“Look, I don’t know what happened that you need to stay here, but I trust my sister that she wouldn’t do that for just anyone or without good reason.” Michael writes me off again, and it pushes my last button.
“Listen here, mister billionaire music producer.” I stomp to him and poke his chest with my index finger, holding back a cringe when the motion backfires due to jabbing too hard at his rock-solid pecs.
“Nowhere near a billionaire,” he mumbles under his breath, and I swear I could strangle the amusement right out of his gorgeous eyes if I didn’t suspect I’d break my hand trying.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass!” His eyes grow wide at my frustrated choice of words, probably surprised he can’t call all the shots just because he’s sitting on a pile of money. “I spent the better part of the last ten years with a guy that ignored everything I said or wanted or thought, and money was always his excuse as well. I will not let you do the same. I do not feel comfortable with you staying at a hotel while I live in your apartment for free.”
A few seconds of silence follow. Michael’s playful teasing seems to have vanished in an instant as he stares at me intently. I wait for the pity, the poor-little-thing pats that do nothing to comfort me, the charities, and handouts. Instead, Michael takes another sip of his coffee before setting it aside and leaning his hip on the counter again, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Well, I don’t feel comfortable kicking you out.” His tone is soft, and he’s looking at me through bright thick lashes with more seriousness than I thought he could possess.
When did he get this tall?
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m leaving of my own free will.” I place my hands on my hips, daring him to tell me otherwise.
“Okay,” he relents, much to my surprise. “Then, so am I.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re not staying, I won’t stay either,” he explains, picking his coffee back up and taking another infuriatingly nonchalant sip. “I’ll feel like a douche if I do.”
“Then what do you propose, Michael?” I throw my hands up and gesture the loft. “That we live together for eight weeks in this teeny tiny apartment?”
“Yeah, why not?” He pulls one shoulder up in complete ease, going back to his casual lean on the counter. “Therearetwo bedrooms.”
“And one shower that doesn’t have a door,” I remind him, heat blooming through my face and maybe also some other parts of my body at the thought.
“Then we’ll work out a schedule.” He makes it sound so easy, so relaxed with that repeated one-shoulder shrug, and I bury my face in my hands with a groan. “I promise not to drink your coffee again. It’s kinda gross anyway.”
Unbelievable.
I let out a frustrated shout and turn to the door, grabbing my bag, shades, and a hat. “I’m late for work. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Sure thing,” he calls after me, and I swear there’s an amused undertone to his words as if he’s already decided how this is going to end.
“Asshole,” I grumble to myself when it dawns on me that he’s probably planning on getting me into bed.
Would that be so bad, Lore?The man is… Well, he’s blessed, to say the least, and with that money and those looks, he’s probably picked up a few tricks along the way. And God knows you could use a proper banging.
I scold my libido as I rush to the bus, cursing Michael for making me run in heels. And just for that, he isofficiallybanned from getting anywhere near my hoo-ha.
Chapter Two
Michael
Brushing over the final spot,I let out a long breath and wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand before realizing it’s filled with paint, now smeared all over my forehead.
“Michael?” Lauren’s bewildered voice takes me by surprise. I was so caught up in my little project I hadn’t even heard her walk in.
Turning around, I almost wish I hadn’t. Somehow an entire day at work hasn’t affected her at all. The wide-legged jeans and loose ochre crepe crop-top still look straight from the dry cleaners, sitting perfectly over her narrow waist and revealing a slither of creamy soft skin. Her bright hair is flowing seamlessly down to the middle of her back, not a strand out of place and not a smudge in her makeup. Just as beautiful as she was walking out in a flurry of fury this morning.
“Hi. I was hoping to finish before you were back.” I smile, trying to ignore how her eyes roam over the mess I made of myself installing drywall and a door for the bathroom. White streaks of paint are smeared all over my face and torso, not to mention the plaster that I’m fairly certain got into my hair.
“You built a wall,” she declares dryly, eyes still scanning me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”