Chapter Three
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Genevieve
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I step further into what appears to be yet another reception room, this one offering a breathtaking view of the city.
I twirl around, hoping my voice carries in the right direction of this mansion-like penthouse, but I suddenly bump into a solid, warm wall that smells of rich spices and amber.
And he’s naked. What the hell? The hardness of his muscular chest sends me reeling back a bit, but it does nothing to disorient me.
“Oh, Mr. Grant?” I ask hesitantly. “You scared me,” I add, setting my purse down on a sofa before extending my hand to him. This is not how I planned on meeting Jake’s father, and I wish he would have put on some clothes first.
“I’m Genevieve Quinn. I’m a school teacher—”
“I’m not Mr. Grant,” he says, planting his hands low on his hips, just where the towel starts. His legs are braced apart, a kind of stoic grin—if that’s possible—on his face as he looks at me.
The man who startled me, wearing nothing but a towel and an eight-pack of abs housed in a muscular yet lean frame, with a string of tattoos on his chest is not Mr. Grant? Then who is he, except for being so tall that I have to raise my head to look up at him?
His hair is dark and short, not a strand out of place. But then his piercing green eyes lock onto mine before his thick, silky brows draw together as he lowers his gaze and scrutinizes the rest of my body.
“I would appreciate it if you put on some clothes, all the same,” I say, raising my chin and looking everywhere but at him. I also pull on the collar of my blouse and straighten my shoulders before taking another five steps back. I don’t like what his closeness is doing to me.
And I really wish he would put on some clothes; even a robe would suffice.
“Well, may I speak to Mr. Grant or Mrs. Grant if she’s here?”
At that moment, another man walks into the living room. Just as tall as the first—six-foot-three, and I’d bet my life on it. And just as freaking naked, with abs and tattoos as well. Well, except for the towel.
This is getting old. But at least he must definitely be Mr. Grant. I step toward him, hand outstretched. The sooner I speak to one of Jake’s parents, the sooner I can leave this place.
“Mr. Grant, a pleasure to finally meet—” I emphasize “finally” strongly.
“I’m not Mr. Grant,” he says, giving a full smile that immediately sends thrills down my spine.
This newcomer has liquid blue eyes that slide down my body, lit with curiosity.
His hair is a little longer than the first guy's and falls in soft, silky waves, still damp from running his fingers through it.
Okay, I don’t know what is going on in this penthouse, but clearly, the people in it match the decor. I brush that thought aside; it’s wholly irrelevant.
Still, I wish they didn’t take the concept of stark so seriously and prance about in their towels, with the scent of male soap still fresh on their skin.
“I would like to speak to Jake’s parents, please. I’m Ms. Quinn. I’m a school teacher at—”
Oh dear God.
A third man walks into the living room. I can see his tattoos, so of course, he’s not decently clothed either. Why would he be when the dress code is a towel strung low around the waist and nothing else? How inappropriate, since he must definitely, definitely, definitely be Jake’s dad.
“Mr. Grant,” I say, my frustration clearly audible in my voice. All I want to do is speak to one of Jake’s parents.
“Well, well, well. Did Carver send you?” he says, drawling his words, his tone deep and resonant, giving me goosebumps. Goosebumps of distaste, I tell myself.
“I have no idea who this Carver person is, but no, he did not send me. Are you Mr. Grant?” I ask forcefully.
“No, I’m Jude Langston. That’s Alexander Pierce,” he says, pointing to the green-eyed man. “And that’s Levi Hayes,” he adds, indicating the blue-eyed man. “But you can call us anything you like, Ms. Quinn.” The way he says “Ms. Quinn” sends streams of sparks across my skin. I turn blood red.
“No, no,” I say firmly. “The concierge brought me here to see the Grants. They live here. This is the address we have on file for them.”
“You really are playing the part, aren’t you? That’s a lot of homework you’ve done on us. We’re impressed.”
Jude ignores me for a second, and I watch in confusion as they seem to have a silent conversation among themselves.
What about, I don’t know, but it’s clear from the way their expressions change that they’ve all reached the same conclusion and are in complete agreement with one another, whatever that is.
Jude approaches me now, his gaze undressing me and leaving me a hot mess. His dark hair is long enough that a damp curl falls onto his forehead.
I can’t breathe. My knees are about to buckle. I inhale a huge gulp of air and force myself to take control of the situation.
Right. It’s time to use my first-grade teacher voice on these three nearly naked men.
“Okay, let’s try this one more time. Can any of you tell me where I can find either Mr. Grant or Mrs. Grant?” I speak clearly, with calm authority, even though I’m fighting a raging fire inside, but they don’t have to know that.
“This is very important. I need to speak to them about Jake, their son. So think carefully and answer honestly. Where would I find the Grants?”
Their collective chuckles echo around the room. For some weird reason, my nipples start to ache, and there’s a hint of discomfort between my legs. I press my thighs together, willing the sensation to go away. But my actions only enhance it, and I feel an odd dampness settle in my panties.
I swear I’ve stepped into some twilight zone, and all the men in it are just downright strange.
“Look,” I say more desperately as Jude continues to advance toward me.
His towel is just too casual around his waist, his gray eyes glazed with a wickedness I can’t name but that does uniquely strange things to my insides.
Meanwhile, Alexander folds his arms over his sculpted chest, his dark gaze roaming over me again and again.
Levi strokes his jaw, his lips split into a sinful grin that should be entirely illegal to witness.
Jude is so close now I can see the specks of gold in his silver-gray eyes, fringed with the longest, thickest lashes I’ve seen on a person.
Right. Scrap all that. These men need a serious timeout.