Page 24 of Bought and Broken

I shove the basket into the room and hurry to the bathroom before I pee all over the floor. Which I wouldn’t feel guilty about, but I don’t need to give him more ammo to tease me with. When I’m back in the room, I dig through the basket, happy to find clothes in my size, everything I’ll need for a shower, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.

Well, at least he’s being nice for a change. He could have left me here all weekend with nothing. That would have been horrible—for both of us, because I’d likely stink to the high heavens.

When I dig through the clothes to find something to wear, the first thing I notice is how they aren’t exactly my style. There are sweat pants, leggings, tank tops, and t-shirts. Things I usually do wear, but… different. I’m not complaining because they all look comfortable, but he did this on purpose. There isn’t a single pair of panties or a bra. Either because he doesn’t know my size or he’s just being an asshole.

But that’s fine. If he wants to be an asshole, I can be an asshole too.

He specifically told me he doesn’t want to have sex with me? Good. Then he won’t mind me walking around with these clothes—maybe a little altered—and no bra.

I pull out the pair of maroon sweats and the white t-shirt, then get to work fixing what I need which isn’t too difficult without scissors. When I’m done, I grab everything I need for a shower and head to the bathroom down the hall.

Showered and changed, I’m on my way back to my room, but hear voices downstairs so I stop. One is Tatum’s and the other I don’t recognize, which is perfect. He can show me how much he doesn’t want to have sex with me in front of whoever it is that’s here. Maybe whoever he’s with will want to have sex with me, and I can piss Tatum off even more. Because let’s be serious; he can hate me as much as he wants, but the second someone gives me attention, he gets really possessive.

Leaving my hair up in an extremely messy bun—because I didn’t want to wash it—I head downstairs and go right to the kitchen, which is where the voices are coming from.

Though it’s an open concept, the kitchen is on the other side of the wall that the floating stairs are connected to, so I can’t see in there until I reach the bottom. Awful design, if you ask me.

I’m disappointed when I find him cooking something on the stove, his lit-up cell on the counter beside him, showing he’s on a call. I stop at the end of the island that’s placed in the center of the kitchen and between us. There is no table and chairs that I can see, so I assume this is where he sits to eat.

Oh, is he working?

This could be fun.

“Making anything good?” I say cheerily.

He whips his head in my direction, his brows furrowed. His gaze goes from my face, to my boobs, to my exposed abdomen, back to my face. He frowns.

“I’ll call you back,” he grits out, stabbing the end button on his phone before turning toward me. “That isn’t what I bought you.”

“Of course it is,” I say, smiling sweetly and doing a little spin for him to see. “I just made it more… me.”

I hop onto the stool in front of the island, cross my arms and take a deep breath. It’s possible I cut this shirt a little too short… I think the underside of my boobs are showing—oops.

He scoffs and turns back to the stove. I try to look around him to see what he’s making, but I can’t see. Not that it matters because I’m sure his kindness for the day ended at buying me clothes. Sucks because it smells good—and breakfast is my favorite meal.

I’m surprised, so much so that I almost fall off the stool, when he puts a plate in front of me, then another beside me.

“Coffee?” he asks, sounding almost normal.

I slowly look up from my plate to see him standing on the other side of the island, staring at me as he waits for an answer. He’s in a white t-shirt that hugs every muscled curve of his torso. He’s always had such nice arms. Toned. Strong. His shoulders are broad, and there’s just something about broad shoulders that—

“Devon,” he grits out.

“Yes, coffee,” I say in a small voice, bringing my attention to the plate in front of me.

It’s a broccoli and cheddar omelet… my favorite.

Must be a coincidence. There’s no way he made my favorite breakfast on purpose. And yes, I know that’s a random thing to have as a favorite breakfast, but what can I say?

He puts down a wide mug of coffee in front of me, then goes to the fridge.

“There’s milk and sugar or that gross flavored creamer shit.”

“If you don’t like the gross flavored creamer shit, why do you have it in your house?”

He doesn’t bother to answer me, just pulls it out and puts it down in front of me. Hazelnut. Yum! I pour a splash into my cup.

He takes his own cup of coffee—black—and puts it by the other plate, then hops on the stool beside me and eats… as if this is all normal.

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