19. TEN
TEN
EDEN
Alex is naked when he answers the door.
Alright, naked might be a slight exaggeration, since he’s wearing track pants, but they’re slung so low on his hips that he may as well not be wearing them at all.
It doesn’t help that he’s sweaty. And it’s running down all eight of his abs, and I’m…
Oh, Jesus. I’m counting his abs.
With flaming cheeks, I raise my gaze to his and groan when I catch the smug tilt to his smile.
“That’s the second time I’ve caught you checking me out.”
“Would it have killed you to put on a shirt?”
He runs his palm down his abdomen and smirks. “I just got back from the gym.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Is that what the smell is?”
His eyebrows jump with amusement, and he leans against the door frame, crossing his arms in front of him. Then he leisurely swoops his gaze over me with his lip caught between his teeth. I stare back with a calm coolness I don’t feel.
Where he’s made the choice to expose himself to the elements, I’ve opted for something a little more appropriate. February in Seattle is a miserable month, teasing snow without delivery and leaving us with rain and gray cloud cover, so as any sensible person would, I dressed with that in mind.
A tight cream sweater hugs my chest, and light wash jeans cover the tops of my boots.
Aspen insisted I cinch them at the waist with a slim YSL belt—that cost far more money than it should for such a narrow strip of leather—to “show off my shape.” Namely, my ass.
Pregnancy left a little extra weight behind in that region, and I’m thankful for it every day.
Around my shoulders I wear a waterproof jacket that makes up for its unaesthetic shortcomings with functionality. The best thing about it, though, is that it wasn’t paid for with Alex’s credit card—something I can’t say for the rest of my outfit.
Standing here now in the threshold of his apartment, watching him rake his eyes over my new attire in approval, is possibly one of the most degrading things I’ve ever experienced.
And yes, I can see the hypocrisy. Not even ten seconds ago was I doing the very same thing to him.
But there’s a power imbalance to our situation.
I’m not the one paying millions of dollars for him to stand beside me and look pretty.
“I don’t want to be a prostitute,” I blurt out.
He nods slowly. “There are other career avenues you can explore if that one doesn’t work for you.”
“It isn’t that I look down on them.” Without waiting to be invited in, I push past him into his hallway, still maintaining the wherewithal to slip off my shoes and leave them by the door.
I might be stressed, but I have manners.
“I imagine it’s very hard work and takes a kind of mental fortitude that I evidently don’t possess. I’m simply not cut out for it.”
The chuckle I hear from behind incenses me. I whirl on my heel and scowl up at him. “You’re laughing at me.”
“No.” He scratches the back of his head. “I would never.”
My eyes narrow. “And now you’re lying to me.”
Wordlessly, he spins me back around and slips the jacket from my shoulders then hangs it in a closet I hadn’t noticed when I barged my way inside.
“I could have done that myself, you know?”
“You’re welcome.”
Taking me by the elbow, he leads me farther down the hallway until it opens up into the main living space, which is where I learn an important fact about Alex Wolfe.
The man is allergic to color.
Which is bewildering, given the exuberance of his personality. With the overzealous way he conducts himself, I’d have thought he shit rainbows, to be honest. And I can’t, for the life of me, marry together the image I’ve built up of him in my mind with what I’m looking at.
Because everything is black and white.
The tiles are matte black, as is the cabinetry.
The oversized sectional is an off-white to match the walls, and the only variance in the scheme is the enormous gray rug in the living area.
I’m sure the monochrome minimalism was intended to create drama and an air of timeless sophistication, but to me…
it’s as bleak as the heavy clouds rolling past the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I feel like I’m on a 1940s film set and am half expecting Cary Grant to step out from behind the corner.
“You hate it.” Alex steps into my eyeline, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“No, it’s nice.” I overcompensate for my untruth with a smile that looks more manic than it does genuine. “It’s very, er…striking.”
He responds with an amused chuff that is swallowed by a groan. “You know, if we’re going to make this work, you need to get better at lying.”
“I’m an impeccable liar, actually. I convinced Sebastian well enough, didn’t I?”
I’m not sure that’s true. His suspicion rolled off him in waves the day he came to see me at work, though I have a feeling that was less to do with my acting and more to do with how obviously out of my league Alex is.
If Alex had been the mailman, Sebastian wouldn’t have questioned it.
“That was a thirty-second interaction, and I did most of the legwork.” Alex crosses his arms and stares me down with accusation.
“You’d have ruined it in the first ten seconds with your apple of my eye spiel, if I hadn’t cut you off.”
He scoffs. “I was playing the part of a man hopelessly in love.”
“That’s not how men who are genuinely in love behave.”
For the first time since I met him, his confidence wavers. “It’s not? How do they behave, then?”
It’s an unfortunate realization that, while I know how men in love don’t behave toward their significant other, I don’t actually know how they do.
I could give Alex an exhaustive list of things to avoid, like making disparaging comments toward me in public or paying more attention to the waitress with big breasts than me when we’re having dinner.
But things that he should be doing to prove he’s head over heels in love with me? I’ve got nothing.
So, I ignore his question and ask one of my own. “Your sister is dating a guy on your team, right?”
He grins. “How do you know that? Have you been Googling me again?”
I bat him away with a flick of my hand. “Answer the question.”
“Leo. They got married during the off season.”
“Well, how can you tell they love each other? What kinds of things does he do?”
He thinks about it, grimacing. “He compliments her, listens, walks on the traffic side of the sidewalk, and he doesn’t get mad when she steals his ball caps or adopts another animal he doesn’t want, which happens more often than you’d think.
Um… He’s always looking at her with this goopy-ass expression on his face that the guys make fun of him for. Oh, and he grabs her ass a lot.”
Sebastian never did any of those things.
He never let me get a dog, even though it wouldn’t have impacted his life at all since he was never at home, and in the years that we were together, I don’t think he complimented me once.
He never told me I looked beautiful on the nights when he needed me on his arm for some kind of work event, and the expression on his face on the rare occasion when he looked at me was far less goopy than it was resentful.
I clear my throat. “Right, well, then I guess you do that, then.”
He beams. “Are you saying I get to grab your ass?”
“I can’t imagine a scenario where that would be necessary.”
“But if there was?”
My stomach dips at the thought of his hand on me there. “Then I’ll reassess.”
Alex nods, pleased with himself. Though I doubt he’ll be all that pleased should that situation ever arise. I imagine he’s grabbed an entire soccer stadium’s worth of asses better than mine. Scratch that. I’m being humble. I have a great ass.
He leads me toward the sofa and indicates for me to sit before grabbing two glasses of water from the kitchen.
I crush my hands between my knees and try not to notice the way his abs ripple as he falls into a seat across from me or the deep cut of the V lines that lead below his sweatpants.
“Earth to Eden.” Fingers click an inch from my face. “You’re staring again.”
Shit, I’ve gotta stop doing that.
I grab a glass of water and guzzle it. “I was just wondering how a man who plays sports for a living could be so out of shape.”
There. That sounded cool, confident, and appropriately disparaging. Not a hint of arousal in my tone at all.
He runs a hand down his abs, squeezing his lips together. “I took it easy in the off season. Only managed to hit the gym twice a day.”
Why has my mouth gone dry?
I gulp my water again and clear my throat. “Yes, well…it shows.” Damn it. My voice is still husky.
“Have I told you how great you are for my ego?” He laughs, setting his glass down on the black-wood coffee table and slapping his thighs. Broad thighs. Strong-looking thighs. “Give me a sec. I’ll go cover myself up.”
When he returns in a fresh t-shirt, my glass is empty. I had to down the entire thing just to get some moisture in my mouth again. He eyes it with a smirk but thankfully doesn’t comment.
“We need to talk logistics,” he says, serious. “The party is tomorrow night, and people are going to be curious. They’ll be asking us a lot of questions, analyzing how we are with each other, wanting to know everything about the woman who tied down Alex Wolfe.”
“Is it necessary to address yourself in the third person?”
“Do you think we can have a conversation without you busting my balls every twenty seconds?”
Touché.
“Fine.” I pluck a jet-black throw cushion from beside me and hug it in my lap. “Carry on.”
He rubs a hand across his jaw, which is clean-shaven and soft. I bet his moisturizer costs more than my rent.
“I don’t know anything about you, other than that you have a son, a troublesome sister, and a penchant for the color pink.”
I shrug. “That’s kind of all there is to know about me.”
“What about your childhood and stuff? Favorite food? Hobbies? You’ve gotta give me something.”
Talking about myself isn’t fun.