I nodded and spoke to the plumber. “When can you start a full re-piping?”
“Tuesday. Can you handle being down two washers until then, or do you need me to get those up and running tomorrow when the plumbing supply store opens?”
I shook my head. The Countess had at least twenty washers and as many dryers. “We should be fine until Tuesday.”
He nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll see you next week.”
Weston opened the laundry room door for the plumber and extended his hand for the man to walk out first, though he didn’t follow. Instead, he pointed down the hall. “The elevator is just down the hall to your right. Have a good night.” He barely waited until the guy started to walk away before shutting the door.
With the two of us alone in the laundry room, the big space suddenly felt very small. Weston stood with his back to me, facing the door, for a long time. Neither of us said a word. The basement was so quiet that I could hear the clock on the wall ticking. It felt like I was listening to the countdown for a bomb about to explode.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
More silence.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until Weston reached out and put his hand on the doorknob. Then I exhaled a sigh of relief.
But I’d breathed too soon…
Instead of turning the handle, Weston twisted the lock.
The loud clank of the bolt fastening into place echoed through the room, and my pulse took off like a rocket.
Weston turned around. Without a word, he slipped off his suit jacket, tossed it on top of one of the dryers, and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. My eyes were glued to his corded forearms as my heart ricocheted against my rib cage.
He finished one sleeve and began to work on the other. “Are you planning on fucking the nice man you’re having drinks with, Fifi?”
I glared at him. “What business is it of yours if I am?”
“I’m spoiled. You’ve said so yourself, right? Well, us spoiled people do not like to share their things.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m a thing? You’re such an asshole.”
Weston calmly finished rolling up his second sleeve and finally looked up at me. The smile that spread across his ridiculously handsome face could only be described as sinister. “You are so much more than a thing. In fact, you’re everything. That’s why I have no intention of sharing you.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s not exactly your choice.”
He took a few steps toward me, and my body began to vibrate. “No, you’re right. It’s not my choice who you give your body to.” He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger and gave it a strong tug. His eyes locked with mine. “But you don’t really want anybody but me.”
I was about to argue with him, but we both knew where that would take us. So instead, I straightened my spine and decided to make this conversation useful.
“Why have you been avoiding me the last couple of days?”
Weston looked away. He seemed to consider my question. “Because you’re a nice woman, and you deserve better than a playboy alcoholic.”
“You’re not an alcoholic. You stopped drinking fourteen months ago.”
He shook his head. “That’s not exactly the way it works. Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.”
“That’s a technicality, a definition for a word. You’re not drinking anymore. That’s what’s important, isn’t it?”
He looked up into my eyes. Sexual tension radiated between us, but he seemed to be listening. And I had more I wanted to say.
“And as for being a playboy, are you currently sleeping with any other women?”
Weston shook his head.
“Okay, then. So you’re not currently a playboy or a drunk. Now that we’ve established that, are there any other reasons you’ve been avoiding me?”
Weston stared into my eyes. “You deserve better.”
“Maybe I don’t want better. You know, I’m pretty much an only child. So if anyone is selfish, it’s me. You might not want other people touching your things. But I want what I want.”
Weston’s eyes dropped to my lips. He reached a finger to my neck and traced my pulse from jawline to my collarbone. “Fine. But no fucking other men while your spoiled ass is getting what she wants.”
I squinted at him. “Fine.”
“Slip off your panties, Fifi.”
I blinked a few times.
He repeated himself, this time more gruff and each word spoken in a staccato burst. “Slip. Off. Your. Panties.”
Goose bumps broke out all over my body. I needed my head examined. A nice, handsome man who wasn’t a Lockwood sat upstairs in the bar waiting to get to know me, and here I was in the dingy basement with a man who’d just referred to me as a thing. Yet my arms shook as I bent and reached under my skirt. Hooking one finger over each side of the lacy fabric, I shimmied my underwear down my legs. Letting them drop to the floor, I stepped out, one dramatic foot lift at a time.