some kind of liability."
His jaw sets, that familiar stubborn line appearing. "You are a liability. You're a mess, Azaria. You always have been. All you ever do is create chaos and burden the people around you."
Something flickers across his face—recognition, maybe regret—and his mouth opens like he's about to take it back.
"Well, at least I'm consistent."
I turn toward the hallway where a woman in a crisp uniform waits with a tablet and a patient smile that says she's dealt with difficult clients before.
"Shall we get you settled, Miss Emerson?"
"Lead the way. Apparently I live here now."