Chapter Fifteen Hello, Neighbor
Adelina
“You better not throw any loud parties,” he teases. “I need my beauty sleep.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I don’t think it’s working.”
West places a hand over his heart like I’ve just shot him. “Who are you kidding? We both know I’m the most gorgeous man you’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Goodnight, West.”
“You didn’t deny it!”
I enter my room and close the door on him, the sound of his laughter making the butterflies in my belly flutter. He’s just so…so…
“Annoying,” I mumble, because I can’t find the perfect adjective. I have to remind myself that it’s just an act. West has all the markings of a class clown, whereas I’m a former high school vice president. We couldn’t make a more clashing pair.
The room is nice, though certainly nothing to write home about.
It comes complete with an empty writing desk, a spacious queen-sized bed with an unnecessarily large pile of pillows, and that strange singular chair in the corner that all hotel rooms seem to have for some reason.
(Seriously, what is that about?) The wall art is generic and impersonal, abstracts in a wash of different shades of blue.
The only thing that strikes me as odd about the room is the door just to my left.
It’s a bit out of place, a little too central to be a closet.
Since I’m not ready to sleep, I decide to investigate.
Tossing my backpack onto the bed, I start toward the door and pull on the handle.
I find myself staring at yet another door (like one of those Matryoshka nesting dolls), this one locked from the other side.
These two rooms must have been built as a suite, the doors used to separate it into two different rooms depending on hotel vacancy.
I’m admittedly a little underwhelmed until—
The other door swings open. I’m suddenly face-to-face with West.
A very shirtless West.
“Oh,” he says in surprise. “Sorry. I thought this led out onto a balcony or something.”
My brain struggles to form a proper sentence. I’m pretty sure all that manages to come out of my mouth is a stupid little “Umm…”
I just didn’t expect West to look so good.
It flies in the face of his friendly-neighborhood-accountant aesthetic.
(Maybe that isn’t fair of me to say. Accountants can be conscious about their health too.) As he stands there in nothing but his dark jeans, my eyes have ample opportunity to roam.
He’s…unexpectedly well-built. Lean and strong like a swimmer.
I’m not sure why I never noticed the impressive definition of his arms and wide chest. Can anyone really blame me?
I’ve been so concerned about this whole Berruci situation that I didn’t even stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, he’s our mastermind and primary for a reason.
What leaves me absolutely flabbergasted, however, are his tattoos.
I’d mistakenly believed that West didn’t have any.
Considering his Steve Rogers Boy Scout impression, I never would have guessed he was the type to be into ink.
They’re strategically placed, the designs on his arms cutting off just above his elbows, with enough of a gap that a T-shirt’s sleeve can easily cover them.
Even the ones on his chest dip below his collarbones, out of sight even with a deep V-neck.
I stare at the details of each piece—splices from famous paintings working together to form a glorious collage—marveling at the intricate shading and expert lines in black and white made to imitate the look of carved marble.
The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel sweeps across his left pec and down the side of his ribs; the near-touching hands found in The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo rest over his right shoulder and arm; and one last one that I can’t put a name to, though it’s clearly some depiction of the Virgin Mary holding her child, set upon a bed of flowers.
“Stare any harder and you’ll go cross-eyed, Choi.”
Every inch of my skin is on fire, all that heat rising out of the top of my head as if it were a fucking steamed dumpling.
I need to get a damn grip, or, at the very least, close the damn door.
What the hell am I doing ogling him like a piece of meat?
Then again, he’s a walking art museum. I’d bet my cut of the fifty billion to the first person who manages not to stare.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Are you drooling?”
“What? No.”
West grins. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Do you normally make a habit of walking around without a shirt on?”
“I was about to hop into the shower.”
“What’s—” I clear my throat, daring to reach out. I hold my breath when my fingers hover over the lines of the painting I can’t name. And although our skin never makes contact, I can feel the heat of his chest radiating against my palm. “What’s this one?”
“La Vierge au lys,” he says. “By William-Adolphe Bouguereau.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
“That’s because it’s in a private collection.”
“And you know this how?”
West shrugs. “Let’s just say I might have wanted to liberate it once. Never got around to it, lucky for them.”
“You were an art thief?”
“Art liberator.”
I snort. “Semantics.”
“Semantics,” he agrees. “I didn’t stick to it very long. The crew decided there were faster ways of getting rich. It was nice, in a way. I finally got to go to museums to appreciate the work, not just case the joint.”
“Well, it’s beautiful,” I murmur, hypnotized by the beauty of the composition. I’m not sure what impresses me more: West’s impeccable taste in art or his tattoo artist’s skill.
Our eyes finally meet. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, tinged with curiosity. We’re standing close. Much too close.
I take my hand back, surprised he allowed me to indulge for so long. Talk about embarrassing. “I’ll, uh…I’ll just go.”
“You mean we’re not going to stay up and have a movie marathon?”
“This isn’t a slumber party.”
“But it could be. You fail to see my vision.”
I shake my head. If the stress of this mission doesn’t kill me, dealing with West certainly will. “I’m closing the door now.”
He leans against the shared doorframe, and I kind of hate him for it because he smells really good. He’s wearing a light cologne, a mix of pine and fresh laundry, that doesn’t overwhelm my usually sensitive nose.
“Don’t you want a kiss goodnight?” he asks, too suave for his own good.
I won’t dignify that with a response, but damn. He’s planted the thought and it’s concerning just how quickly the idea takes root inside my head. How does a man like West, retired thief and international man of mystery, kiss someone goodnight?
With his aptitude for teasing, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the type to relish going slow and gentle, spoiling a partner with soft caresses and sweet words murmured against their ear until they beg him for more.
Or maybe he’s an animal. The type to pull their hair and leave marks on their neck, every ounce possessive and commanding and greedy.
I can imagine the hard press of his body, the grip of his strong hands on my waist, all while he bites down on my bottom lip and—
Wait. Shit. What the hell am I doing? I need to push these cursed thoughts from my mind and blame it on the jet lag.
“You’re thinking about it,” West says lowly, a dark glint in his eyes. “Aren’t you?”
This bastard is toying with me on purpose. “Screw you,” I grumble.
“Only if you ask—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll kick you in the balls.”
I roll my eyes and shut the door in his face. West’s laughter booms from the other side.