Chapter 13 #2
After choking on my drink, I follow him toward what is presumably his bedroom.
Let’s get one thing straight. That is not jealousy curling up in my stomach like a cat on a windowsill.
The man has a girlfriend. I am under no illusion that our kiss in the elevator was anything more than the result of heightened emotions, close proximity, and a grave lack of judgment on his part.
(Not mine, because I was taken completely by surprise.)
If he’s taking his girlfriend out tonight, it’s no skin off my back. In fact, I’m relieved. Hopefully he’s gotten over his ridiculous idea that that kiss meant anything to anybody in any universe.
We walk into his bedroom, and I’m hit with the scent of him.
It fills the air like smoke, seeping into my pores until I’m pretty sure that when I leave this place, I’ll still be oozing him.
If I thought sharing a small space with him was bad, this is torture.
Or bliss, depending on how you look at it.
If you’re into bergamot, cognac, coffee, and men who eye-fuck you from across the room and expect you to thank them for it, then you’d probably like it.
He leads the way into his walk-in closet, which is, as expected, full of suits.
“Do you own anything other than jackets?” I say, glancing around.
He gives me an amused smirk and gestures toward the shelves holding cashmere sweaters, all neatly folded and organized by color. The whole thing really is a masterpiece. I can’t find a single shade out of place.
“Great.” I clap my hands together and begin sorting through the clothes as quickly as I can, but Pierce is leaning against the opposite side of the closet, watching me, and it makes me fumble more than one hanger.
“Pretty sure I can handle this if you have things you need to do,” I say under my breath.
“I don’t,” he says.
“Terrific,” I mutter.
“What was that?” He pushes off from the wall and moves closer. “Was that a complaint?”
I shoot him an appalled look. “Absolutely not. I was simply remarking on how much fun I’m having.” Running my hand over the coats lined up in front of me, I add, “I’ve never touched this much Italian wool in my life. It’s really something.”
He now props his shoulder against the wall nearest me. “I’m glad my closet entertains you.”
While he probably thinks I was kidding about having fun, if I’m being honest, this isn’t too bad.
At least he’s not asking me to run a washing machine, or god forbid, scrub dinnerware.
And I rather enjoy the feel of his clothes.
They’re made of the finest fabrics, and they smell .
. . well, we’ve already discussed how they smell.
I’m scanning the drawers of his accessories when I spot it. I pull a half-familiar red scarf from behind the rows of gray and black ones and hold it out to him. “Is this mine?”
His face still wears a look of indifference as he glances at it. “Don’t think so.”
“I’m almost positive it is,” I say, fumbling for the tag. “Mine was a vintage Prada cashmere wool blend.”
“Why would your scarf be in my closet?” he asks.
I find the tag and show it to him. “My question exactly.”
His eyebrows flick upward, but he still looks bored. “You must have left it here, and my housekeeper thought it was mine.”
I frown and tuck it into my handbag, then return to the task of finding his outfit for tonight. I finally decide on a custom-made light gray suit, light blue shirt, and a navy tie with a small weave pattern.
That settled, he takes me to the game room where I spend most of my Tuesday evenings. “I need you to create a detailed inventory list of my slot machine collection,” he says.
I turn and stare at him with a cocked brow. “Come again?”
He tosses me a wink and heads back to the door. “You’ll find everything you need to know from Sotheby’s.”
Once he leaves, I stare at the wall of mini slot machines in front of me. Each one is nestled into a cube and lit with a red glow light. I’ve seen them a million times before, but never really paid much attention. There must be over fifty of them.
It feels weird to be in here without everyone else. I send Walker and Lux a photo of the wall and ask whether the slot machine collection should have been a sign to us all that Pierce is secretly a psychopath. And then I get started.
I’ve just hung up after my two-hour phone call with Sotheby’s when Pierce walks back into the room.
His hair is still damp from his shower, and his ever-present stubble has nearly disappeared from his jaw.
A tiny sniff of the air tells me he’s applied a fresh layer of cologne and I’m better off breathing through my mouth.
“All done?” he asks, arms crossed.
“Documented, photographed, and cross-referenced for future ease,” I say. “I just emailed you the file.”
“You’re a genius.”
“I know.” I stand right in front of him and frown at his outfit. “This isn’t right.”
He smooths a hand over his chest. “What’s wrong with it?”
“The tie isn’t the right pattern.” I shake my head and motion for him to follow me.
In the closet, I find another navy tie, this time with a herringbone design. “Much more suitable,” I say, holding it up. “See the subtle hints of gray?”
He grunts in reply, then stands completely still while I remove the first tie from his neck. It doesn’t occur to me what I’m doing until he swallows and I see his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Fuck, we are really close. My body is brushing the front of his, and I have to stand on my tiptoes to be able to reach properly, making me press into him even more any time I start to lose my balance.
His hands reach out and grip my waist, keeping me from toppling into him as I make the last adjustments to the new tie. My face has never felt so hot before, not even when Rhett told me I couldn’t eat that stupid chili pepper and I felt the need to prove him wrong.
Being this close to Pierce and him touching me makes my fingers fumble much more than they should, which only delays the process.
My brain has decided the only things worthy of my attention right now are the way he is holding my waist and the heat of his body against mine.
I’m still breathing through my mouth, so at least I don’t have his scent messing with my head as well.
Finally, the new tie is on, and I let out a long sigh of relief as I lower back to the floor and take a step backward. “Better,” I say.
The corner of his mouth lifts as though he understands my double meaning. “Thank you,” he says, and clears his throat. “You’re free to go. Unless you’d rather wash some plates and cutlery?”
I hold up my hands. “Not at all.”
A full grin takes over his face then. “There aren’t any anyway,” he whispers.
He walks me to the front door, and I expect to feel elation at being released from any further duties. Instead, there’s this strange swirling in my stomach. It carries a faint trace of nausea with it, which is weird. Almost like an impending doom.
“Thanks again,” he says, opening the door for me.
“Have a fantastic time.” I smile, thinking about the unexpected visitor he’ll be receiving at ten tonight. I step out into the corridor, the sick feeling growing with every passing second.
“Maeve,” Pierce calls when I’m halfway to the lift.
I turn back to find him still in the doorway of his flat.
“Try to relax tonight.” Then he winks and steps back inside.
Irritation joins the nausea in my belly. One thing is for sure: I won’t be doing any relaxing tonight.